Violet Shadows

5

The tavern glowed like the fur of a jackal in spring. Christine breezed through the doors, the wooden handles cold from the harsh wind, and ran her eyes through the pub without much movement. She'd come to hate mornings, and at this hour the tavern barely held a client, but it was the only time guaranteed to fulfill her objective. She had not come here to drink.

The milkmaid was washing the counter with a yellowed rag, smiling when she noticed Christine despite the cloak covering her face. It wasn't her first time coming in, and when she did visit she made sure to tip well.

Christine did not sit in one of them because she would not be here long.

The milkmaid spotted the threading of her sleeve, far more delicate than her own clothing. "Another black dress—your preferred favorite, I suppose."

Or what she found fitting in the heap of disastrous gowns Roma owned.

The first time she saw, her tongue had gone limp at the sight. Her dressing room could have housed a family of five with all the space. If only she got rid of the gowns, padded to the brim, each piece more strange and beautiful than the next. Though almost a third of them were too grandiose to wear. Hoops crafted with satin pinnings to look like the scales of a fish or with ribbon encrusted in jewels, some stiff, some lack. And furs, almost a whole species of them, with poofing collars in matching colors. One had the bodice exposed, red buttons molded into the corset with one only sleeve, the other slithering in pieces down the other arm. She should have been glad there were only three colors to choose from—black, red, and green, actually it was just a couple of pieces of green—only that it was still overwhelming, and a half of them she couldn't imagine wearing.

Christine decided tonight on a plain black dress that cuffed to her chest all the way to her thighs before splaying out in feathered lace. Around her neck she fastened a collared choker with a single gem, hanging right above her breasts. It made her seem like an apparition of night, but it was simple enough. She would appear as a nobleman, but the cloak heaved around her frame would lessen the image for these parts of the streets.

"Here to make another request?" The milkmaid said, cleaning her glass jars. She knew that Christine never came to get rip-roaring drunk to blur the days into one, though sometimes the idea of it seemed kind.

Christine clenched her weary hands into fists. "I'm looking for a specific drink. The Blood Cider Ale."

The milkmaid's gaze went past her, to the door. Her smile had left. "I'm afraid we've run out."

"May I check the cellar?" Christine said, placing a coin on the counter.

"Of course, Mistress Harris." The milkmaid led her to the back only because it was Christine's first time heading down there. She'd use their services sufficiently to be able to make a request directly. A part of her vowed that she'd never come here. Breaking that vow felt like a storm descending over her shoulder, reaping the pain.

Christine followed her and found the stairwell in the back hidden cleverly underneath a boar mantel. With its size, you would've thought they'd get something bigger. The milkmaid moved a lever and the floor shifted, revealing a secret opening. Christine went down, noticing the milkmaid closing the entrance behind her. Inside, she was left with only flame to guide her towards the deep darkness that lay.

The hallway was suffocating but she soon found a burly man busy sharpening a dagger behind a counter. He sat in his chair, a basket of gunpowder beside him while working. He saw her and set the dagger down, the blade's reflection shining onto the floor. "What will it be this time?"

Though she'd never met the man before, she knew he recognized her. They wouldn't let just any client down here. "I'm here to meet with the master of the house."