THE SOOTHSAYER.

MIKAEL FALCO  /  YOU’RE ONE STEP CLOSER TO THE THRONE  /  @mikaelfalco

october 28th, 2018 coffee shop near the cathedral early morning | open !

There is a mug of coffee that has long since gone cold sitting in front her, her hands resting  on either side of it, nails bitten until flesh is red and raw. She is nervous and scared, like a cornered animal with nowhere left to run. Hazel wonders if she could have even pretended to be calm. It seems impossible, what, with her heart racing and head aflurry. Just yesterday, she accepted the montague’s offer to have a way to pay off her debts. She can’t help but scoff at that. An offer. It wasn’t that at all. It was a threat. Do this or die. 

She had once thought herself strong, bold in her convictions and resolve, but all it took a gun pointed to her face to her face to have her realize that, no, maybe that wasn’t the case.

Every time the door of the café opens, the little bell above it jingling, she startles where she sits, head jerking up, body stiffening. She half expects every person to come bearing a threat or a message. It’s ridiculous, she thinks, to do this, but how can she not ? Ramona had entered her life as quiet as a dove, but she showed her teeth and true colors quickly. Now Hazel couldn’t help but wonder who else bore such terror underneath easy smiles and beautiful looks. Going home, she had panicked, and as soon as she woke up this morning, she had thrown her things into her bag and left her apartment. If anyone was looking for her, surely they’d know to find her there.

And so instead she is sitting in a cafe, only a few blocks away, staring at nothing but a spot on the whitewashed wall in front of her, while a movie of her life plays through her mind, restarting and bringing new twists. Some endings are happy, she’s free and far from verona, all of this a distant memory, but others are not so lucky and happy. She cannot help but think of herself dead over and over, her blood sinking into verona’s pavement like that of the other misfortunate. Motion catches her eye and she is pulled from her daydream. She looks up, her eyes as wide as a deer, startled. “ Did you need this table ? ” her voice is high, nervous. “ I was just about to leave, but there’s room for you to be here still. ” 

Suddenly, she starts pulling all of her things in front of her in a mismatched and uneven pile. It’s all scattered memory of her old hobby ( it’s strange to call forging that, but how else could she refer to it ? ), passport books and embossing ink. She wonders briefly if it had been dumb of her to have it out in the open, but most had walked by paying her little mind. She couldn’t help but remind herself how it had felt like she was suffocating within the walls of her apartment and it would have been a sin to step into the cathedral when she was drowning in the guilt of her mistakes.

She reaches for her mug, long fingers wrapping around it. She winces at how cold it feels on her tongue. She speaks again, “ I promise I don’t bite. ” She wonders how many in verona can say that and have it ring true.

There are things Lucien hears down the grapevine that interest him to no end. Other things are more mundane, less fantastical, but still no less worthy in pursing. Hazel Accardi might not be the most fascinating girl in Verona, but she could serve a purpose, and if Ramona Aguilar had chased after her like the rumors claimed, then there’d be no harm in doing a little bit of investigating. So he follows leads, traces them with his finger on the map, connects the dots -- although there are, admittedly, very few. The coffee shop isn’t the most ideal of places to meet. It’s a little too public for his liking.

He’ll take what he can get.

The bell over the door jingles, merrily, a little too sharp, and no one so much as looks up. They’re all so wrapped up in their own private affairs, or their phones, or their books, or a thousand emails they’ve been ignoring, or daydreaming. No one cares about what happens so long as it doesn’t impact them. It’s understandable, Lucien thinks. It’s an innate human habit, is what it is. He’s through the doorway quickly enough that no one throws a fuss about holding up the line, but he steps aside so that an elderly woman can go in front of him first, pulls out his phone and pretends to check his texts.

There, off to the side, sits Hazel, looking so raveled up in despair she might as well be drowning. All her belongings are stacked on the table or at her feet, apparently incredibly sparse, and he feels a pang of pity for her. Wonders if she’d leave at the first opportunity presented to her. If he paid for a plane ticket, would she take the chance and run with it? He dwells on these thoughts as he orders something to drink, reads through his phone, watches people filter in and out of the shop. By the time he’s finished his espresso, she still has not moved, and that sort of thing will get her killed if she is not careful. Now’s the time. It’s now or never.

He truly doesn’t recognize Lucien. Maybe it’s for the best, but looking back on it later, he’s a bit embarrassed. Now, though, all he can think about is how striking his bone structure is up close. No one has the right to those cheekbones, Henry thinks in a daze, before remembering why he came over in the first place.

❝ Not awful, ❞ he corrects a little too quickly, coughing to try and cover his tracks. He can’t just go around flirting shamelessly with people when he can barely handle his own feelings, but he can’t deny that he watches the way the low light spreads over the man’s face, either. His eyes feel drawn forward as much as he tries to prevent them. Henry has a knack for finding stupidly beautiful people and growing overly attached. Hopefully he can prevent that this time.

Ah, he sees it now, that Lucien must on some level know his own features enough to know what Henry implies. Heat rises in him, but he can blame that on the establishment, even though he hasn’t had a sip of alcohol. He’s ready to mutter out something unintelligible about being glad to buy him a drink and hoping he feels better when the man delivers a line so heinous that Henry breaks out into laughter.

Genuine, full laughter, like he hasn’t done since before la purga. It blasts through something walled off in him, and he shakes his head, putting his forehead in his hands with his elbows on the table. ❝ Sorry, no, absolutely not, ❞ he says, and it’s not in regard to the words themselves. Henry rests his chin in one hand, head tilted slightly to the side. ❝ Can’t tell if you were embarrassed for my approach and tried to make me feel better or if you simply blacked out on that one, ❞ he says, still half-smiling. He needs to come here every day. In less than a minute, this person, whoever they are, has brought him more genuine amusement than he’s seen in months, loosening something he was tightening again and again without release. ❝ We should do the whole thing again. I’ll walk back over to the bar, say something cooler than last time, nod. You’ll say something wicked and impressive, and our movie moment will be complete. ❞        

“I might be as bad at this as you are,” he quips, and it’s true. It’s been a few years, at least, since Lucien had any sort of interest in this kind of thing. And he’s sure the weight of any flirtation was carried by Ronan, who speaks so smoothly on a good day his words might as well be equivalent to oil. Lucien can still remember how tongue-tied he’d gotten simply speaking of it with Hecate, who was the only one of the three willing to indulge his rambling. He’d been in love, in those early days, so no one could really blame him, could they? Love does stupid things to a brain. Now there’s a sophisticated, educated take.

Henry has a nice smile. He draws in on himself with every expression, and his expressions are not at all minute --- but it feels like nothing is allowed to be loud. Lucien stares at the glass sitting on the tabletop and wonders what Henry’s like when he’s drunk. Sad? He seems the type to be sad. He’s got a look on his face that might be a step away from miserable as soon as the mirth of laughter is gone. Lucien feels his cheeks grow red, and decides, for once in his life, to let himself be a little embarrassed. “So I don’t look awful. Just bad. Good to know.”

It’s said in a joking manner, with the hint of a laugh behind the words, and he can’t help but shake his head, raise his brows as he brings the drink to his mouth. A beat passes, and then another, and he swallows. From behind the bar there’s a crash as something falls to the floor and shatters. A startled gasp rips through the crowd, the warm ambiance suddenly broken, but it’s as if it never happened a few seconds later. Lucien watches Henry the entire time to see if he so much as jumps.

More important than the man of the hour, however, is the princeling of the Montagues. He’s making his way from cluster to cluster, tending to his flock with all the careful devotion of an heir. He smiles in just the right way and they all practically faint into his arms. Makes sense, he supposes. That’s what they need to do, if they want to stay in the mob’s good graces. Lucien isn’t here for the shepherd, though. He’s here for the hound. Ajax stands in such an imposing way that all those making an effort to converse with Roman don’t stand too close. He’s got something in his ear feeding him information, and not once does he seem unaware or taken aback. It’s incredible: it’s like he predicts what Roman is going to say or where he’s going to move to before the man even does it.

The opening comes -- Roman says something to Ajax. Ajax nods, and when Roman moves away with two strangers at his side, Ajax does not move. Instead he does his best to blend into the crowd, falling back, turning his gaze towards the paintings rather than the people. Now’s the time. If Lucien wants to take this opportunity to have what he’d consider a crucial discussion with Ajax, now is very much the time to do it. He grabs a champagne flute off a passing tray and smiles and nods at those who recognize him. Those that don’t pay him no mind. He fixes his eyes on the piece Ajax is staring at with a little too much intent, and hopefully his hurried movements will be passed off as sudden interest.

For a moment, Lucien thinks it’s worked. No one seems intent to stop him from going anywhere up until he’s halfway across the room and listening to the big artiste ramble about the elegance in a woman’s hands from a few feet away. And then Castora Aguilar appears out of the corner of his eye, approaching him with as much determination as he had in pursuing Ajax. (Surely she doesn’t intend to speak about the delicacy of finger bone movement -- Lucien would rather die than have that conversation with anyone.) He decides then and there that there will be no more moving. He plants his feet, puts on a smile, and hopes to fake it well enough that Castora will let him go on with his night.

Fat chance, but a man can dream.

He lifts his champagne towards her in acknowledgement, instead. Ajax remains where he’s standing from what Lucien can see. The conversation might not be entirely out of the window, if he plays his cards right. He turns his attention back to Castora.  “Ms. Aguilar, it’s good to see you.”

IVAN RAHAL  /  LEIGH BARDUGO, SIX OF CROWS  /  @ivanrahal

REGINA DALY  /  MADNESS, MARYA HORNBACHER  /  @reginadalys

I hope you’re well. I understand that this letter is finding you in troubling times, but I knew after the Cathedral I had to write it. I know this is odd; we’ve never spoken. You wouldn’t likely be able to place my face in a crowd of people, or if we shared the same room at the same time, but what I have to say needs to be heard. The truth of the matter is that I’ve considered contacting you on-and-off since I heard of your initiation into the Capulets and how hard you’ve striven to find your place among them.

I knew your mother. She was a good woman, and she would be proud of your ambition at the very least. She was artistic, and sensitive, and kinder to most than she ever had to be. I still have a handful of her paintings which she gave to me when she was trying out painting with a pseudo-realistic style that tread dangerously far into uncanny valley territory. She told me to throw them away. They’re very colorful but a little unnerving to look at until you find the beauty in them, and so I couldn’t bear to throw them out. It sounds silly, but I hid them from her in my garage every time she came over in case she decided to go hunting for them to ensure I did her dirty work. I can send a portrait or two of hers to you, if you’d want.

I have a thousand more stories. She was a very dear friend to me, and I’d like to share these moments with you, if you’d let me. In times like these remembering what is important is often the only way to hold onto anything good. You can leave a response (a yes, or a no, or any questions you have) inside the beak of the raven statue just outside Giardano Giusti. I’ve ensured you will be safe to reply, should you so choose. If you never wish to hear from me, simply say so, and I’ll never contact you again.

Kindly,

-- L.