#and he grumpy

The following handful of days are monotonous. I drift through them in a haze, stuck on autopilot because anything else is too overwhellming. Customers come in, customers go out. All the while, my mind is buzzing, my thoughts an incessant fly around my head.

I wave goodbye to Elliot as the coroner's vehicle rolls down the street. I watch as police go back and forth down the street, flashing bulbs painting my shop in shades of blue and red.

It's halfway through the evening when I can't take it anymore. I watch as a young couple peruse the racks of charms I offer towards the front. They're the type not to buy anything, simply coming into a witch's shop for the fun, and I don't mind patrons like that as long as they don't try to steal anything. The boy has wispy black hair pushed away from his face, he's tall and lean, and out of the corner of my eye I thought, just for a moment, that Elliot had come into my shop like he always does on his days off. 

And I'm hit with a pang of melancholy so powerful, so concentrated, that I'm bent over myself before I can think. Every feeling I'd been hoping to store away comes rushing out full force--the anger, the fear, the sorrow, oh the sorrow. No more dances, no more tea, no more easy conversation over pastries. It feels incredibly selfish to think of it this way, what I'm lacking instead of what his family, his other friends may be without, but I can't help it. All I can think about it what I'll miss, the void in my life, what can't be replaced.

I crouch on the floor, as if being closer to the tile will make my descent into grief that much easier. 

Mr. Guss toddles up to me, sympathy etched in the lines on his face. He pats my back as I dissolve into sobs and the few people in the shop awkwardly shuffle out.

"I'm sorry," he says, his hand big and heavy over my back. "He was a good kid."

I don't respond, but I don't think he expects me to, and for that I'm grateful.

The chime over the door goes off and I hear Lady Duranta exclaim, "Oh dear!" before she also toddles over with her clicking heels and cane.

Lady Dee is a regular, and has been since I first opened. She's always been there when I'm in a crisis, whether that be telling off a grouchy customer or helping me put out a fire, she always manages to turn up at the worst of times. Once I'd asked whether she had any magic lineage and she'd just laughed and continued helping me pick up a shattered kettle from the shelf. It makes sense she'd be here when I'm having a moment of hysteria. 

"I'll take it from here, Guss," she says, her voice like butter. 

Guss, who seems quite uncomfortable, shuffles around us to my other side.

"Are you going to be okay, Ms. Breban?"

It takes me a minute to gulp down the air necessary to respond. "Fine, I'll be fine."

Mr. Guss awkwardly pats my shoulder, and I hear the chime of the bell go off and the slide of the lock in place.

Lady Dee is at my side again, fretting over me as she guides me to the ground. We sit there, on the dirty floor, as I sob my brains out and she rubs my arms with her wizened hands. She can be harsh, pushy, but she also has a soft side. She never chides me for getting upset, not that she's seen much of it. But this side that cares for me, wipes my tears away. I didn't know my grandmother, both of them passed before I was born, but I imagine Lady Dee would be a good fit.

I manage to stop hyperventilating long enough to watch another round of police officers glance in my window and roll their eyes.

Lady Dee sighs above me. "I'm going to miss him too, dear," she says into the quiet of the store.

***

Because I was raised to be a good host, I lead her to the small storage room in the back, where I've hooked up a small portable stovetop with a kettle. Calling the moisture in the air to create water feels like a heavy blanket on my shoulders, but calling it in such a way gives the tea a clean, crisp taste that tap water just doesn't compare to.

Lady Dee won't let me do any more though, ushering me to sit at the small card table I've set up, sitting me in one of the rickety folding chairs that I've needed to repair for going on two years now. It squeaks unpleasantly as I sit, and the silence is broken by Lady Dee making tea and my occasional sniffing.

Crying always leaves me feeling hollowed out. It allows me the space to think, but also feel guilty for focusing on myself. I'm competent enough to store away such unsavory emotions for a later date, but the past few days I've been too exhausted to do anything past make myself dinner and go to bed. Perhaps this was a long time coming, then. I should know better.

Still, the space is quiet, and I feel my mind working over the case.

Elliot knew who his killer was, and he was afraid. The information gleaned from his soul imprint didn't tell me a lot, but there must have been something I missed, that the detectives missed. They can't just let this go, there's got to be more. The killer they have in custody called them to admit to the murder, then just sat in his study, waiting. That's too easy. There's got to be something.

I'm starting in on a headache when Lady Dee sets a steaming cup of tea in front of me.

"You're shaking like a leaf, dear," she says as she sits, reaching over to grab my hands in hers.

"It's…" I huff a humorless laugh. "It's been a week."

"I'm surprised you opened up at all. Once I heard, I thought you'd be closed until Monday at least."

I shrug, hopeless. "I thought…distraction."

She raises a thin eyebrow. "Maybe some time off would help more?"

"You're probably right." I bring the cup to my lips and take a deep inhale. She'd picked a morning blend: jasmine, marigold, orange, and lemongrass. It's bright, refreshing me as I sip. Lady Dee is right, I probably need to take a break, but I can't just close my shop for three days. I have orders due, ingredients I need to use. There's a shipment of flowers coming in that I need to hang and dry, and a cannister of cleansing water for my tools that's about to expire.

Lady Dee looks at me over her own cup. "I know you're not going to rest. I can see your mind working from here. What is it?"

I rest my head heavily on one hand. "Elliot was good. Who would want him dead?"

She brings her cup to her lips and takes a long sip before saying, "People always have something to hide."

My attention drifts to the button in my pocket. Lady Dee has been around, traveled the world. Maybe she'll recognize this symbol. I fish the thing out of my pocket, and set it on the table.

"I found this where he-- at the scene. Have you seen it?"

Her eyes light up as she sets down the tea cup. "What's this?"

"I'm not sure. This symbol," I tap the button with my finger. "I've never seen it before."

My hand is still wrapped up from the burn, but I keep my palm down all the same. I don't want to worry her, especially if this rune is something bad.

She squints at it, adjusts her glasses and leans in, and then she shakes her head. "Could it be necromantic?"

My face screws in confusion. "I don't think so. Mom was super strict on what to avoid when she was teaching me, and that doesn't look at all familiar."

And as far as I know, Elliot wasn't into anything illegal. But then again, everyone has something to hide, I suppose. 

"You know who might know," she says, a conspiratorial glint in her eyes. "That dashing fellow next door."

I flush. "Mr. Engstrom?" He is well put together, dashing as Lady Dee says, but he's also very intimidating. We've shared only a handful of words in the scant few years I've run my shop next to his.

Lady Dee smiles like she's in on a secret. "He's the one. Been around longer than I have. Maybe he could help."

I tither with my gloves. "I wouldn't want to bother him this late."

It's late afternoon, most shops are preparing to close for the night. Surely we'd just be bothering him at this hour.

"Nonsense! I just walked by, he's as dead as a drowned rat, could probably use the company!" As she speaks, Lady Dee pulls me from behind the counter and then gently but firmly steers me out the door.

Whenever I walk by his shop, he's bent over his desk with long, dangerous tools in his gloved hands. The skull that makes up his head doesn't allow for expressions, barely even moves as he talks, so I never know what he's thinking.

His shopfront is the opposite of mine. I try to maintain an open atmosphere with bright colors and smiles, I even installed a purple awning for shade last year. But Mr. Engstrom's front is all black marble and darkened windows.

Mr. Engstrom's shop has a towering spiral of dark brick and mortar up top that immediately caught my eye when I first moved to the city. I'd wanted to be close to it, like a moth to flame, or maybe use it as a landmark to bring customers back. I never see many people coming or going from it, but I do see several regulars once every month. It must be enough to afford the ridiculously high rent, because he's never seemed too stressed about it.

Not that we've had many conversations. Mr. Engstrom isn't cold per say, just rather quiet. Our longest interaction was asking him to repair the locking mechanism in my door, and it proved the most awkward interaction I'd ever been in. I'd invited him for tea afterwards and he refused, like he couldn't return home fast enough. He did an amazing job though, the lock has never faltered since.

The door to his shop is open despite the hour, and Lady Dee brings me inside. "West! I have a visitor for you!"

The shop is empty and dark, and I realize I've never actually set foot in here, only viewed it through the large window pointing towards the street.

I'm greeted by high ceilings and an open balcony to the second floor. The walls are filled with clocks, grandfathers along the floor and chimes on the wall and even more hung all the way up to the open second floor. They start huge at the bottom and get smaller towards the top, like a waterfall of metal and glass. The room is silent, save for the ticking of a single clock, and distant footsteps.

"Miss Duranta, it is very late and--" The door at the back left opens, and Mr. Engstrom appears, holding a lantern aloft in one hand. The round, quarter-sized lights inside his eye sockets flick to Lady Dee, then to me, and back to Lady Dee. The silence is broken by that steady ticking, and I swallow around the lump in my throat. 

I've only ever seen Mr. Engstrom through the front window of the shop, or bent over when hes working. He's tall, his form is lithe, his clothes hold volume as if there's a body underneath. In the low light of his lantern I see a faint flicker all around his head--heat waves, like the air above a fire. Is that the magic keeping him upright? I don't know much about reanimation or necromantic magic, only that most of it has been banned, but this makes me want to research it. I want to know how he works.

He must have been preparing to retire for the night. His waistcoat is gone, and the shirt underneath has been rolled up to the elbows, the first few buttons undone casually. His clothes sit above his frame, as if there were flesh and blood underneath. It gives the appearance that his sleeves are floating, and I can't look away.

Lady Dee speaks up. "This lovely young lady is your neighbor."

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me, and I straighten my back. "I'm well aware," he says.

Lady Dee scoffs. "And she needs your help!"

The lights in his eyes move in a circle, like he's rolling them. "Could this not wait until morning?" 

"Emergencies don't wait!" she fires back.

They bicker a bit more, and it's strange. I expected an echo to his voice, but there's none. I've spoken to living armor at the museum, their voices reverberating with a tinny flatness that accentuates their polite upbringing, but his doesn't. It's just deep, rich. However subtle, there's emotion there, inflection. If I closed my eyes, I could imagine I'm talking to a man.

But I wouldn't want to close my eyes, because he is fascinating up close. The two of them seem to come to some conclusion while I was lost in thought, because Lady Dee pats me on the back and says, "Go on, dear," as Mr. Engstrom steps back to his countertop at the back of the store.

He sets the lantern on the countertop with a heavy thud, leaning on one arm, the other planted on his hip. "Well, Ms. Breban?"

Lady Dee scoffs. "Don't be rude, West."

I know Lady Dee means well, but she's been trying to set me up with potential suitors since I moved here. Told me that I had no business being on my own for my whole life. So she had made it her life's mission to find me a partner. Maybe she'd picked up on my small, miniscule fascination for Mr. Engstrom, but her encouragement and obliviousness to his regard for me aren't helping me calm down.

I walk up to the counter, fumbling around in my pocket for the button. Setting it on the counter, I crush the urge to step back and instead let my arms fall to my sides.

Mr. Engstrom tips the lantern forward, illuminating the button a fiery red and orange. His other hand comes up to rub his chin, and he hums thoughtfully.

Lady Dee mentioned that Mr. Engstrom is old, but she never said how old. Lady Dee appears to be in her seventies at least, but I've never asked Mr. Engstrom his age. It seemed rude, especially over smalltalk while he was doing me a favor.

"Well?" Lady Dee says to my right, nearly scaring the daylights out of me. "Anything good?"

Another long moment passes, my face tilted towards the mysterious button, until Mr. Engstrom tilts his head towards me. I mirror the movement, our faces very close, and he starts, standing up straight.

"Where did you find this?"

I twist my fingers in my hands. Will he go to the police if I say--

Lady Dee comes to my rescue. "She nabbed it off the street, what's it matter?" 

He looks between us, unconvinced as he folds his arms over his chest. "That hardly constitutes an emergency."

Lady Dee groans. "Do you know what it is or not?"

He hums, one hand coming to his chin again, before aiming his gaze back to me. "Might I borrow this for the evening?" he asks, straightening his shirt.

I pause, unsure. "Oh, uh, of course. Is everything…?"

"Quite alright, Ms. Breban."

"Call her Lucy," Lady Dee slaps me on the back a little too hard, making me huff out my breath.

Mr. Engstrom turns his attention to me. The lights, shutter for a quick moment before reigniting, like he just blinked. And he's awaiting my approval, so I nod once, embarrassment warning my cheeks and forcing me to look down at the floor. I doubt a handful of sentences constitutes knowing me familiarly enough, but if I press the issue we'll be here all night. I'd hate to keep him up, I've already put him out enough as it is.

"Very well," he says, picking up the button and pocketing it. "Once you're closed up tomorrow evening, come by."

***

The customers are full of gossip, nowhere to go but the closest shop after the police department cleaned up Elliot's shop. It was awful--cars everywhere, dozens of officers coming and going. A few stopped into my shop and looked around, and I'd been terrified that they'd start questioning why they found my fingerprints at the scene. But the worst of it came from the customers, gossipping amongst themselves.

"Who lived there?"

"What happened?"

"I heard it was a murder."

"Not a murder you dolt! A suicide!"

"Suicide?! How could anyone do such a thing? It's beyond me."

Sometimes they ask my opinion, but then quickly talk over me in favor of conspiratorial whispers and judgemental stares. It's not answers they want, it's gossip. So I let it flow over me, centering myself in my work and the best way to serve my customers. There's orders piling up, so I begin to work through those as the day ebbs around me.

The space is loud, full, and normally I like it, it's easy to fall into and block out the rest of the world. But not when I'm trying to think.

What could that symbol have been? Did Mr. Engstrom recognize it? He hasn't contacted me today, but I'm still planning on visiting his shop tonight.

The end of the day can't come soon enough, as I lock up the front door and rush over to Mr. Engstrom's shop. I'm surprised to feel that the door is unlocked, expecting to have to wait outside for more direction. There's usually magic surrounding this door, like my own. Magic to keep out thieves. But right now there's none.

It's dark inside. I thought the windows had been tinted but no, he's dimmed the lights. I hadn't gotten a good look at the shop last night, it was hard to see in the darkness. But now I see everything is in black marble, with clocks along the walls and a large pendulum mounted stationary on the wall. 

Mr. Engstrom is bent over his bench, like usual. He's looking at something small that I can't see from the other side of the room, he hadn't even acknowledged my presence. The only sound is my breathing and the ticking of a clock that I can't see, and then my boots as I pad up to him. I clear my throat, and he doesn't budge.

"Um, Mr. Engstrom--"

"Please, call me Weston."

"...Weston." I like saying that. I like that we can be friends instead of just neighbors.

Walking up to the countertop, into view comes a small piece, barely the size of a coin. There's even smaller pieces laying against the black table top that're barely bigger than my fingernail, and he's working with tools that are the width of a needle. Weston doesn't seem to have any magnifying glasses on--then again, why would he need them?--and the light is so low I have to squint until my eyes adjust. "What're you working on, if I may ask?"

He stares at me for a long moment, the candles behind his eyes flickering like he's considering something. Then he puts his head down back to his work. "If you must know, it's a time-piece from the early 16th century. Priceless family heirloom and they couldn't be bothered to keep it clean."

His tone is clipped, he doesn't bother looking up at me again. I shuffle my feet, the sound grating against the peace and quiet. "I can come back later if--"

His head snaps up. "No, no, it's--" he sits up, running a gloved hand over his face. "I'm sorry, Ms. Breban, it's been a very frustrating day."

"Lucy."

"Pardon?"

"My name is Lucy."

His head lifts and he focuses his gaze on me. "Lucy," he says slowly, and a shiver runs up my spine. "That silver piece you gave me was quite the find."

Silver piece. "It's…not a button?"

He shakes his head, "It's an ancient piece of currency. Come with me," and stands lifts the divider in the table. But instead of moving towards the stairs at the front of the shop, he leads me further back, into the wares. There's an adequate amount of light back here, and it's needed. Stacks and stacks of boxes line the walls, some two or three deep, marking a jagged path that we take to the back of the shop. Some are open and filled with carefully organized papers, others still filled with smaller boxes and labels with script so small I can't read it. There's a lot here, but it's organized. Like my shop, it seems. 

We go further back than I thought the building stretched, when Weston stops. There's a ladder, leading directly upwards

"I wasn't sure at first," he says as he starts climbing. "But I've seen this symbol before."

The attic, like the back of the shop, is crowded with boxes and various objects. But unlike the back of the shop, there's no organization here. As if everything had been thrown here and forgotten, I wouldn't know where to even begin. There's trinkets, and clocks, and I see the glint of armor in the back corner. There's fabric so faded with time that I can't begin to parse out what it even is, and some items that seem almost brand new in comparison.

And over everything, old and new, is a layer of dust that makes my nose itch. 

There's a small path in the floor that winds to the back, and I see a book shelf along the back wall. It's where he leads me to, pulling a book down from a high shelf. Thick and faded, it's a tome at least two inches thick, but through the dust I can see the chaotic symbol on the cover.

"I knew I'd seen it somewhere before," Weston says, opening to a depression between the pages, revealing my silver piece in the margins. "Spent all night looking for it."

"You didn't lose sleep over me, I hope," I say, leaning over his shoulder to look. This is exciting, I feel like a detective. Not the ones I dealt with last week, but ones who solve mysteries. It's also easier being around him without watchful, expectant eyes on us. My heart thumps in my chest as I rest a hand on his arm.

Weston starts at the contact, and I instantly feel bad for leaning into his personal space. "This symbol is old. Very old."

"Older than you?"

He huffs a breath of amusement, the first I've heard. "Not quite."

He flips through pages so thin I can see the print on the opposite side, looking for something specific. The print is too small for me to skim, and the blocks of text with carefully detailed scientific diagrams make me think it's a reference text of some sort.

Weston continues flipping, until he gets to a page with the same symbol as the silver piece, surrounded by others I recognize from the crime scene. There's a small block of text on the opposite page that I can't read in the dark.

"At the time, they were called Messengers of the Enlightened." He reads from the small block of text, "A small underground following of the Enlightened One, they attempt to bring her into this plane and usher in a new era."

I frown. "Sounds like a cult."

"How so?"

"Elliot's…body," I shudder at the memory. "He was covered in these." I point to the symbols on the following page. They're not quite runes, but also not quite sigils. Something in between, as if someone had been experimenting. Even in this non-magical book they feel…corrupted. I lean into Weston, trying to get a better look as I flip to the next page.

"Where did you say this book was from?"

"I took it from a library in the 3rd Century." Well there go my worries about Weston calling the police.

"So this information could be outdated?"

"Oh it certainly is," he clicks the book shut. "You said your friend owned a shop? He was social and had friends?"

I nod.

"Then this is likely much bigger than a handful of members now. Indoctrinating the general public instead of remaining underground as they were likely means they've grown significantly." He pauses for a moment, then looks to me. "Was there anything else at the scene that looked like this sigil?"

I chew on my lower lip, hopeless. "I didn't really get a good look. I only saw the button--silver piece, because it caught the light. But…" I trail off, thinking. "The police hadn't done much to the scene. When I got there, they were driving off with the murderer, and only wanted me to confirm it was them."

The police there didn't seem particularly interested in investigating, either. Mostly they stood around answering press questions. They definitely could have missed something. 

I whirl on Weston, "We have to go back."

He blinks at me several times, the lights in his eyes shuttering. "Back? Back where?"

"The crime scene!"

"I don't think that's--"

"Listen! The police must have missed something, looked over a detail that we can find!"

Weston snaps the book against his palm. "That is out of the question."

I throw my hand in the air. "Then I'll go by myself!"

Weston points a finger at me. "I was willing to overlook you tampering with evidence. But this is too dangerous."

"But if there's something there that could help--"

He throws his hands out, and his eyes, for the briefest moment, flash red. "No!"

I flinch at his shout, so sudden and abrasive it's like opening a window. To think he could get so angry over me, basically a stranger.

Weston pauses, looking at me up and down, and then rights himself, turning his head away and pinching the bridge of his nose. "I apologize, I shouldn't have shouted."

I look down at the coin in my hands, a frown puckering my brow. It would be stupid to leave this alone, but the police aren't going to do anything about it. I flip the coin in my hands and sigh. "I suppose I should take this information to the police…"

Weston places the book back on the shelf, and crosses his arms. "And why is that an issue?"

Mirroring him, I fold my arms, grabbing each side with my hands. "They said it was too much work, it was above their paygrade. They'd seen another like this before but--"

"They discussed the case with you?"

I flush. "Not exactly…I kind of…listened in. But they didn't care! Not about Elliot, or his death, or even his sweet dog and--"

Tears build in my eyes again, and I furiously wipe them away. I'm not sad, I'm angry! This isn't fair to Elliot, to be tossed into another cold case file! Something needs to be done! Angrily, I stomp on an open patch of the floor, and dust springs up like a water spout, flying into the air, and then straight into my face. I'm thrown into a coughing fit that has me keeled over, and Weston's hand is on my back, guiding me to an equally dusty lounge chair. Sitting on it kicks up more dust, so I hold my breath until it settles. He sits next to me, hands falling to his lap as I try to recall how to breathe correctly.

"What kind of dog?" he asks.

I huff, very mature, and stare at a spot on the ground. "What do you care?"

He rests his elbows on his knees, lacing his fingers together. He says quietly, "I love dogs. Used to breed them for a line of monarchs in the Alps."

His tone is so sincere, like he's never told anyone that before, a secret just between the two of us. I crumble a little. "Paul. A golden retriever, barely a year old. And they just threw him in the pound."

I swipe at my tears again, and Weston offers me a handkerchief. It's a small square of silk, and I wonder why he has it if he can't cry.

"That's a shame. Young dog like that, someone is bound to pick him up eventually, though."

I only shrug my shoulders and sniff away more tears. They wouldn't take as good care of him as Elliot. I would've taken him in if I'd had the space, or the time. But I have neither, so poor Paul is left up to chance.

We sit as my tears dry, and I hand him back the silk handkerchief, that he tucks away in his waistcoat. Weston looks down at his hands, and clears his throat. "Well, if you're not going to the police, then I'm coming with you."