#apprentice camie

He’s worried about her.

           It wouldn’t be the first time. Truthfully, there’s hardly a day goes by that he doesn’t find his thoughts drifting to the petite, mousey-haired shopkeep. The threat looming about him each and every day has, by an odd twist of fate and association, also enveloped her. All he can do is hope for her health, her safety, and check in vain at her shop in the hopes he might see her.

           Today, the streets are sparse. With no clear crowd to mingle himself into, Julian Devorak clings to the shadows. The usual sun that Vesuvia basks under is nowhere in sight. Grey and beige dust clouds obscure the sky. The wind is picking up, dragging palm fronds and slips of refuse along the cobbled street, whistling shrilly through the narrow streets and alleyways. The first heavy spots of rain hit the ground around him, one catching his nose. He flinches at the sensation, draws a gloved hand and wipes it away with a frustrated tut.

           The shop isn’t far now. He still has his key. Far be it for him to presume his dear shopkeep’s thoughts on the matter, but he doubts – or, at least, hopes – that she will not take offence to his presence there for an hour or two. Just until the storm tides over. But Camie seems a kind sort. Her concerned tone reverberates in his memories from their last meeting.

She cares… She cares about me.

He finds his cheeks warming at the mere thought.

           Swiftly, he finds the door, certain that Camie’s – or rather Asra’s – sealing spell lingers within the wooden grains. Not that it matters. He finds the key, turns it in the three locks, and hurriedly makes his way inside.

           The space, without the light of the sun or the shop lanterns, is dim. Shadows collect amongst the shelves and the trinkets displayed upon them. The usually bright and colourful room, adorned with patterned walls that shift in colour and glimmering bottles ranging from saffron to indigo and the soft light of candles, seems distant.

           He’s not sure what he expected. Asra is gone with no indication of his whereabouts or the duration of his departure, and Camie is likely back in the palace. Working to clear his name? The thought, if somewhat selfish, brings a small smile to his face. Nonetheless, the state of the shop suits his purposes. His stay will be brief and draw no attention. With the Vesuvian populace also tucked into their own homes to wait out the storm, Julian is confident that he will draw no attention. Shrugging his overcoat from his shoulders, he takes a step inside, towards the stairs.

           Then he stops.

           At first, he had dismissed it as being one of the many whisperings caught in the passing of the outside wind, but it is growing slightly louder, enough that he can recognise human speech.

           He is not alone in here. His heartbeat quickens? Camie? Asra? An intruder come into the shop by some other means? He cannot say. Listening closely, he can just about discern their location, but not their words. He is grateful that the storm outside, at least, shrouds what little noise his approach makes.

           They are in the back room, where the Tarot readings take place. He is certain of it. Julian draws closer to the curtain masking the entrance, gloved fingers tugging it back ever so slightly that he might take a peek. His eye peers through the gap, and he grows more perplexed to see nobody there. How can this be? He can even hear them clearly, now. Their speech is faint, barely louder than a whisper, but he can make it out just the same.

           “It can’t hurt you… It’s fine… It’s going to be just fine… You’re going to be fine…!”

           They are cut short as the air outside crackles and rumbles as the storm finally gets into the swing of things. A shock of lighting pierces past the boarded window within and lights up the room, drawing a petrified gasp from whoever was speaking at the same moment as their hunched form is silhouetted from under the flimsy tablecloth.

           Now Julian dares to draw breath. He recognises them by their cry, how it resembles the one the shopkeep had let out before her form had disappeared under the reservoir’s surface. By force of habit, he retains his skulking pace, stepping into the room and letting the curtain fall back behind him. Stooping to his knees, he hoists up the tablecloth, expression softening at the sight before him.

           Camie, curled up so rigidly she might as well be a ball, eyes shut tight and hands clamped over her ears. Shaking like a leaf and lips pressed shut. He can still hear her whimpers.

           He finds himself reaching out, his leather-clad hand resting on her shoulder. She jolts at the sensation, wide eyes open in terror, and then she blinks in disbelief.

           “Julian?” she croaks.

           “None other.” He offers her his typical charming smirk, and receives a confused look in turn. Slowly, she lets her hands fall to her sides, and her brow furrows.

“How on earth do you keep getting in here?”

“Camie, my dear, you magicians aren’t the only folks about with tricks up their sleeves.”

He’s uncertain if she will press the issue, but her eyes relax and close. Her delicate, bare hand rests lightly atop of his gloved one, still giving her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. A small smile starts to form on her pale countenance, that lovely smile. Julian is left only a few seconds to relish the sight of it before another thunderclap chases it away. She winces at the sound, hands instinctively clasping over her ears once more in some vain attempt to muffle it, her head ducking into her knees. His hand is displaced by the action, and he lets it fall to the floor, easing himself further into the little den. He strains his neck to avoid hitting the wood above them.

After a few moments, Camie’s body relaxes, if only a little, brown eyes gazing upon him with a mixture of emotions, so transparent he can read her like a book. There’s penitence, shame, fear.

           “Camie…” he begins.

           She beats him to it. “I’m sorry,” she mumbles. “I must really look a sight…”

           “You’re always a sight. To behold, that is.” The lasts words stumble out quickly, flustered, as Camie quirks an affronted brow his way. Her reaction stills, and a moment of silence lingers with the static in the air.

           Finally, Camie breaks it, voice small. “I heard talk about a turn in the weather,” she begins to ramble, cheeks flushing. “The Counte— Nadia. I told her I wasn’t fond of storms, asked to come here. I mean, she said it was safe in the palace, but all those large windows and balconies and open spaces… I didn’t… I didn’t feel safe.”

           “If you don’t mind my saying so,” Julian ventures, “You don’t look like you feel safe here, either.”

           “I don’t,” she admits. “I won’t lie. I’m scared. I always am. But if I’m going to feel that way anyway, I’d rather be scared here. It’s the only place I remember riding these storms through all right.”

           “This is how you cope…”

           “This is how I cope,” she echoes, following up with an anxious laugh. “So much for me being brave…”

           He finds himself wondering if the witch – if Asra – knows about this phobia of hers. If he lets her be in the hopes of her growing out of this behaviour, if he keeps a distant eye on her, if he joins her and tries to soothe her fears with that reassuring contact he is so apt at providing. Perhaps he has never been around to see her like this. Like how he’s missing right now.

           Once more, Camie winces as the thunder rolls through the tempestuous air outside. He can hear the eye of the storm drawing closer, the shutters of windows clapping against the walls and wailing of the wind drifting through the gaps in the windows, the doors.

“Please…” he hears her whisper from beside him. “Don’t worry on my account. I’ll be fine… I’ll be fine once it’s over—”

           His coat sweeps the floor behind him as he reaches for Camie’s back, setting it carefully about her shoulders, along with an arm around her for good measure. Her head lightly collides into his upper arm. The gesture, judging from her reaction, comes as a surprise. She turns to him with a confused expression, brown eyes wide in wonder.

           “Julian…”

           “I’ve a request of you, if you’ll hear it,” he says, running his free hand through his hair. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t have me leave before the storm lets up. I’d like to sit it out here. With you.” His lip curls into a smile. “If you wouldn’t mind, that is.”

           A crack of lightning draws out her answer. Her arms wrap about him, her head pressing into his chest as she just about muffles a panicked gasp.

“All right…” her voice comes from below. “Please, stay…”

Lightly, he runs his fingers through her short brown locks, stroking at her tense scalp in soothing motions.

           “There, now,” he hums, pressing his lips into her hair. “I won’t let it hurt you. Gentleman’s honour.”

           He feels her nod, hears her let out the smallest sigh of laughter, and he keeps her drawn close, protective. They’ll weather the storm through.