Under the Roses

14 - In Memory's Mystic Band

ANDRINA

Andrina fought the urge to drape her hood over her head, shadowing her face. She knew she didn't look so out of place in the crowd, but it felt as if all eyes were on her. Somehow she always felt more conspicuous when she was trying to be inconspicuous.

Still, she knew she would just look more suspicious if she put on her hood. Especially in the heat of the summer, when all the ladies were carrying parasols and fanning themselves delicately.

Her client had called her to a small home in the middle of the city, and she hailed a carriage to take her to a spot a few blocks from the house. The driver looked at her a little strangely, probably wondering what someone like her was doing out in the middle of the night, probably wanting to take a peek in the heavy bag slung over her shoulder. Andrina tried to ignore the way he watched her suspiciously throughout the ride. She paid him, thanked him, and didn't let out a soft sigh of relief until she heard him riding off.

The address was near the end of the street, which seemed empty. She was grateful for it, though she knew she wasn't alone.

The house was small, old. Dilapidated, like all the other houses on the street. Wooden, cracked in some places, burnt in others.

She knocked on the door, as lightly as possible, not wanting to break it.

The door cracked open, and a small girl peeked out. She had red hair done in two braids that reached all the way down to her waist. She wore a dirty white nightgown and thick, knitted socks. Her green eyes scanned Andrina up and down.

Andrina didn't bother smiling at the girl or asking why she was still up at midnight. She wasn't in the business to smile or make small talk.

The girl held open the door. Andrina stepped inside, the contents of her bag thumping against her hip as she walked.

The door closed gently behind her. The girl led Andrina to the sitting room, which was lit by a bright lantern. A thin, bony man sat on a couch, a thin book in one frail hand, though he was staring off into the distance, not reading it. His eyes were glassy, his gray hair thinning.

The girl went over to him, and he turned his face to her as she approached. "Is Ama coming?" she asked softly.

The man gave a slow, tired shrug.

"I'm here," said a woman, entering the room. She was wiping her wet hands on her pale apron. Her hair was done up in a messy bun, and she fixed her eyes on Andrina, inspecting her with the same critical eye as the little girl.

Andrina was silent as she nodded at the woman. The woman was calm here. She'd come to Andrina not a few days before. She'd been nearly hysterical then.

The woman looked at the girl. "Jill," she said. "To your room. Now."

The girl's face betrayed no emotion. She nodded and backed out of the room.

"Mrs—" Andrina began, turning to the woman.

"Inge," she said sharply. "Just Inge." She sighed. "Thank you for coming."

Andrina nodded again. "May I set up? The room will have to be cleared out."

"Of course," Inge said. She went over to the old man, sliding the book out of his hands and speaking in hushed tones.

Andrina looked around a little uncomfortably, then sat down in the middle of the sitting room. There was no furniture save for the couch and the small table the lantern was set upon, which was good. Space was good.

Inge helped up the man and led him out of the room, leaving Andrina alone. Well, not quite alone. She took off her cloak, folding it and placing it aside. Then she pulled out the candles she'd borrowed. They were vanilla scented, and the inside of her bag smelled sweet. She laid out six of the candles in a tight ring in front of her.