The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Patience Running Thin

               The shop owner— the aforementioned "Nightingale," I presume— is scribbling complicated shapes in chalk on an enormous blackboard at the center of the room. Right underneath the board lies a chemistry set that rivals even what Ben has squirreled away in the bakery's basement level.

             "Please wait a few moments, I'm almost done!" She shouts, effortlessly whirling from the board over to the chemistry set. She turns the heat down considerably, muttering under her breath, and then turns to slide her hands down the complicated sigil.

          The chalk is smudged down the middle, the designs ruined in an instant— but the chemist doesn't even pause. She removes the bubbling liquid from the prongs of the set and pours it out into a deep bowl made of refined silver, running her hands along the length of it.

          I realize belatedly that her hands are glowing, just as the light begins to fade from them.

           "So sorry, dear. Working with potions is such a pain— I prefer most other forms of medicine, but liquid does tend to work best." She looks over and seems to have been expecting someone else, from the look on her face. "Oh! Morgan... and someone new? Tell me you've scouted a new alchemist. I need someone to take over the shop when I die— or even better, soon! I've got better things to do than work in this dump."

             Morgan crosses her arms.

             "You know I'm not in a position to accept any new students. It's too dangerous, for now." She speaks evenly, but I can tell that she's pissed off. (A miracle that I can do that when she always sounds angry.)

            "You could bring a boy. The killer wouldn't want one of those."

            "If this truly matters so much to you, put in a request with leadership and they'll get someone else to do it. I'm busy. This is Lucy, who is here to help investigate the murders with me." Morgan gestures loosely at me, and I panic, not knowing how to address the woman. I'm unfamiliar with the structure of this society, after all.

              I play things safe with a curtsy (which is almost certainly overkill, I know) and am graciously rewarded for my undue politeness when both Nightingale and Morgan start laughing at me.

             "Oh, you're so precious! You're from the top of the mountain, are you? So cute. Can you sew? I heard that's a common enough skill, for ladies. Please tell me you can sew!" She practically bounces up and down with excitement, and I find myself nodding timidly despite not wanting to tell her that.

               "Nightingale, I told you that she's here for the investigation and I meant it. We have some questions to ask about your practice and—" Morgan begins to intervene, firmly, but is cut off.

             "I'll answer them while Lucy helps me with something. You don't mind if I borrow her, do you?" The chemist interrupts, hurrying into another room and dragging out a huge skein of silk stretched on a wooden frame.

               It looks very similar to the drawing she'd made on the chalkboard but painted in dye rather than chalk. The silk is nearly torn in half down the middle, but I can't imagine it'd take very long to close back together.

            "You don't have to do anything she says, Lucy." Morgan mumbles under her breath, clearly scandalized by the other woman's actions.

            It's not that unusual to me. Nightingale sees me as "common" and thus beneath her... which isn't all that different from interacting with a noble of higher status than you. The only difference is that her disdain comes from her assumption of my lesser intelligence rather than my family's status.