Lineage of Zeal, Book One: Rosemary

Chapter Four: Envious Trappings

Avendale was a city of art. From above, with its many roads weaving between crowded buildings, the city looked like a mass of brightly colored serpents nestled between the banks of a thick blue river and its largest tributary, fed by Lake Marcelle. The winding paths all looked as though they writhed toward an even greater road in the center of the city, the glimmering eye of the latter being the grandiose manor of the Count Jenvier. Indeed, there was no better place for a connoisseur and collector of fine art and his two sons to reside, than Avendale.

Rosemary made good time in her travel to this glittering city. Though she had no carriage, she arrived in the single day Renald prescribed. It was still light when she approached the front gate to the city, so the guards let her enter with little hassle, despite her appearance. After all, there were those in this city who chose to use the human body as their canvas, so it was not so uncommon to see a person with unnatural colors adorning their hair, eyes, or the rest of their bodies. For this small semblance of fitting in, Rosemary was grateful.

She waded through the evening crowds that flooded the streets as night descended. Hither and thither tides of people washed, transfixed by Quimby's street magic show or mesmerized by Danglar's latest mechanical doll. Waves beat at Maléy's booth, crying out for his latest portrait to be unveiled. Listeners pooled at the feet of Seymour, the local bard, to hear the tale of the valiant Jonathan who single-handedly fought against the demon that came to destroy his home in Warrenton some two and a half decades ago. And a single eddy beat upon the small of Rosemary's back every time she was slowed or stopped by the crowd.

At first, she dismissed the contact as accidental. She was, after all, in the middle of an undulating crowd. But when she noticed that the contact was happening at the same spot every time, she realized something.

Rosemary continued through the crowd. She figured that if she pressed on long enough, her unwanted guest would be lost to the currents and she would not have to make a scene. Whenever she saw a chance, she cut down another street in hopes of losing her tail. She did this a number of times until she was sure she was once more traveling alone.

And then she saw something intriguing.

Rosemary assured herself she was seeing things. That that flash of silver hair she spied in the crowd was a figment of her imagination created by her hopefulness. It had happened on occasion throughout the years. But she decided to chase after the figment anyway. Hope had carried her this far; there was no reason to deny it now.

Rosemary fought through the crowd, scooping people past her as though she were swimming to expedite her progress as much as possible. The disgruntled voices behind her meant nothing compared to what she thought she saw, and it was headed in the direction of the count's manor. She would not let it escape.

But when she came to a crossroads empty of people, the figment had vanished. She would have to start searching elsewhere in the city, albeit in a surlier mood than she had arrived.

She had barely assumed the aforementioned mood when that familiar bump from behind occurred once more.

Rosemary turned on her annoyance, ready to teach yet another lesson on wandering hands, but she was surprised to find nothing near her eye level. It was not until the yellow mop of hair that hovered at her navel's height coughed that she noticed there was anything in front of her. And then the mop spoke.

"I... I'm sorry, miss," he said, taking deep breaths every few words. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"You didn't startle me. You followed me."

The boy stayed silent and refused to look up. He occupied himself with wringing his hands as though they had done something he was ashamed of, but the damned spot would not wash away.