by Sable Sylvan
When they got to the house, Savina helped with the doors again while Basil carried Cayenne in his arms. Alice and Herb were in the front room, sitting in chairs waiting for the trio, worried sick as their crossed arms showed, but when they saw Cayenne, they ran up to Basil.
Savina put her hands on Alice and Herb’s chest.
“She’s asleep,” whispered Savina. “Basil said he’d come down later to explain everything.”
Alice and Herb nodded, and Savina went upstairs to get the doors for Basil.
Cayenne’s bedroom door was locked and rather than go through her purse for keys, Savina opened Basil’s door.
Basil walked into his room with Cayenne gently cradled in his arms. She was between a waking and sleeping state, her eyes fluttering open every so often.
“Where…where am I?” asked Cayenne, looking around slowly.
“My room,” said Basil. “I’m taking you to yours. Your room was locked. Force of habit?”
“Must be,” said Cayenne with a yawn. “I can walk the rest of the way.”
“No, you can’t,” said Basil.
Savina opened the door to the middle room of the suite, and when she saw what was inside, she gasped.
Basil walked into the middle room, and Cayenne looked around. This wasn’t the plain room with white walls and a navy-blue carpet that she remembered. This looked like the studio of her dreams, with fresh canvases on sturdy pine easels, new brushes in a cubby system, and fresh canvases laying against a shelving unit. There was a drafting table with pens and pencils, and the room smelled of brand new art supplies, of pastels, paints, and pencil shavings.
“What is this place?” asked Cayenne.
Basil stopped and let Cayenne look around, carefully moving in a small circle so she could see the room.
“It’s your studio,” said Basil quietly. “I set it up for you a few days after you told me about your painting. I didn’t know what to get, so I got you everything. Our stylist and your sisters helped me pick everything out.”
“You did all this…for me?” asked Cayenne.
“You didn’t notice because you were working so hard,” said Basil. “Ironic, isn’t it? This is supposed to be where you go to relax…but you work too hard. You were so busy. You didn’t even open the door and see what’s there.”
“Basil, you didn’t have to do this,” said Cayenne, with a yawn.
“You can thank me another time,” said Basil, instinctively pulling Cayenne closer to his body.
“Ahem,” came a voice. It was Savina, the door to Cayenne’s room unlocked and open.
“Sorry,” said Basil. He kept walking.
Savina opened the covers to Cayenne’s bed, and Basil put Cayenne down carefully. Savina took off Cayenne’s shoes, and Basil started to leave.
“Wait,” said Cayenne.
“You need sleep,” said Basil.
“I…I want a bedtime story,” said Cayenne.
“You’re joking,” said Basil.
“When she gets tired, she gets like this,” said Savina, taking off the last shoe. “She always forgets that she’s a grown up and can’t go around asking people for goodnight stories.”
“I know a story,” said Basil.
“Then tell it,” said Savina. “I’m outie. It better not be ‘Goldilocks And The Three Bear Shifters’ or ‘Shifterella’. She’s heard those a thousand times.”
“You can go, Savina,” said Basil. “Just…tell Herb and Alice I’ll be right down.”
“Chores, chores,” said Savina. “I’ll go.”
Savina left, and Basil took a seat next to Cayenne’s bed. He looked around the room. He hadn’t expected Cayenne’s room to be so girly. Given how driven and ambitious she was, the last thing he’d expect was that she’d have a fairytale feminine room…or a penchant for bedtime stories.
“Story,” said Cayenne with a yawn, reaching out for Basil.
Basil took her hand and held it in his.
“Have you heard the story…of the Matchstick Girl?” asked Basil.
“No,” said Cayenne. “Maybe. I don’t know.”
“A man from a country near mine wrote this story, and my grandmother told it to me, so now, I will tell it to you,” said Basil. “In Scandinavia, we call him H.C. Andersen, but you might know him as Hans Christian Andersen. He wrote what my people and his call eventyr, adventures, but what you would call a fairy tale. This one is one of his most famous stories…Piken med svovelstikkene: The Little Match Girl, or, The Matchstick Girl.
“Once upon a winter’s eve, there was a young girl who sold matches to make a living. You would think that selling matches would be easy during the winter, but sadly, for this girl, it was not. She needed to sell the matches or else she couldn’t go home to her family because she’d be punished brutally. She had lost her shoes and walked barefoot through the streets,” said Basil.
“Then what?” asked Cayenne.
“Then, the girl decided she could light just one match, to keep herself warm…but when she lit the match, she saw delightful things dancing in the flames,” said Basil. “She saw visions of a happy home, of a feast at the hearth on Christmas. She saw a glittering star she thought was the topper of the tree, but it was a shooting star. The girl smiled, because…” Basil started to choke up a little.
“Because why?” asked Cayenne with a yawn.
“…Because her grandmother had told her every time you see a shooting star, it’s someone going to the afterlife,” said Basil, regaining composure on the outside. His bear roared. Could Basil make it through this without crying?
“And then what?” asked Cayenne.
“Then, the girl struck another match, and saw a vision of her grandmother,” said Basil. “You see, her grandmother, the only person who had ever treated the girl with love and with kindness, had passed away. Seeing her grandmother again seemed like a New Year’s Eve miracle for the girl, so she kept on striking matches to keep the image of her grandmother flickering in the flames of the matches.”
“But, if she strikes the matches…” started Cayenne. “Oh no.”
“Exactly,” said Basil. “She had no matches to sell and eventually, no matches to keep her warm, but her grandmother carried her to the afterlife.”
“That’s so sad,” said Cayenne. “At least she was in a better place.”
“Remind you of anyone else?” asked Basil.
“No,” said Cayenne.
“Really?” asked Basil, squeezing Cayenne’s hand.
“What, me?” asked Cayenne. “No way.”
“You see no parallels?” asked Basil. “Come on, Kai. You work too hard, to the point it gets dangerous. You didn’t die, but you were stubborn and stayed outside…but the difference is, you have the option not to work so hard. You have a family that loves you, and you don’t have to work as hard as you do. You didn’t catch a death of cold, but you almost got eaten by the big, bad wolves. You gotta be more careful and take care of yourself…and let us take care of you, too. We’re all a big family now. You’re gonna be my sister-in-law. What kind of brother-in-law would I be if I let you get taken by wolves?”
“Okay, you might have a point,” said Cayenne before yawning again. She was struggling to get to sleep.
“Get some shut-eye,” said Basil. “I’ll turn off the light when I leave.”
“Basil, wait,” said Cayenne.
“What?” asked Basil.
“Can I…ask for something weird?” asked Cayenne.
“Anything,” said Basil.
“Can…never mind,” said Cayenne, asking herself why she had thought to ask for that from him. “It’s nothing. See you tomorrow…and thanks again, for everything.”
“No problem,” said Basil, giving her a small smile before turning off the light and shutting the door. He had told Cayenne a very special bedtime story, but now, he had to tell Alice and Herb another story…
Chapter Five
The next morning, Cayenne took a shower and head
ed downstairs for breakfast. It was Saturday, and everyone was eating brunch together. Of course, the topic of discussion was Basil taking on the two wolves and Cayenne’s badass defense of Basil. Eventually, people dropped the topic, and it was time to clean up.
“Can I see you upstairs?” Cayenne asked Basil as she cleared her dishes. “The studio?”
“Sure,” said Basil, and once they finished cleaning up, they headed upstairs together.
Cayenne opened the door to the suite from her room and met Basil inside. The studio looked even better than she’d dreamed of. After all, how couldn’t she have had a night filled with dreams of the gorgeous paints and brushes that Basil had stocked the room with? There were even empty frames and hanging equipment for her paintings and a big couch. Cayenne sat on the couch, and Basil pulled up a chair.
“I just wanted to thank you for last night,” said Cayenne. “And…for this.”
“For this?” said Basil. “It’s nothing.”
“I know you said not to thank you, but I feel that I must,” said Cayenne. “Is there any way I can repay you for your generosity and for defending me?”
“Repay me for the studio by using it,” said Basil. “Repay me for defending you by being more careful…and I’m talking about you working too hard. It’s not safe, okay?”
“Okay, okay,” said Cayenne. “I did a lot of thinking at brunch. Everyone couldn’t believe that we took on those two wolves. I couldn’t have done it alone, Basil.”
“And I couldn’t have done it without you,” said Basil.
“I guess Alice was right,” said Cayenne. “We work better together than apart. I guess the only question is, what will be harder: fighting off two wolves, or figuring out what to do with the restaurant?”
“We can brainstorm,” said Basil. “But…it is a Saturday. What happened to taking it easy?”
“Well, we should get along better,” said Cayenne. “We can learn about each other, get to know each other. I still don’t know much about you, Basil. I know you’re a Scoville, you like some downright weird food, you cook a mean gyudon, and you travel a lot.”
“I knew you liked that dish,” teased Basil. “I learned about it when I was in the Hokkaido district for study abroad in high school.”
“Is there a country you haven’t visited?” asked Cayenne, crossing her arms.
“Hey, I can’t help it I have so much free time to travel,” said Basil.
“I’m kinda jealous,” said Cayenne. “I wish I could travel.”
“Can’t you?” asked Basil. “You know, Sage and Herb arranged for Addison to attend Bonimolean…you could ask Herb for a trip as well.”
“I couldn’t do that,” said Cayenne.
“Why not?” asked Basil. “Are you making things harder for yourself again?”
“Maybe,” said Cayenne. “It’s just, and this is gonna sound stupid…but my grandma, my mom’s mom, Barbara Quigley, is this strong, inspirational woman. My mom didn’t have much growing up, a lot less than my dad. My grandma lives in a nice house in Georgia, but you wouldn’t know that for years she was poor, and put every last spare cent into raising my mom. My mom always had shoes on her feet, food in her belly, and a roof over her head, and more love than she could handle from her parents. When my grandfather’s brother passed, he had no heir, so the money went to my Grandpa Quigley as next of kin, and that went to Grandma Barbie when Grandpa passed. Grandma, bless her heart, offered my parents the money for college for us, but we all refused, every last one of us, including my parents, all my siblings, the lot of us.”
“Why?” asked Basil.
“She had worked so dang hard for so long, and it still took a stroke of luck for her to be able to afford to retire,” said Cayenne. “That’s why I work so hard. I feel like, even though things are pretty much set for the Quincys now, that I owe it to my grandma to work hard and continue her legacy.”
“You can work hard without overworking,” said Basil. “Work smarter, not harder. That’s what I do.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cayenne.
“Do you know why I went to Brazil last semester?” asked Basil.
“For Carnival?” joked Cayenne.
“Well, you’re kinda right,” said Basil. “I visited Brazil as a teen and fell in love with the culture, everything from the Carnival to the art and the dance and the food. But in Brazil, there is extreme wealth next door to abject poverty. Norway and the other Scandinavian countries don’t have as much of a problem as Brazil does. Brazil has favelas, what you might call ‘ghettos,’ full of poor people.”
“I know about that,” said Cayenne. “So, what did you do?”
“I started a private group home and school,” said Basil. “I anonymously fund it because I do not want it associated with my family’s name. Otherwise, problems would arise. However, corruption is an issue in many countries, especially where international affairs are concerned. That’s why I went to Brazil last semester. I had put all the puzzle pieces into place. Now, it was time to pull the trigger on it and make my dream fulfill the dreams of so many other people.”
“I had no idea that you were doing that,” said Cayenne.
“Most people don’t, and I’d like to keep it that way,” said Basil. “As I said, if people learn a Scoville is associated with the project, things might get…messy.”
“Why did you care so much about total strangers?” asked Cayenne.
“The Scovilles have always been an adventurous lot,” said Basil. “Our people were Vikings, spice traders who ran the Silk Road with dragon shifters, for goodness sake. I am no different, and neither was my grandfather. My grandfather, Morten, knew your grandfather, your father’s father, Elijah, because they were both in the same Nazi POW camp.”
“I know that much,” said Cayenne.
“Well, what you may not know is that Grandpa Morten was the gamma of the Scoville Clan before World War 2 happened,” said Basil.
“You mean…” started Cayenne.
“That’s right,” said Basil. “He had two older siblings, both brothers, as back in the day, women couldn’t be alphas, much less have a clan rank. Anyways, they both died in the war, and my grandfather fought in the war as well.”
“Wow,” said Cayenne quietly.
“My grandfather went home and married my grandmother and had my father,” said Basil. “But, the Scovilles were not the only family to lose sons and daughters to the war…not by a long shot. You see, many children were left orphaned by the war. As a child, I was confused about why my grandmother would go to the poor part of Oslo, as there were poorer parts even in my youth, and work with orphans, foster children. She told me a story to explain why it meant so much to her. It wasn’t the story of World War 2…”
“…It was the story of The Matchstick Girl,” said Cayenne. “You two must be close.”
“We were…until she passed when I was eight,” said Basil. “It was on my birthday. I remember it like it was yesterday. My grandfather couldn’t keep it together at my party. When he told us what happened, why my grandmother wasn’t there, there wasn’t a dry eye that day. On my eighteenth birthday, my mark appeared…and my grandfather’s mate mark disappeared.”
“It disappeared?” asked Cayenne.
“It’s too painful to get into,” said Basil. “It’s a story for another time. I couldn’t stand to be around the Scoville Manor, a constant reminder of my grandfather’s loss. That’s why I started to travel by myself, to get out of the house. At first, it was trips around Norway, but I never seemed to be able to get away from my ghosts. That’s why I traveled further, and that’s why I went to Brazil again at eighteen and started to set up the school. It went from hobby to passion project.”
“So, all you did in Brazil was help out at a school?” asked Cayenne. “I thought you were just lounging on beaches with models.”
“No way,” said Basil. “When I did go out, I was checking out places that the children could go. Galleries, museums, that sort
of thing. I had to scout the places out on my own because if they were seen with me, the reporters could figure out what was going on. I would surround myself with shifters and other socialites but I wasn’t there to party. I was there to find nice things for the children to do. After all, I went to set up a school, not a prison.”
“Really? That’s so sweet,” said Cayenne. “What activity did they like best?”
“Oh, definitely the churrascaria,” said Basil. “It’s pricey, but they go once a month now.”
“Churrascaria?” asked Cayenne. “I’m gonna need a translation.”
“Sorry, churrasco is a special kind of cuisine and restaurant in Brazil,” said Basil. “The cuisine is churrasco. The restaurant is a churrascaria. It’s an all-you-can-eat meat extravaganza. There’s a salad bar with Brazilian delicacies, as well as some luxury items like fresh mozzarella and smoked salmon, but the real show-stopper is the meat. The chefs barbecue fresh cuts of meat on big skewers that look like swords. Waiters walk around, offering cuts of barbecued meat to all the different tables. The meat is high quality and delicious, and very fresh as people go with big appetites and eat their fill. Most people go for the beef, but there’s also pork, chicken, and sausages.”
“Okay, and you’re not pulling my leg…this is a real thing?” asked Cayenne. “Churrasco isn’t just something you’ve had a wet dream about? Because I’ve had food dreams that leave me hungry before.”
“Nope, you can look them up,” said Basil. “Churrascaria is sometimes called a ‘Brazilian steakhouse’ abroad.”
“Abroad?” asked Cayenne. “And about how much does it cost?”
“It varies by market,” said Basil. “I’ve had it for twenty bucks in cheaper areas, sixty to a hundred dollars in fancier places…why?”
“I have a crazy idea,” said Cayenne. “And I know that we’re going to need to work together if we want to have more than a snowball’s chance in Texas to make this a success.”
Chapter Six
That weekend, Cayenne let herself relax and painted in the studio. She acquainted herself with where things were…then moved them and made a huge frikkin’ mess. Her cheeks were splattered with paint. She looked out the window to the studio. The rest of the Quincy-Scoville Clan was outside, the girls drinking beers and sitting in lawn chairs while the dudes played soccer, a pile of American footballs that had been punctured by the bears’ sharp teeth dotting the backyard, replaced by a big bouncing ball. There were some popped balls on the field as well.
