The owner of the West Pine Company was herself a work of art, a long sweep of polished mahogany draped in peacock blue and emerald. Her steel-gray hair was pinned up in a simple, flawless swirl. She would be too modern for her own collection, with such spare lines. She looked up from a ledger and nodded, and her butler bowed and retreated.
Standing inside the doorway, Agna lifted her hand in the formal Kaveran greeting wave. “Good afternoon, ma’am. Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”
“Your proposal was intriguing enough. Have a seat.” Quasta Kalen spread a hand toward a leather-upholstered chair facing the desk. Agna sat, setting her shoulder bag in the shadow of her skirts, and waited for her host to finish writing. She certainly took her time, tracking down columns of numbers and referring to papers and books at the edges of her desk. “Something to drink?”
Agna tried to disguise her jump with a careless toss of her head. “No, thank you.” She’d fidget if she had something to hold. Better to try to stay focused.
Having reached the end of the page, Quasta slotted her metal-tipped pen into a wooden holder and blotted the ledger before closing the book. “Despana,” she said. “The Despana Agency has quite the reputation in Nessiny, I understand.”
She’d done her homework, then. Agna could skip part of her patter. On the other hand, she’d have to be careful not to overstate her case, because Quasta would catch her. “Thank you, ma’am. We are one of the pre-eminent dealers in several styles of painting.”
“And you’ve brought your collection to Wildern?”
Controlling her expression, Agna kept her voice even. Her collection, so to speak, consisted of a dozen samples and her own sketches. “I hope to gather a new one, actually. My family’s holdings, what they’ve kept for themselves, in any case, are primarily contemporary Nessinian art. I hope to select a collection of Kaveran art. I’ve seen that this country has its own pool of talent that deserves to be recognized.”
Quasta’s long hand waved in the air with a clink of metal bracelets. “There’s the Prisan Grand Gallery, the Council Portrait Hall, the National Museum…”
“And I’m sure you see the common thread between all of those.” Each one was either in Vertal or in Prisa, at the opposite end of the country. Besides, most of the museums and galleries in Prisa were half-full of Nessinian art, thanks to the noble exiles who’d washed up there two generations ago. Either way, the points were salient.
The lumber baron’s gaze turned skeptical. “I doubt you’re inspired by regional pride.”
Agna smiled. “Inspired, perhaps, after the fact. To be honest, what I see is a region long overdue for cultural touchstones to call its own.”
“And why, in particular, are you the one to give us that ‘touchstone’?”
Agna’s stomach muscles contracted under her too-tight bodice. Because she didn’t see any locals stepping up. Because nobody here knew what they were doing. A glance around the study centered her again. The head of the West Pine Company recognized quality. A house like this wasn’t outfitted this way accidentally. And chances were, she wasn’t the only member of the Wildern elite who appreciated such things. Agna wasn’t the only one who’d done her research.
She swallowed. “I chose Wildern because of its potential, ma’am. A climate with potential backers, good infrastructure, growing cultural offerings, and transportation connections to the rest of the country.” She let the rest go. “It remains to be seen why Wildern should choose me in return.”
Quasta granted her point with raised eyebrows and a wave of her hand. “Indeed. Tell me, then. What is your connection to the Despana Agency?”
The notes would stay in her satchel for this meeting, it seemed. Quasta Kalen seemed not to care about her plans for Wildern so much as her credibility as a dealer. That could be a problem. “My father is Raniero Despana, the current head of the Despana Agency. I am his heir, but I have chosen to take my career in a different direction, rather than succeeding him.”
“Why is that?”
Agna knotted her hands in her lap, realized what she was doing, and folded them instead. She chose her words carefully. “The Despana Agency has a long and respectable history, ma’am. I have no doubt that it will continue in the same path for many years to come. I simply want to strike out in a new direction.” She stopped herself before she said and diversify our holdings. Anything she did would be outside the Agency’s official operations, unauthorized by her father. Surely Quasta Kalen would realize that. It was too dangerous to gloss over details or round things up. Agna felt small and flimsy, realizing how often she fell back on those tactics. If she couldn’t sell her reputation and her plans on their own merits, did they deserve the backers’ buy-in after all?
She looked up at Quasta Kalen, not quite fearless. “This is a new venture. It may not succeed. But I intend to put my all into it, and if it does not succeed, I’ll try something else. My place in this world is not in Nessiny, burnishing my family’s reputation.”
The lumber baron coolly watched her. “What is your next step, then?”
Agna’s breath came more easily. This part, at least, was certain. “Once I’ve located enough interested parties, I hope to call a meeting and discuss our ideas. From there, I’ll begin to gather works for our first exhibition, or raise funds if need be.”
“What is your timeline for opening your gallery?”
“That remains to be seen. I hope to hold a limited opening within the year — a small exhibition, with limited hours.”
“Hm.” Quasta steepled her fingers. “I am willing to attend a board meeting or two, depending upon my schedule.”
Agna managed a tight smile. Any step toward her goal was worth taking. “I appreciate it, ma’am.”
“Best of luck in assembling your board.” Quasta reached aside to pull a cord that hung along the wall. Taking her cue, Agna gathered her bag and gave the head of West Pine Company a solemn nod. Two down, Aines Shora and Quasta Kalen. One step at a time.
Agna: Your Mornings
The only breathable air in midsummer was to be found in the morning, before the sun crested the hills. By evening the cobblestones had marinated for too long in the soupy air to give up their heat easily, and so the city steamed far into the night.
That was the bribe that finally got Agna out of bed — three hours before her shift began, and minutes before their new kittens thought to pounce on her and demand breakfast. You’ll be less tired, trust me was useful, but uncompelling. I’d like your company came very close. It’s the coolest time of day was the final push she needed.
“It isn’t really the temperature,” she said, as they trudged up the hill outside the gallery. “It’s the humidity. Back home it’s this hot by halfway between New Year’s and Midsummer, but it doesn’t rain nearly as much, and the air doesn’t hang like this.”
“Hmm.”
As an excuse to pause and catch her breath at the next intersection, Agna loosened the strap of her bag and resettled it on her shoulder. Keifon had planned a walk long enough to land her at the Benevolents’ doorstep in time to change and start her shift at eight. It wasn’t as annoying as she’d thought to carry her healer’s robes along. On the other hand, he’d also told her to skip breakfast, and her stomach had begun to protest.
“This way.” Keifon turned right, toward the row of shops on Linden Street. The shops lined up along the top of the hill, with the peaks of their roofs just visible over the treetops.
For someone who’d claimed to want company, he was being awfully tight-lipped. Agna caught up next to him. “Is everything all right? You seem… I don’t know, off.”
He kneaded the back of his neck, keeping his eyes on the boards under their feet, and tugged the strap of his own bag over his shoulder. “I wanted to share this with you, but I’m kind of nervous.”
“Oh… well, thank you for sharing, in any case.” Agna patted his arm, and he marshaled a half-smile. There was more to his morning routine than som
e fresh air and exercise, somehow. Maybe he’d found a house he wanted to buy, or even met someone in town. Maybe they were meeting for breakfast. Agna’s morning sluggishness evaporated. She could have run down the block, if only because Linden was one of the level streets.
Keifon turned off the walkway into a bakery called Sweet Lavender. The bell over the door tinkled to announce their arrival, and the smell of fresh bread enveloped them. Agna’s stomach redoubled its demands. She had dropped by this bakery before; it was the closest to their new home, albeit uphill. This early, it was warm and mostly deserted. A customer carried out a paper bag of rolls as Keifon and Agna entered, and a pair of old men nursed tea and pastries at one of the tables near the front windows.
“Anything you want for home?” Keifon’s hand was already full of copper coins.
“Mmm, everything.” She looked over the racks and considered what they still had in the pantry and in the cellar. As Agna thought about what might match well with last night’s soup, Keifon gave some of his money to the baker’s assistant. The assistant thanked him, deposited the coins in a drawer, and disappeared into the back of the store.
She tapped one of the slate signs on the rack. “How about the sourdough? I haven’t tried it here yet. With the rest of the soup.”
“Hmm, sounds good. And breakfast?”
Agna glanced around the bakery. Unless Keifon meant to introduce her to the baker, her assistant or the grandfatherly types with the berry turnovers, their guest seemed to be late. If, indeed, her guesses were anywhere near the mark. Keifon still seemed agitated, watching the door where the baker’s assistant had gone.
“Are we eating here, or…?” She left the question dangling.
“Walk and talk, if you don’t mind. I’ve got a few more stops to make.”
“Well, all right…” She sized up a few of the pastries, and shoved back the flood of questions.
When the baker’s assistant returned, she carried a giant paper bag heaped with assorted loaves and rolls. Keifon winced. “Bad sales yesterday?”
The assistant planted the sack on the counter and pushed it across the polished wood surface. “Nah, just training a new kid. They’re a bit lumpy, and some charred spots. Still good, though.”
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise. And they won’t go to waste, in any case. Thank you so much.”
She smiled at him, a look familiar from Agna’s years on the road, observing Keifon’s full patient-charming mode. He wasn’t even trying this time. This girl had to be it. Agna assessed her: a deep Kaveran complexion, dark, curly hair wrapped up in a kerchief, not too tall, with solid, shapely curves under her aproned uniform. She seemed nice enough. Agna would have to blame her flushing on this morning’s brisk walk.
“Anything else this morning?”
“Yes, please, one of the sourdough loaves. And whatever Agna wants.”
“Uh, a cheese turnover, please.”
“Good choices.” As the baker’s assistant turned to pack up their other purchases, Agna tugged on Keifon’s sleeve and tilted her head toward the counter, smirking.
Keifon reddened and waved his hands in an X, stopping just in time to accept the second paper bag. “Thank you.”
“Thank you — that’ll be eighteen head.”
He passed over a gold coin and got two copper coins in return, then handed the smaller sack to Agna, exchanged good-days with the assistant, and headed out of the bakery.
Once outside, Agna eyed the first bag, which Keifon cradled close to his chest. It occurred to her that he hadn’t ordered anything upon walking into the store. The baker’s assistant had taken for granted that he’d need a giant bag of asymmetrical bread. Of course. Doesn’t everyone?
Agna gave up trying to make sense of her friend’s eccentricities and pulled her cheese turnover from her own bag. To her delight, northwestern Kavera seemed to prefer goat’s milk cheeses over the cow’s milk types she’d seen all over the heartland. They weren’t as salty or dry as the cheese at home, but the flavor was quite to her liking. Of course, at home they wouldn’t bake it in a flaky crust like this; they’d just serve it with flatbread. Agna pondered the complexities of local cuisine and munched on her turnover, carrying the loaf of sourdough in her free arm. The residual oven heat radiated through the paper, which was not so unpleasant as she would have thought.
After another couple of blocks, Keifon turned left and headed uphill again, passing out of the shops into a more densely packed neighborhood of old wooden houses. More people were out on the street here, many in plain laborers’ clothes, carrying leather satchels of tools. The flow of traffic continued uphill toward the edge of town. The houses gave way to a double row of shops, facing one another over a street barely wider than a carriage. Their flower boxes and signs clamored for attention, along with posters in the shop windows, touting upcoming construction jobs with the mountain pass project. Keifon turned into a side alley between two of the shops, and Agna stopped short and scrambled after him. He knocked at a side door as Agna finished her breakfast and wiped her buttery fingers on her handkerchief. A looming cliff of a man wearing a heavy canvas apron opened the door.
“Good morning. Anything today?” Keifon juggled the bag of bread to reach his money pouch. Agna stowed the sourdough in her shoulder bag, nestled on top of her healer’s robes, and lifted the load from his arms.
“Yep. A bit.” The man retreated, much as the baker’s assistant had done. Now that the door stood ajar, the scents of bleach and blood mingled in the air, and Agna found herself recalling visceral memories of operating theaters. Only one other kind of building smelled like that: a butcher’s shop.
“There’s a butcher’s shop a few doors down from the bakery, you know. I’ve gotten things there plenty of times, they’re fine. You don’t have to come all the way out here.”
Keifon’s hand tightened around the coins he’d counted out. “They won’t sell to me. Not for this.”
“What?”
“Look, they’re allowed to decide—” He tugged at the edge of the sack of bread to take it from her, but Agna held firm as her outrage grew.
“And does everyone know about this? That they won’t serve Yanweians?”
“Ssshhh! No, no, of course not. Please — please don’t yell. I’ve shopped there before too, for us. They just don’t want to… you know, give anything away.”
“You’re paying for it!” Agna jabbed an elbow at his handful of money, since her hands were occupied. One of the rolls jarred loose and tumbled over on top of the pile, and she steadied it. “And why are we sneaking around to the side door anyway?”
“It’s—” He stepped back as though he’d intended to pace, constrained by the narrow alley. “I thought I could just show you. All right? You’ll understand. Just — please trust me. A little bit longer.”
Agna drew a sigh, though the bleach fumes stung her throat. “Sorry.” She’d lose her grip on the bag if she let go for too long, so she stepped close enough to rest her shoulder against his arm. As if by reflex, Keifon put his arm around her shoulders. He’d begun to relax, though Agna could hear the metal-on-metal slide as he rubbed the copper coins against one another in his palm.
“I trust you, Kei. And I was excited to come out with you this morning. I just… guessed wrong about where we were going, and I was confused. I’ll wait and see.” And stop guessing, trying to figure everything out. That was the tricky part — letting things happen. He’d let her into a piece of his routine that she hadn’t seen before, and she could try to return his trust.
Keifon slipped away when the butcher opened the door, and accepted a hefty package, wrapped in paper and twine, in return for the handful of coins. “Thank you so much.”
The butcher slipped the coins into an unseen pocket in the back of his belt. “Mostly poultry, like usual, but we had some pork too this time.”
“Whatever you can spare. I appreciate it.”
“Thanks for your good work, Doctor. See you.” Flicking a
nervous glance at Agna, the butcher nodded and shut the door.
Scraps from the butcher’s — for the kittens? They were already fed, their diet incorporated into Agna and Keifon’s daily rounds of shopping. But she’d promised to stop guessing.
“Hey, can I take that back now?”
“Fine.” Agna surrendered the sack of bread and pulled the butcher’s bundle from Keifon’s hands while he was distracted with settling his load. It was a larger package than she would have expected for so little money, even in pet-food scraps. Soup bones? They’d just made soup yesterday. She was guessing again.
“All right, this is the longest part of the walk. Still feel up to it?”
“Yes, sir! Lead the way.” She knew better than to parody an Army-style salute at him, so she only sounded like an eager apprentice. He took the joke well, in any case, and squeezed past her to lead her out of the alley.
The sunlight had strengthened, but the full heat of the day had not yet taken hold. Agna and Keifon dodged the foot traffic between the shops and passed into the residential part of this neighborhood, where Agna noticed a few people hanging up laundry on balconies and rooftops. Keifon turned onto Lock Lane, the street that rolled slantwise through a few neighborhoods, passing near the Benevolent Union base and the construction site of the new Tufarian church, before ending at the canal. A low, grinding sound growled in the distance, and Agna felt the vibration through her feet.
Agna settled into step beside her friend, who slowed his pace as they reached a stretch of walkway shaded by trees. Nine hours on shift today, then heating up some soup and sourdough for dinner, before she headed out to shop for paint for the gallery walls. Then letter-writing, if she could keep the kittens from chewing on the quills this time, before bed. A letter from her father waited for an answer, as well as two from Kaveran painters. Keifon’s shift was offset by an hour from hers this week; he’d be gone by the time she got home, and she’d catch him at the end of his shift only by cutting into her own sleep. This morning was their best opportunity to spend time together. Agna smiled to herself as they walked. More than enough reason to get up early. Keifon yawned, and Agna stifled her own.
The Healers' Home Page 12
