The shopkeepers and café owners were always the first to rise, tottering to work on the fresh ice, their eyes blurry from sleep, whispering a wish for a prosperous day under their breaths. I crouched low, watching them throwing open painted shutters, the bang of them hitting the walls echoing through the alleys. The silence was shattered then, the bustle of preparation and light spilling from the shops as the scent of freshly baked bread and brewed coffee wafted through the air. It was during these hectic moments, as the sun peaked high in the sky, her dress of pinks and oranges trailing behind her, that I found food. Scavenging in the bins hastily placed out the back of shops, I found misshaped pastries filled with custard, pickled root vegetables and tart preserves. Everything turning, but fresh enough for my ravenous stomach.
I would scuttle back to the banks of the streams, hiding under a bridge as day truly broke, the sun sparkling over the trodden snow and icicles hanging from the balconies of houses. In comparison, the houses and shops gleamed, vivid and glaring with all their colours, a glittering attraction that was not soon to be left unattended.
The wealthy citizens of Elbridge soon descended, their sleighs a riot of new colour in the kicked up snow, furred and burly hounds speeding forward into the streets. Whatever quiet had remained was shattered now, calls of ‘hello’ snatched on the wind as they passed, the clatter of paws and heavy breathing as the hounds stopped outside shops at the crack of a whip. Sleighs were soon parked alongside kerbs, painted emblems shining in the morning sun as heaped forms alighted from them, bodies covered in furs of such smoothness and density that I longed to stroke my fingers down them. Eventually, not one bridge was free of a speeding sleigh passing over it; the streets were teeming with people promenading and roads became cluttered with hounds and sleighs.
Despite the bitter cold, they insisted on sitting on the wrought iron chairs and tables outside the cafés, sipping bright fuchsia tea that shot sparks into the air as it warmed their innards, their furs making them seem more like birds than people, with their tiny hands the only skin visible. They swung bags from their arms, noisily discussing rumours and throwing jests back and forth as easily as they did love notes.
Though they were fascinating to watch, it was not for those reasons that I felt paralysed before them, my eyes wide as I followed them from shop to shop. The same awe filled me as it always had as a child, when I would slink into the city centre with friends to watch, often under the same bridges I now took shelter beneath. Now though, it held a bitter ache, knowing that I would never know the secrets they did, that I would never realise my childhood dream of wielding magic.
For there it was, coming as easy to these citizens as spooning crushed petals into their tea did. It was not as easy to spot as I had thought when I was very young, before my trips into the city, but whether that was from the sheer volume of people or its subtle nature, I was still unsure.
My eyes were trained on their mouths, waiting for the tell-tale sign that they had wished, spoken longings and words out loud. Waiting for the flash of bright teeth, patterned and painted like everything else.
Our magic was subtle but it was no less powerful than the magic wielded in other countries, like the fire streamers of the North or the seer crystals of the South. The teeth we were given at our Floris ceremony were crafted solely for us, infused with magic to our needs, attributes we wished to wield. No one but the Floris Masters knew how they were made, the secret held close solely by them, but each set had a purpose. For the shopkeepers, it was wealth and for the theatre performers, it was success. For many of my own people, less wealthy and nearer the river, it was health or happiness. For the extremely wealthy, they could afford to have a set of teeth for each day, changing them to suit their needs: beauty, persuasion, humour. Any attribute could be distilled into a porcelain set of teeth, and those that would only have one pair all their lives chose carefully.
I had been planning to have fulfilment, to be happy with the circumstance I had been dealt. My mother had chosen the same at her Floris, though it seemed to have done her little good, considering the turn I had brought about in her life.
The wearer of the teeth had only to speak their wish, making their intentions clear, and it would come to pass. The wearer’s will, tongue and teeth working in unison, a trail of fine smoke rising from their mouths once the spell had been cast.
I watched with hungry eyes, keen for the flashes of patterned teeth and the smoke curling from them. Some whispered wishes into their furs, hiding their mouths shyly, while others were happy to flaunt their power, smoke trailing from them as if they smoked a cigar. For the shop owners, their wishes became a luck token, one they uttered each and every day, but for others they were a whim. I was never able to get close enough to truly watch them, to see what was artfully painted on their teeth or to hear the words they spoke, and my heart yearned for it. To see, to understand, might make the hollow ache in my chest loosen its grip on me, ever so slightly.
My days slipped by in a haze of hunger and cold, the hour of the day decided by when the citizens would all board their sleighs again and leave litter in their wake, quiet settling once more. I took to collecting scraps of paper, newspapers and flyers as I once had as a child. Back then, I had taken them home and my father had bound them together, giving me sticks of charcoal so that I might draw to my heart's content. Now they were only piles clutched in my fingers, often one escaping and fluttering down the road, but I gained the same pleasure from drawing as I had back then. I found the art came back to me easily, though it had been years since I had drawn anything more than scribbles to delight my sister. Now as then, I sketched the citizens I saw, heaped in furs with brocade and tassels hidden beneath, or their glamorous sleighs, each one a different shape, trying to outdo its neighbours with spectacle. My most favourite subject were teeth, imagining what different citizens held behind their lips, the thought tantalising.
I used stubs of charcoal discarded by other artists as they sketched the designs to be painted on newly opened shops, but when I found none, I scavenged for jams and sticky substances from bins. My work was rough due to the media I used, but it brought me pleasure and focus, two things that kept the chill away more than my few blankets ever did.
I had no mirror to see the change in me, my dulled horns and matted fur and hair. The way my clothing hung off my body or the healed pink gums of my mouth, but others saw. Others wondered why the weather had not taken me yet, disgusted glances shifting my way again and again as I risked moving closer and closer to draw them, to watch the smoke hinting at wishes spent. I grew more daring, feeling distant from myself and the danger I courted.
Hendrik's Tea Shop resided on the corner of the main thoroughfare, sticking out and apart from the other equally affluent shops that surrounded it. For many, a must-stop in their day due not only to the tea and cakes within, but the Cymone stream that coursed through the middle of the thoroughfare, dozens of bridges crossing over it at intervals. It was due to this stream that Hendrik's had dedicated the front of their shop to table and chairs, the large windows affording anyone within those seats a view of it and the traffic it attracted without being in the chill air. Many stopped to exclaim and marvel at the bright pink front, not painted with its wears as all the others were, but instead with women.
Due to the fact that it protruded into the street like no other shop, it afforded the sides of the shop to be seen, and both sides had been lavishly painted to draw the eye. Twin women, with their black skin and sleek fur, leaning forward in a provocative manner.
Their lush black hair curled around them, small, gold-tipped horns poking through and wreaths of flowers tangled in the locks. They wore little else but a thin shift, the likes of which were never seen in Elbridge, not even under bedclothes due to the intense cold. In their hands, they held glass teacups, steaming rising forth, clouds of it passing onto the front of the shop along with errant petals from their wreaths. They wore twin mischievous smiles, their eyebrows arched as if they
were hinting that they offered more than merely tea.
To call Hendrik's tea simply tea was a gross understatement in itself, one I had learned as a boy when my friends heeded the call of the shop's sirens, watching as customers sat at tables sipping the fragrant leaves and petals. Inside, we had seen couples reduced to tears while men stared wistfully into the bottoms of their drinks. Young ladies had been overcome with inspiration while others seethed in anger. In a way, the sirens’ expressions weren’t false; they did offer more than just tea, even if it did only come in a teapot.
They offered emotions.
Blends of leaves were curated to send the drinker through spins of several emotions or to simply revel in just one. All emotions were used, not only the pleasant ones, and for a price, anything could be found at Hendrik's, even the darker shades of our feelings.
It had been the painted sirens that had inspired me to be an artist in the first place, my first glimpse of those beauties capturing me. That had been until I realised that my family lacked the funds or connections to make that dream a reality, and that I was destined to follow in my father’s footsteps to become a fisherman, bringing in catch for the rest of the city. It was then that I stopped drawing and had ever since stayed away from Hendrik's and the yearning it would ignite in me. Now though, I had nothing to fear, for though I had no prospects, I had recaptured my art and the knowing eyes of the sirens could shame me no longer.
As usual, it was bustling, tickets being given out on the door for customers to come back at given times when seating was available. I wandered across the streets, ignoring the glances from sleigh drivers and hounds alike as I neared. People moved aside for me, holding their furs up close to their chests as if fearful they might catch some taint from me. I didn’t mind though as it meant that I could get closer to the window with my ripped pages held in my hand. I had found a stub of charcoal only that morning and carefully held it, beginning to draw, the snow settling on my hair and shoulders.
Life in the elements had made me bold, so I ignored the hushed mutters and dirty looks, focusing on the children sipping tea that made them cackle with delight, their mother watching with amusement. The sound of their mirth carried out through the door and I tried to fix their expression on the paper, charcoal blocking out the text beneath.
“Move along, filth!” someone behind me shouted, and a moment later, shoulders nudged into me, making the charcoal snap in my hands. Startled, I dropped it, bending to try and pick the remnants off the ground as a commotion within the shop began. The mother had noticed me watching and when I stood, I found that she was complaining loudly to the staff, everyone’s eyes, both those outside and within, upon me. I turned to flee, knowing no good could come of staying, but my way was blocked by the crowd waiting for a ticket to the café, and the staff were already gathering their cloaks to come outside and accost me.
“Step aside, step aside,” a voice rang out from the crowd as a tall man stepped forward. He approached me, his face hidden by the heavy black and white furs he wore, only his black boots visible.
“What have you got there, hmm?” he asked, stopping before me and taking my papers from my hands without leave. I struggled to find something to say, to temper the desire to snatch the papers and run, but it had been so many weeks since someone had addressed me or spoken to me with anything but hatred, and I wanted to see what he would say.
“You’re an artist, are you? Well, I can hardly see these scribbles in this damned snow,” he huffed, tilting his head so that he was peering down at me, his bright red eyes sparkling in his white face. “Come inside so that I may see them properly.”
Taking my arm, and undeterred by my rags, he turned towards the shop door where staff were waiting, their cloaks wrapped around them and unsure expressions on their faces. I expected them to bar the way, to refuse, but they meekly stepped aside, not even giving the man a ticket.
“Welcome Barnaby, your table is waiting as always.” A young lady smiled brightly, holding the door open for us. “Will your guest be visiting us also?”
It was the only hint they gave of their distaste of me being allowed inside, their manners and his obviously high wealth preventing them from refusing him his whim of having me take tea with him.
“Of course, why else would I bring him in here? Fetch us a menu; our friend here has no doubt never sampled the delights here and should like to choose.”
I was stunned by the audacity of this man, to calmly lead me to the window as if I was deserving of it, and that the angry, disgusted stares didn’t follow us. I was suddenly in the balmy warmth of the shop, aware of not only my stained and tattered clothing but my stench too. He shrugged off his furs, revealing himself to me properly as he sat at a table, a gilded sign upon it marking it as private. A member of staff came forward, sweeping his furs off the floor where he had cast them. They indicated towards my own tattered coat and blankets but I shook my head. They left for the cloak room, but not before placing the menu of teas on offer upon the table.
He was so unlike anyone I had met before, tall and thin with a grand demeanour that exuded wealth. His horns were tipped in silver and stained dark purple, the colours fading into each other. His jacket and breeches were paisley in hues of deep orange and yellow, dark green lines accenting them in the cuffs and collar. Gold buttons flashed and his boots were so shiny, they looked as if he had never worn them before. The ruff around his neck was dense and soft, his long hair falling over his shoulders to join it. The most striking feature about him was his face however, his long nose and bright eyes, both wise and youthful at once. He wore none of the rouge that many citizens powdered their cheeks with, nor the beauty marks they drew on with pencil, which made his white skin glow like the moon.
“So, what is your name?” he asked, tilting his head and crossing one leg over the other, his tail flicking back and forth behind him. He peered at me from over his gold spectacles, one eyebrow arched in curiosity.
“Angora,” I spoke finally after gathering my courage. I sat on the edge of the chair gingerly, afraid that I would be ordered to leave at any moment. “Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?”
“Ah, so you are polite, not bred on the streets then,” he grinned, flashing his bright green teeth, each one painted to look like dozens of piled fresh leaves. “I am Floris Master Barnaby.”
“Floris Master!” I squeaked, suddenly understanding the private table and the respect lavished over him despite his blatant disregard. He was one of the few that knew the secret to teeth, a craftsman of the highest regard beyond all others. He and the other few Floris Masters held Elbridge in the palms of their hands; there was nothing it wouldn’t do to please them.
“Yes, indeed. Here, select your tea, Angora,” he said, brushing off my amazement as though it was nothing and instead handing me the menu, his grin still in place.
I held it numbly, unable to stop staring at him in shock. He chuckled softly, taking my papers and spreading them out on the table. I cringed to think of the dirt touching the immaculate linen but forced myself to look down at the catalogue.
It was pale pink, the lettering gold foil that caught the light as I turned the pages, the emotions on offer sorted into sections. Ones to bring pleasure, ones for pain and the very sordid ones tucked away in a section at the back. The breadth of emotions on offer was dazzling, and if I was honest, overwhelming. No one else seemed to be having problems choosing, but then they had likely been raised visiting Hendrik's. For me, a boy always on the outside, it was too much, too glamorous, and I felt the urge to run boil up inside me again.
While we were absorbed in our tasks, the staff set the table, appearing carrying a glass tea set with shades of blue swirling through it. They placed a cup and saucer in front of us each, along with a plate and matching cake fork, the glass prongs so fine that they looked likely to snap. At home we used wood, durable and steadfast and resistant to the heat it carried. Here, the handles of the cups and cutlery were padded with brigh
t fabric, protecting fingers from the heat. Along with the tea set, they brought flowers, a gasp startling from my throat when they were placed where the private sign had been moments before. Flowers—like many delights here—were rare, imported from across the seas. I had seen the sugared, crushed petals used to sweeten the tea, knowing the expense the pleasure would cost the customer, but to have fresh flowers as solely decoration? I was transfixed by their delicate beauty, my shaking fingers reaching out to brush across the petals.
“Do you like them?” he asked, looking up from my drawings.
Mutely I nodded, tears rising to my eyes in the face of such elegance. They were bright bursts of orange, their centres hidden dunes of yellow and stalks a brash green. Small, white flowers gathered around their base and large rubbery leaves flopped over the glass vase that held them. Clearly, they were meant to match his attire, though the thoughtfulness seemed lost on him.
“Well, you can have them when we leave. Now, have you decided? We have much to talk about,” he spoke distractedly, not even giving the flowers a glance. I snorted, amused by the thought of me taking the flowers. Where would I put them, in my heap of rubbish?
A waiter lingered patiently beside us, though he was unable to prevent his lip from curling in disgust at me.
“I would like a hopeful brew please...” I whispered, unsure if he was truly going to buy me tea or laugh at me for being fooled.
“Good choice, I shall have the same. Do bring sugared petals and cream as well. Oh, and bring us a platter of each of your cakes that so we may try all the flavours,” he ordered, taking the menu from my hands and passing it to the waiter without even looking in his direction, his eyes instead fixed on my artwork that was spread before him.
Beneath a Bethel Page 3
