The clock towers scattered throughout the city rang out the hour in perfect synchronization. As he listened to the six chimes echo off the tall buildings, he rose and started back across the city to the River Grace. Rosy was becoming rather adept at baking—which in itself was surprising, as he suspected the girl never set a toe on the floor of a kitchen before the night Tempest dropped them off in the Matron’s care. It was a more useful skill than any of the ones he possessed; there were dozens of pastry shops and bakeries scattered all throughout the city, many of which were willing to take on apprentices.
Not full-grown men with ill-defined pasts and no one to vouch for them, however. The people of Iona were an insular bunch, it seemed, and although Matron Wessli wrote him a lovely letter explaining his ‘bittersweet circumstances’ of ‘raising his dead brother’s daughter’, it wasn’t enough to garner him more than a few day’s work helping the owner of the place rearrange supplies or carry in heavier loads of sundries.
A shrill whistle caused him to start, then seek its source. Expecting to be run over by one of the pedal carts for meandering down the center of the street, he instead spotted a familiar pair of blue eyes and black hair leaning over the decorative railing keeping several small tables isolated from the main thoroughfare. Clad in a low-cut bustier and trousers so tight they may as well have been painted on, Carrigan waved to him with a sultry smirk.
“Oi, sexy, I want your company!” The grin only grew wider as her assets drew the eye of every man walking down the street. “I’ll buy you a drink if you let me sit on your lap!”
He eyed the sign over the business with a frown. Every shop in the city had a particular symbol for what it sold, and the one denoting alcohol was nowhere on it. It was a bakery, according to the oven symbol, with a kettle signaling it also served hot drinks like teas and coffees.
With a groan, he crossed the street to stand before the woman. “What is it you want?”
Carrigan shrugged and pulled a chair from beneath the round table. “I told you already. To sit on your lap. And you’re the prettiest face on the street right now that I’m certain is single.”
He sighed and walked around the railing to take the seat she offered. With a smug smile, she slid her own chair right next to his and sat down. “So, how have things been? I haven’t heard the shrieking of a plucked gull in a few weeks.”
“Rosy is as well as can be expected.” Frowning, he glanced down the street he’d intended to return to the boarding home by. “I’m unsure of what else to do for her, though. She helps the Matron with chores, but otherwise, she just sits and stares at walls or curtains.”
The woman’s face lost its haughtiness. “Everyone she cared for is either dead, or she’ll likely never see them again. It’s not something that goes away just because you buy her pretty dresses and a nice journal.” She leaned back on her chair. “Have you tried taking her out anywhere?”
It embarrassed him more than he wanted to let on that it was the first time he considered it. “Out? Where, exactly?”
Rolling her eyes, she flung her hand towards the shop before them, where a queue waiting for drinks and pastries wound out of the front door and was several dozen people deep. “They do serve children in places like these, you know. And they make a delicious cocoa, with the same chocolate that I fed to the boy.”
“What the siren’s shiny tits are you doing here?”
His head snapped around to see Tempest standing at the table, two steaming cups of coffee on porcelain saucers in her hands. He immediately shuffled to his feet, nearly sending his chair spilling out into the street. Carrigan caught it with the toe of her boot and brought it back beneath his rear as the airship captain sat in the chair across from the both of them.
“I apologize. I was returning to the house when Carrigan caught my attention.”
Tempest pushed a cup and saucer of coffee to her companion with a scowl. “You can’t help yourself, can you.”
As Carrigan latched onto his belt, Riordan was forced to sit down before she deprived him of his pants. With a chuckle, she scooted her own chair back to its original spot. “He’s just so shiny and new. And wonderfully handsome when he gets flustered. Did you know, he’s not taken Rosy anywhere since they got here? She’s been cooped up with that grumpy granny all this time.”
“Are you serious? Nowhere?” The captain stared at him. “I bring you here, a place you probably never dreamed of seeing, and there’s absolutely nothing fun you can find to do with the kid to try and cheer her up?”
He felt his face warm with a new wave of humiliation. “Fun and dreaming are never at the top of my mind. It’s always food and defense.”
Her expression shifted, taking on a strange, almost familiar melancholy. After staring at him for several moments, she sighed and rose to her feet, then disappeared into the throng of people going to and from the counter inside the shop.
Loudly sipping her coffee, the pirate watched her go, then eyed him over the lip of her cup. “Food and defense, hmm?”
Sitting in silence, with one eye on the crowd and the other on Carrigan, he shook his head and marveled at his own stupidity. It never even occurred to him to bring Rosy along as he wandered the city. He could trust she was reasonably safe where she was, whereas he had no idea of what kind of dangers lurked in the places he knew nothing about. Even after getting a reasonable idea of where everything was, and which areas of the city to avoid, he was focused on finding places to possibly work, not taking a child sightseeing.
Carrigan gave a heavy sigh and set her cup down. “Ever consider living, instead of merely surviving?”
The last words of Princess Sileas echoed, quiet and haunting, at the back of his mind. “Not in a very long time.”
Drawing her finger around the rim of her cup, she hummed in disapproval. “You’re still young, you know. You’ve decades until you die, if you’re wise. And yet, you wallow in your own misery like a clownfish huddling in its anemone, letting its tentacles swallow you and slap everyone else away.”
He had no idea what either thing was, but it sounded an apt description. “It’s no more than I deserve.”
Brows arched in curiosity, she leaned forward, propping both elbows on the table. “Is that so.”
Tempest emerged from the crowd, a black mug held high above the heads around her. She was taller than every woman around, but she still needed to weave through the wide-brimmed hats of the men. Reaching their table, she placed the mug in front of him, then sat down and sipped her own coffee.
Riordan hovered his face over the mug and sniffed at the steam. It smelled rich and somewhat bitter, the deep brown liquid reminding him of the sort of clay potters used to spin plates. As he pondered whether it was cool enough to drink, the women went on with their conversation, ignoring his presence entirely.