Ink & Paper

Excerpt

The shop was blissfully quiet.

It had been a busy day, even more so than usual, and the current state of the shop showed that.

Nor was it quite closing time, though it was close enough that his stepfather had permitted him to begin cleaning the place up. A half hour more and he would finally be completely alone. Every now and then he could hear the rumble of voices, as his stepfather and stepbrothers discussed the day’s business, profits and losses, the various customers.

The smell of food wafted out, making his stomach growl, but he knew better than to ask if he might share a bite. Once they left, and the store was clean, he would slip out to find some food of his own.

Until then, he cleaned.

First the inks—bottle after bottle, in a variety of colors and types. As he rearranged them, he jotted down notes as to what would have to be pulled from the backroom stock later. He dare not do it now; his stepfather detested being interrupted in any way when he was doing the counting—and seeing his bothersome stepson counted as an interruption.

He hummed softly while he worked, moving from inks to papers, then on to the quills and penknives, to writing cases and all the other miscellany which filled the little shop his mother had bought years and years ago—and which now belonged to his stepfather, something which still hurt.

At least his stepfather had not simply kicked him out, as he had feared would be the case. The shop would never be his now, as he had always hoped and thought, but he still worked there.

If only as a shop boy, and not a proper clerk…

Sighing, he pushed his morose thoughts aside and went back to dusting and polishing, and slowly the humming returned, bringing a soft smile to his face.

A dark auburn curl slipped free of the bit of leather he’d used to bind it back, and he pushed it impatiently away as he carefully cleaned the glass cases which held the finest of the shop’s offerings.

Outside it was a quiet night, in complete contrast to the bustling day. The street lamps had been lit only a little while ago, and one stood almost right in front of the shop, casting a warm orange-yellow glow through the large front window.

Finished with the outside of the glass cases, he carefully opened up the first and began to clean the inside, pulling out a soft cloth to tend the ornate penknives that all cost more than he would earn in even five years.

The faint tinkling of the bell drew his attention, immediately making him equal parts anxious and excited.

Anxious because he was not a clerk, and his stepfather had forbidden him to tend customers. He was not, according to his stepfather, of a suitable nature for such important and vital mark.

Excited because his mother had let him take up clerk duties, and he had loved it dearly.

Though, even he would concede he was not at his best at the moment. He was only in his shirtsleeves, and those rolled up past his elbows, the shirt and his breeches, stockings, and shoes all old, faded, worn—perfectly suitable for fetching stock and running unglamorous errands, but not for being a clerk in such a classy and reputable shop.

Never mind his hair and the fact he was probably covered in ink stains.

“You’re out late,” he said, smiling a warm welcome. “Is there something with which I can help you?”

The man smiled a bit sheepishly. “I suppose I am out a bit late for buying paper.”

“Not at all. You actually picked the perfect time, my lord.” He did not know the man was nobility, but he had that air about him—and the expense. Though unassuming and simple, his clothes were clearly expensive—fine fabrics, exquisite tailoring. The evening jacket was a deep peacock blue, set off all the more by the black breeches, and hair the color of shop’s costliest blue-black inks. It was unfashionably short, but looked good that way. Just long enough to comb fingers through, take hold of.

He caught the direction of his thoughts and shook himself sternly. “It’s only recently quieted down; if you had come any sooner, you would have been packed in here like a sardine. What did you need, that brought you out at so late an hour?”

“Ink,” the man replied, gazing over the wall of inks on offer, mouth quirking in amusement. “I was told this was the best possible place to come, and I can already see that the advice was sound.”

He flushed with pleasure, for the inks had always been his favorite, and his specialty, and he always kept up with the newest types, colors, brands. Even his stepfather did not take away that duty. “We do our best to please, my lord.”

“Rem,” the man said, smiling. “My name is Rem, please. You are…?”

“Oh, uh. Enitan, my lord. Rem, I mean.”

“Enitan,” Rem said. “I’m looking for a fine set of colored inks. They must be able to hold up to extensive travel, they are for letters I intend to send to friends across the sea.”

“Of course,” Enitan replied, and closed the glass case he realized he still had open. Picking up his cleaning cloths, he moved behind the counters and tucked them away, then looped around the room to the side which held all the inks.

Bustling about with familiar ease, he began to pull down several bottles. “Did you have a cost limit?”

“No,” Rem replied. “Cost is inconsequential.”

Definitely a lord, then. Not even a wealthy merchant ever dismissed cost as ‘inconsequential.’ The request to use his name had thrown Enitan briefly, for nobility was never so casual, but the money removed all doubt.

Which just made it stranger, for normally a noble simply sent a servant or such to do the shopping.

Well, it made no difference, in the end.

He finished setting out a wide assortment, and as Rem drew close, began to explain all of them, the various plusses and minuses of each.

Rem nodded and asked several questions, arguing congenially, and slowly they whittled the selections down.

They seemed close to settling on a few when movement caught the corner of his eye, and he drifted off in sudden horror as he realized he had forgotten entirely about his stepfather—who, sure enough, had a dangerous glint in his eye.

His voice, when he spoke, was seemingly friendly but Enitan could hear the warning in it. “You did not tell me we had a customer. I believe the stockroom is still awaiting your attention.”

Flushing in humiliation, because his stepfather had no reason but a mean streak to reprimand him and put him down in front of Rem. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly, not able to bring himself to look at Rem as he turned away.

A hand over his stopped him.

“We are nearly finished,” Rem said congenially, but even Enitan’s stepfather drew up short at the underlying steel in his voice. “Please, you look as though you were about to depart for the evening. You do not need to stay on my account. Enitan is wonderfully helpful.”

“Yes, my lord.” Though he was obviously furious, Enitan’s stepfather only nodded to Rem, shot Enitan a look that promised there would be suffering come the morning, and returned to the backrooms of the shop.

Enitan looked at the hand still covering his own, then at the ink bottles still on the counter. “I apologize, my lord.”

The hand over his pressed gently, then slid slowly away. “Not at all,” Rem said smoothly. “Now, I believe we were about settled on this set.” He indicated the cluster of inks between them. “There is only one more I would like to discuss…”

“Which is that?” Enitan asked, confused. They had debated every color on the counter, unless he was mistaken, and he knew he was not.

Rem smiled and reached across the counter to gently cup Enitan’s face, rubbing a thumb over his cheek. “This lovely shade here.”

Enitan flushed and jerked away. So he had managed to smudge ink on himself. “I’m afraid there is never any telling which ones I wind up wearing,” he finally said, staring hard at the counter.

“An excellent black ink, I should think. Deep hints of blue and violet.” He gave a mock pout that was still remarkably pretty and devastating. “Do you not have a mirror? I should like to have it.”

Sensing he was being mocked, crushed because Rem had seen nicer than that, he moved around the counters to where he knew Clement kept a small pocket mirror. Taking it up, he examined the smudge on his cheek.

Recalling all he had cleaned and sorted, it took only a moment’s thought to determine which it was, and a couple of minutes later he presented a bottle of ink made from deep violet glass. “One of our very best,” he said, not able to meet Rem’s eyes. “You have excellent taste.”

A hand cupped his face again, forcing him to look up into eyes that were, he realized suddenly, nearly the same shade as Rem’s jacket. How had he not noticed them before? “I like to think so,” he replied.