Page 7

T he lumber, tiles, and other supplies came in piecemeal over the next few days.

Showers came and went, then the sky cleared entirely.

When it did, Viv and Cal repaired the hole in the roof, shucking old tiles down through the gap to shatter on the floor.

She was surprised at how many of the timbers they had to take up to mend it fully.

Cal was just as methodical and mindful about the repair work as she’d hoped. It was a hard two days of labor for the both of them, but the roof was fully proof against water again.

Next, Cal examined the interior, sounding the boards with a knuckle and several times digging a fistful of dry-rotten wood out and shaking his head at it.

After four days of prying out old timber and nailing in fresh, Viv started to wonder if they might have been better off rebuilding the whole damn thing.

She rented the cart from the miller again to haul away the debris.

They built a permanent and sturdier ladder into the loft. Viv was a fast study and a reasonable hand with a hammer and nails. Accurately slinging a slab of metal and striking a target was squarely within the realm of her abilities.

When Cal first clambered into the loft and spied Blackblood glimmering darkly in the corner, he made no comment on it. “Cozy,” he said instead. “Be wantin’ a bed and dresser, no doubt.”

“No need,” said Viv. “I’m used to sleeping rough.”

“Used to ain’t the same as ought to.” But he pressed no further, and that was that.

In the main stable area, they did as Cal had suggested, cutting down the stall walls and converting each into a sort of booth. The hob boxed in neat U-benches along the interiors. They pre-assembled tabletops, and Viv easily orc-handled them into place across trestles.

Viv cut two high windows into the northern and eastern walls, letting the morning sun crawl down from the loft and into the new dining area.

They sanded the office counter and added a hinged extension to the end for extra workspace.

Cal repurposed some old tack shelves and moved them to the back wall of what Viv now thought of as the storefront.

He also managed to replace some cracked panes in the mullioned front window next to the smaller door.

“Well, doesn’t look much like a stable anymore,” observed Viv, watching him fit in the last bit of glass.

“Hm. Mighty pleased it quit smellin’ like one too.”

* * *

One afternoon, Viv returned from the cooper with a water barrel on one shoulder and a few buckets in hand. She tucked the barrel in the corner, back of the counter. She drew water from the well a few blocks down, and Cal checked for leaks as she filled it.

They converted the backroom of the office into a pantry with more shelves. Viv consulted her notes and excavated a pit that she insulated with clay for cold storage. Cal added a neat, hinged door.

Viv did the ladder-work of whitewashing the front, while Cal re-chinked mortar between the river stones low on the walls.

When she strode back inside, arming sweat from her forehead and hauling the whitewash bucket, she found him inspecting the flagstones, checking the sand between. Her eyes went to the resting place of the Scalvert’s Stone, and she had to keep herself from rushing forward to interrupt.

“Anything need doing there?” she asked, trying to sound brisk and natural about it. What if he found the Stone? Would he recognize it? And so what if he did? It was fair to say she trusted Cal.

And yet.

He looked up. “Hm. Maybe a little more sand. This one’s loose. Might should take it up and pack some underneath.” He stomped on the flag she’d buried the Stone under, and her heart leapt.

“I’ll take care of it,” she said, and her smile felt entirely false.

Cal didn’t seem to notice.

“Hm,” he said.

And that was that.

Later that evening—after glances up and down the street to reassure herself that the man with the hat wasn’t peering in at her—Viv did take up the flagstone.

She removed the Scalvert’s Stone and held it in her hand.

Warm to the touch, it almost seemed to have a lambent yellow glow, independent of the light of the lantern.

Replacing it with care, she scooped fistfuls of dirt to re-level the flagstone and smoothed sand into the crevices again.

That night she dreamed of the Scalvert Queen, but when she drove her hand into its skull to remove the stone, its flesh drew tight around her wrist. As she tried to withdraw her fist, she couldn’t, and the flesh firmed, and the scalvert’s many eyes ignited one by one, like signal fires in the dark.

Her efforts to free herself grew increasingly frantic, until she startled awake.

The nerves in her right arm were alight, her hand tingling with pins and needles.

After lying awake for some time, she finally slept again, and by morning, she’d forgotten the dream.

* * *

Days passed in a haze of hot work, aching muscles, slivers, dust, and the smells of sweat and lime and fresh-cut wood.

At the end of two weeks, the place looked downright respectable. Viv found herself out in the street a few times a day, hands on her hips, surveying the shop with a rising, warm sense of accomplishment.

On one of these occasions, she was startled to find Laney suddenly beside her. The woman used her broom as a walking stick, leaning her weight on it. Viv had no idea how she’d arrived so silently.

“Well. Fanciest livery I’ve ever seen,” Laney said, then nodded, and went back to her porch.

Unsure why she hadn’t done it sooner, Viv set up the ladder and tore down the old Parkin’s Livery sign, tossing it into the rubbish pile with real satisfaction.

* * *

“Goin’ to need a new sign,” said Cal, his thumbs hooked into the waist of his breeches, staring up at the vacant iron bracket.

“You know,” said Viv. “I took a lot of notes. Figured I’d covered most details. But I never really thought about a sign. Or a name.” She looked down at Cal. “Just never crossed my mind.”

It was quiet for a minute, then Cal cleared his throat, and in the most hesitant voice she’d ever heard from him, he ventured, “Viv’s Place?”

“Good as any, I suppose,” she replied. “I don’t have a better idea.”

He didn’t look satisfied.

“Hm. Maybe… maybe… Viv’s Coffee?”

“I’ll be honest, feels strange having my name on anything. Like putting your own face on the sign.”

A pause.

“Could just say Coffee I s’pose. Don’t ’spect there’ll be a lot of confusion.”

Viv squinted hard at him and thought he’d outlast her, but then his mouth quirked at the corner.

“I figure I’ll table it for now,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll name it after you. Calamity Coffee has a nice sound to it.”

Cal regarded her, sniffed, and then said solemnly, “Well. You’re not wrong.”

* * *

Later that week, the bulk of the construction was complete. They built a big trestle table, and benches ran between the booths. She and Cal stained and oiled them all, swept the floors clean, and set glass in the new high windows.

Viv hoisted a chandelier and secured it to a bolt-plate Cal set into the wall. As evening drew on, they lit it with a long taper, both pleased with the glow it cast, the ring-shadow pulsing below.

At the table, with Viv’s notes between them, they discussed some of the finer points of furnishings and rugs and maybe some reeds to freshen the smell of the place.

They both halted their conversation at once.

In the doorway stood the man in the hat, with company to boot.

They were less well-dressed, a motley assortment of men—two humans and a dwarf with a cropped beard and clubbed-back hair.

Viv saw at least two short-swords and would have wagered there were at least six knives between them, in one cuff or another.

“Wondered when you’d stop back by,” said Viv. She didn’t bother to rise.

“I’m flattered to have occupied your thoughts,” the man said, stepping across the threshold and surveying the renovations with an appreciative nod. “You’ve been mightily industrious! The old place never looked better. Seems you won’t be in the business of horseflesh though.”

Viv shrugged.

His smile from the last visit might never have lapsed in all the intervening days.

“Look, I enjoy a witty back and forth as much as the next man, but I sense you appreciate directness. I’m merely a representative.

My friends call me Lack. You can, too. This street—this entire southern quarter—is under the watchful and beneficent eye of the Madrigal.

” He sketched a bow, as though the Madrigal himself were here to see it.

“You think I need a watchful eye?” Viv’s brows rose.

“We all need someone to watch out for us,” replied Lack.

“This is the part where you let me know about the monthly involuntary donation for… what did you call it? A ‘beneficent eye?’”

Lack cocked a finger at her, and his smile widened.

“Well, you’ve said your piece.” Viv casually dismissed him by returning to the study of her notes. Cal hadn’t budged an inch during the entire exchange, his face rigid.

Lack’s voice developed an annoyed edge. “I’ll expect your contribution end of the month. One sovereign, two silvers is the going rate.”

“What you expect is your business.” Viv’s reply was mild.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the heavies behind Lack make a move to approach—which would have been a laughable mistake—but he stopped them with a gesture.

There was a heavy silence while Viv waited for a rebuttal.

Then Lack and his crew were gone.

Cal let out a long breath and shot her a worried glance. “Listen. You don’t want to run afoul of the Madrigal,” he said in a soft voice. When the hob normally spoke, it was always even and solid, like he was laying brick. The change in him made her look at him seriously.