Chương 46: Chapter 41 ~ A Dinner; A Dress (Part 2)

Wyohla did not linger at the bottom of the steps, just long enough for a brief glance over her shoulder, back up to Gysel, before she started off eastward along the cobbles, and into the mist, which had begun to take on the pinks and oranges of the sorbet sunset.

"Where are we going?" asked Gysel, as she hurried after.

"It's a place I like to go with Ardhy," answered Wyohla, as she pointed north with a gloved arm.

"It's that way. You will like it; it's nice and quiet."

"How often do you two go?"

"He and I usually go for food together on the full moons; it's how we met back in the capital, well... kind of."

"Kind of?" Wyohla did not answer, and started to cross the street with Gysel hurrying along behind her.

"How about we talk about this when we get to the restaurant? It's a long story, and I can tell it to you while we eat."

"Will I be able to order what I want?"

"Definitely, and the buns are made daily in-house."

"Are they not at Bwouker's?"

"No, they get them all from the bakery across the street." Wyohla came to stop on the south edge of a tall, four-story building, with an unsigned shop, shut and shuttered, on the ground floor, and a few lively apartments above (there was a window open on the third floor; it let out a warm orange light and an argument between a man and a woman: they were loudly discussing rent).

Curling sprigs held together old brown bricks in the places where the mortar was crumbling, and wrapped around the wrought iron baby balcony on the third floor. The streetlamps cast the shadows of Wyohla and Gysel against the glass, and down to the quarter-turn of the external basement stairs.

"It is closed," said Gysel; which might have been for the best, as one could certainly hear those two through the floor.

"Oh no, this is a suit store," answered Wyohla.

"The Cellar is this way."

"The Cellar?" asked Gysel; was the restaurant down the stairs? if it was, it was aptly named, but they usually put the seedy stores in the basements.

"Yes, The Cellar." Wyohla headed over to the basement stairs, but paused at the top and turned back to Gysel, leaning against the iron railing, which creaked and shifted under her weight.

"Thoranyn's best kept secret when it comes to food. Travelers never come this far away from the city center, so they never find out about it. If there are more than ten people here, I will be surprised."

"How did you find it?"

"The old man who used to own the suit store told Ardhy when he was trying to get a vest tailored."

"All right."

"Oh, it's better than alright." Wyohla pushed herself off the railing (which did not return to its previous position), and upon each stone step there was a thud as Wyohla descended the cellar stairs. Gysel followed, but paused at the top of the steps, and gave the railing a tug: it was stuck, so she headed down the dished steps with slow, careful steps, gripping the handle all the way (and unlike the railing, it was firmly attached to the large grey blocks of the wall).

Wyohla was waiting at the bottom, with one hand on the doorhandle, the other on her hip, and when Gysel got to the bottom, she pulled it open. The door was made of iron-banded oaken planks, and creaked with the scream of an owl, a sound that would terrify a wanderer in the mist, driving them back inside.

"You first," said Wyohla, ushering Gysel inside.

"Thank you." Gysel extended a foot through the threshold, but paused and stepped back, looking up at the white marble stone at the top of the doorway.

'471 EotTS' read the datestone above the door; serving both the purpose of a keystone, and as a reminder that a poor mason will be both thanked and despised long after death.

"Come on now, do your sight-seeing during the day. I'm pretty hungry." Wyohla poked Gysel in the rear with her knee, nudging her forward. Gysel stepped inside, and glared at Wyohla as she shut the door behind her; the touch was entirely unnecessary, as words would have sufficed.

The Cellar lived up to its name: cool and dank with damp stone walls, the right of which was decorated with the lids of old alcohol barrels; six large ale-tuns lined the back wall, and each had wooden stairs with iron railings leading up to the single doorway cut into the face; and to the left there was a bar, stocked and manned by a suited bartender with no one to tend to, and three doorways, one with a hinged gate, and two with iron-banded doors made from the tops of barrels; there were likely more mice in the Cellar than there were people.

"Don't give me that look. It's bad luck where I come from to stop in doorways then back out of them. You're either in, or you're out, and now that you're in: go to that large barrel, open it, and take a seat at the table inside. At that table for two in the far corner. I have to go to the lavatory." Wyohla pointed to the tun on the right side, then headed left, towards the lavatory.

"All right," said Gysel, and she shuffled off across the squeaking floorboards to the tun, not making eye contact with the bartender. Opening the door, she stepped into the tun, and shut the door behind her.

It was an interesting private room, and a very creative conversion: a level floor with a single step had been added a quarter of the way between the tun's bowed floor and ceiling; benches, upholstered with a maroon leather and brass studs sat on both sides with enough room to comfortably seat four to a side; in the center was a long table made from butchered barrel-tops held together by a brass band; it was barren save for a brass bell, and a large, half used candle sat inside a tall glass stein with a silver lid, and a box of matches leaning upon the side.

Oozing from the walls was a fruity and bready smell like Mother's apple-buns, if the scent was as suffocating as she was. Gysel sat down on the right-hand side, lit the candle, and waited: after a few minutes the door opened, and Wyohla entered.

"Have you ordered yet?" asked Wyohla, as she sat down.

"How am I supposed to order? I am sitting in a closed room made from an ale-tun." Wyohla flicked the bell on the table.

"Like this." There was a stamping, some cussing, and a click, then a piece of the tun's back wall opened, and a man's shiny, bald head appeared in the window. He was an older man with plump cheeks and a greying beard.

"Hello, Wyohla," he said with a gap-toothed smile.

"And?" He looked to Gysel and raised a bushy eyebrow. Gysel fidgeted with the upholstery rivets.

"That's Gysel," said Wyohla.

"Not very talkative is she." Wyohla sucked her teeth.

"Not very talkative."

"The usual?" the man asked.

"Of course, and Gysel wants cheese, egg, and beef on a bun... in that order, top down."

"Simple enough. Water?"

"Yes, two and a pitcher."

"Sounds good." And the window raised and shut, flush with the wall once more.

"Thank you," said Gysel with a slight smile; it was nice that Wyohla remembered the order, even if the eggs were supposed to be poached.

"You're very welcome. I figured I should know the order I always pay for." Wyohla shimmied from her coat, and set it down on the bench next to her. Gysel only nodded and removed her own coat. Sitting on her hands, she began to wait patiently for dinner as Wyohla rambled about dresses; how many she had, how she hated to wait while they are made, and how she struggled to put them on by herself, but after ten minutes, there was a knock on the window, and the blonde ceased babbling and flicked the bell.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. The window opened, and two plates of food, two tall silver steins of water, and a glass pitcher, tall and full, were passed through the window. Wyohla had ordered a steak of the size that Father would only order on very special occasions, as well as a large side of mashed potatoes, with cheese curds, onions, and butter mixed in. Cooked rare, the steak oozed as she cut into it.

Gysel's sandwich was as wide as the steak, and far larger than the ones at the Academy: the beef patty hung over the sides of the bottom bun, there were three eggs (not poached, but fried with the yolk broken), and the cheese had been generously grated on top. Gysel watched Wyohla intently as she raised a forkful of steak to her mouth, and the second the fork came out clean, Gysel asked: "How did you and Ardhy meet?" Wyohla raised her brows and snorted a laugh.

"Well," she started, covering her mouth as she chewed and swallowed.

"We met through his sister, Ylltsa, about three years ago, because I needed help with some sigil stuff."

Gysel began to eat while she listened: it was a very good sandwich, though, the patty did have onions and a hint of pepper in it, as well as some oats to hold the meat together, but this did mean that the patty had been mixed and made by hand (likely by someone with a lengthy criminal record who learnt how to make a lot with a little when on the run, or perhaps just a retired sailor trying to recreate jerky without the dryness), which was a welcome difference to the sandwiches served at the Academy and their hand-thin slabs of ground beef.

"She said her brother had experience with sigils," continued Wyohla, taking the occasional bite.

"So I told her to ask him if he could help me. We have been pretty close ever since."

"What did you need help with?" asked Gysel.

"What? Well," Wyohla paused, biting her lower lip with all her front teeth, and looking upwards.

"What was it again... I think... I think it was some sigil thing I had in my bedroom. It was this complex thing that I bought from some shady crone, and I couldn't quite get it working by myself, so I needed someone who actually knew how it worked."

"Did you get it to work?"

"Unfortunately not, we definitely tried though."

"What did it do?"

"Something stupid and gimmicky, I honestly don't remember."

"All right." Gysel finished off her sandwich, but Wyohla stayed silent; was that the end of the story? there has to be more than just that.

"Is that it?"

"It is; why, were you expecting more?"

"Just a bit."

"Well, I can tell you how I met his sister if that interests you more. It was a lot more exciting."

"All right."

"Well." Wyohla took a long sip of water, ate some of her mashed potatoes, took another sip, cleared her throat, and then waited another few seconds before continuing.

"It all started on the fifth of Lahnfvae, the Eleven-Hundred and Eighth year of the current era. It was raining, and I was rushing home to my apartment from the butcher's. Wrapped meat in one hand, umbrella in the other. But a large front-page illustration of this charred and disheveled girl and the headline reading 'Arson in the Countryside: Are the laws around who can practice alchemy too lax?' caught my eye.

So, I picked one up because I thought the girl on the cover was pretty cute—" Gysel pushed her plate away and buried her head in her arms, face beginning to flush—why, why, what is the point in bringing that up, a terrible way to embellish a story... but the dates do line up... and she did exclaim 'that was you!' upon first hearing the story, this must be what happens, how many new papers did they print, do people collect newspapers?

they must, someone must, hundreds of years from now, they will find that illustration wrapped around a long-dead relative's fine crystal glasses, and laugh, no wonder Father was so angry, the family name has been reduced to packing material.

"—and I read it while my dinner was cooking, quite the autodidact, if I do say. Anyways, there was an advertisement in the classified section reading, 'Looking for experienced ritualist to do scrying on my Daughter's sixteenth birthday on the tenth! Urgent, Highly Paid!' (Ylltsa is your age, by the way), and so, I wrote Ardhy's mother, offering my services as an experienced ritualist.

I got the job, and I've been really close with Ylltsa ever since, well until I moved, I haven't gotten any letters from her since, and it really annoys me.

"How was that? Did that meet your expectations?" Gysel grumbled from within the shelter of her sleeves: it did, but the exact date and the details of the paper's headline were not needed.

"I'll take that as a 'yes'. Do you want dessert or anything? Though," Wyohla paused, pushing her plate aside, and stood, leaning over the table, and spoke with a deep whisper into Gysel's left ear, "the dessert at the theater is better than it is here."

"No," said Gysel, and she flattened down the hairs on the back of her neck.

"Me neither; we need to get going anyway." Wyohla flicked the bell, the window opened, and she handed the man the dishes, a full king, and told him to keep the change. Once he was done thanking Wyohla with great gratitude and many a bow of his glistening head, Wyohla and Gysel left the Cellar.

"Best kept secret in Thoranyn?" asked Wyohla, as the two passed a man with a packed trunk smoking outside of the apartment stairs.

"It was unique," answered Gysel: the best kept secret was the little gazebo and its finches.

"I'll take that as a 'yes' as well." Wyohla picked up her pace, heading back in the direction they came.

"Now, come on, move your legs. I don't want to be late." Gysel hurried after Wyohla, back to the tailor's, and when they arrived, Wyohla took the steps two at a time and had her hand on the doorknob before both feet were on the landing.

"Well," Wyohla asked before she was fully through the door, while Gysel was still two steps below her, "did you get it done in time?"

"Yes," answered Lyma, who was hidden behind the sewing machine, and above her, hanging from a brass hook on the wall, was the dress.

"Excellent, now come on, Gysel." Wyohla motioned Gysel through the door, and once Gysel was inside, the door shut with a careless slam.

"I want to see you in this dress." Lyma stood, removed the dress from the hook, and walked out from behind the counter, heading to the changing room.

"You're waiting out here again, Wyohla," she said, as she opened the door and motioned for Gysel to come over.

"Fine," said Wyohla, "Fine." With a nod, Gysel padded after Lyma—it is exciting, this new dress, but the person receiving the gift should be more excited than the person giving the gift, should they not? —. Once the door was unlocked and the two entered, Lyma hung the dress from a hanger on the wall, and Gysel stood listlessly in the center of the room, looking at the paneling of the right wall. Walking past Gysel, Lyma shut the door, and locked Wyohla out.

"Let's get this on you," said Lyma, "I'm sure it won't take long." Facing the wall once more, Gysel removed her clothes down to the shift, and placed them in a semi-neat pile on the chair in the corner, then Lyma helped her into the dress, which did not take long at all, with half the time coming from doing up the laces that spanned most of the back. Giving the bow one last hearty tug, Lyma backed away, and asked: "What do you think?"

Gysel patted herself down, gave a few shimmies (no more than five, as this was the perfect amount to get it snug), and flapped her arms out beside her: the dress was an excellent fit, tight in all the right places, and loose around the shoulders (likely because of the ruffled fabric that resembled an unripe pumpkin), allowing for ease of movement, the only problem was that the skirt went down to just below the knees, while this was not a big deal; it would certainly be chilly and there was likely not enough time to return to the room '547' and retrieve any sort of stockings, or any socks longer than the simple ones currently worn that only climbed up the mid-calf, thus, leaving that section of the legs exposed to the mercy of the late autumn night winds, but at least the socks were brown, and complemented the green base and cream accents of the dress, unlike the boots, which were frankly, a stupid choice of footwear, and a horrific oversight on the part of the play-goer who did not take the time to think about what footwear would be acceptable in a venue akin to the Thoranyn Theater and Conservatory—at what point is it all right to decide that there were enough faults and miscalculations with an outfit to justify re-working it?

typically, the rule, in Operative Alchemy is that it depends on what the fault is, and what it will result in, if one adds a bit too much water, that will probably be all right, as it can be boiled off, but in the case of a vessel not being sealed, it is best to restart, or one is at risk of being injured, or worse, on the cover of many newspapers, boots and socks are certainly comparable to a bit too much water, as the worst outcome is cold knees—Gysel turned to Lyma, and answered: "I like it."

"Are you not going to look at it in the mirror?" asked Lyma.

"No," answered Gysel—no, no, no, Mother watches through the mirrors, and she judges, and she compares, and back straight, no, not like that, straight, be presentable, no, too rigid, straight, just relax, do not slouch, it ruins the form of the dress, get a stay, there, like that, stand like that, yes, it is supposed to be tight, no, the stay stays on, I cannot have my daughter slouching around in the presence of others, no, I will pick the color, yes, the neckline is supposed to be like that, just look in the mirror, just look at the dress, and look at yourself, no, no, no.

"If you don't look at it in the—""I said I liked it," said Gysel.

"I like the texture of it and that color. And it fits well. It is not too tight."

"Then... Then I'm glad you can like it without seeing it. That means I'm good at my job," said Lyma, as she headed to the door and unlocked it. Taking her clothes off the chair, Gysel draped them over her arm, and followed Lyma out of the changing room.

"I've got a good eye," said Wyohla, who had parked her rear against the counter.

"Don't I?"

"I am quite fond of it," answered Gysel. Wyohla made a swirling motion with a glove finger.

"Do a spin." That request was happily obliged.

"Looks great, you will be the prettiest at the theater. We need to get going; I have to change as well."

"All right," said Gysel, "I need to stop at the Academy and drop off my clothes."

"Leave your clothes with me, Gysel," said Lyma.

"I'll fold them and leave them on the common room table."

"Please do not forget," said Gysel, holding the clothes out; the only thing worse than not having, or even losing, that sweater would be the loss of Kawvel, it offered a comfort that was simply irreplaceable—a test, a test, a test of trust, she wanted to see Kawvel last maiden, and if she passes this, maybe, one day, she can—.

"I won't, so don't worry." Taking the clothes, Lyma set them on the counter. With a click, the silver kiss-lock of Wyohla's coin purse opened.

"How much is it?" she asked.

"Half-a-King," answered Lyma.

"Here." Wyohla produced the coin from the black leather purse, and handed it to Lyma.

"Thank you." Lyma set the coin on the counter, next to the clothes. Wyohla paused at the door, and turned around.

"Lyma, when are you finished?"

"Half an hour, why?" Lyma answered.

"Can you come back to my place with us, and help me get into my dress? I'll pay you for your time." Planting her hands on her hips, Lyma sucked her teeth and surveyed the store.

"Sure, but I want you to pay me for the whole half-hour; that way I can log that, and not have to come back."

"That's fine."

"I need five minutes to get everything closed for the night, then I'll meet you outside." Wyohla nodded and left.

"Do you want help?" asked Gysel.

"No, it will be quicker if I just do everything. So, just wait for me outside."

"All right." Gysel followed after Wyohla, but a cold gust of wind swept past just as she was stepping out of the door: the coat had been left in the pile of clothing. So, fully exiting onto the top step (nobody wants bad luck), she then turned back around, and entered the store once more.

"I need my coat."

"Oh, sure. Here." Lyma pulled the overcoat from the pile and brought it over to Gysel.

"Thank you." Gysel put the coat on, pulled it tight around her, and went to join Wyohla outside to wait.