ofelia zhou deals in secrets. (![]() ![]() @ 2013-10-08 23:55:00 |
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He’d chosen eight o’clock in the morning for their meeting, and Ofelia bowed to the request as she always did. The client was not always right, but when they called her while harried and frazzled, coming apart at the seams, and she had no other conflicting appointments – well, why not? And when Ælfric Vaughan came a-knocking at her door, the investigator immediately straightened to attention. An upset, erratic nobleman with a large coinpurse was exactly what she needed this month. “Come in,” she said, and he came striding in. She took in the details at a glance: the lack of consistent shaving, the tunic that hadn’t been laced up quite all the way, the one stocking that was unfurling at the knee. The man was in a state. She could see his manservant’s shadow lurking outside the door as it shut behind him, standing patient and loyal guard. (What she wouldn’t do to afford a persistent bodyguard – hiring the Black Lions for a single engagement had already set her back more than desired, as necessary as it had turned out.) “Please, have a seat.” She motioned to the chair opposite her desk. Instead, he opted to keep pacing. “What’s the problem, mister Vaughan?” Ofelia tried again, as a gentle nudge. While Vaughan worked it out of his system, she started rummaging around in her drawer for a packet of herbal cigarettes. Finally, on his fifth pace of the room (which wasn’t all that large to begin with), he whirled around and faced the investigator. “It’s my daughter, Emmeline. She’s twenty-two and she’s missing.” “Oh? For how long?” “Twenty-six hours. The Knights of the Peace won’t look for her just yet, but I just know she’s been kidnapped. There’s been this man lurking outside our house the past few weeks – I kept seeing him waiting off in the bushes, and I told Geoffrey to look into it and roust him from the grounds, but they could never get a hold of him. It’s like he’d memorised our schedules. What do we pay security for?” “Can you describe him, please?” Her trusty notepad was out, and Ofelia scribbled down the details while the nobleman – and now client – ranted and raved. Somewhere along the way, he’d started pacing once again. She went for a walk. Ofelia knew a ribald gang of urchins just a street over from the Vaughan’s residence – the family was noble-born but had fallen on hard times within the last generation, slithering their way further down to rub elbows with merchants and self-made men, but Ælfric still wore his pride like a hard and brittle shield. The children were there, like they always were: a group of boys perched on the stone walls, kicking an inflated pig’s bladder around makeshift goals constructed out of random debris from the street and filched off carts. The woman stilled to watch their games for a minute – they were a far cry from her own high-stakes games, rolling with people who made and broke fortunes – before shaking her head and continuing. “Hullo, Joe!” one of them yelled. They’d latched onto the nickname as a slightly-mangled, simplified pronunciation of her surname; she didn’t mind. “Morning, Rog. I’ve some questions for you.” She settled on the side of the wall by the side of the road, still looking cool and coiffed, her hand already dipping into her purse. Their eyes seemed to light up at the money, but Roger took point with a serving of wariness and suspicion. “It’s not enough. We also want gysahl pickles. From the bazaar. It’s just not the same unless it’s from the bazaar. Did you bring any today? They’re fucking amazing fresh.” “Mind your language.” “Sorry, Joe.” She fished around in her bag, extracted a can labeled in the neat handwriting of the woman at the bazaar, and gently tossed it to the nearest urchin. The boy leapt in mid-air, deftly catching it above his head – their reflexes were stellar – and landed grinning from ear to ear. “Now. Can you tell me about the movements of Emmeline Vaughan? She’s a pretty redhead, about this high, lives in the merchant house down the block—” Two of the boys sniggered. “We know her, all right.” “Try the docks, Joe,” another added. “She caught a carriage that way yesterday morning. Bill here helped hail it for them, even.” “Them? She wasn’t alone, then?” “Naw. Big guy. Dumb face.” She handed over the money, kicked the ball with her right foot on her way out, and the boys scattered, chasing it. At the docks, the prices went up for information. The men lurking on the pier, puffing away at their cigars, evidently wouldn’t be impressed by a jar of pickled snacks. “Pretty redhead,” the investigator repeated patiently, drumming in each detail like with hammer and nail. “Mid-twenties. Came here with a man about her own age. If you’ve seen her, you can give me some indication, at least. I know it’s a sorry state of affairs down here–” (A sympathetic glance to some of the buildings that still hadn’t been repaired, a stinging remembrance of the sea-monster glimpsed far beneath Lucy’s wings.) “–but surely it’s not that bad just yet, that noblewomen can be whisked off to the docks and have their throats slit in broad daylight.” Finally, grudgingly, one of them spoke up. “Highly doubt anyone’s doing any throat-slitting, ma’am.” “Hm?” They exchanged a glance. “Might’ve seen someone like what you describe. They booked passage on a ship, last we saw of ‘em. Wouldn’t have noticed it otherwise but Faram’s balls, they were lugging around no end of luggage, tried to hire some of us to carry it. Wouldn’t’ve been surprised if someone mugged ‘em, but they seemed to make it out okay.” “Which ship?” “You’ll have to check the records for that.” Ah. The records. Well, that simultaneously made this easier and quite a bit harder. Ofelia flicked the dock worker a handful of gil – “a reward for being talkative” – and then turned on her heel and strode off down the street. No rest for the wicked: she couldn’t live off cleaning out casinos with Cian. It was a temporary indulgence, and so she needed to keep moving like a shark in still water, hunting the paycheck. And she knew exactly where to go next. |