Page 11 of Bound and Tide

He grinned back, delighted in annoying her, not that it was rare for him to delight in anything. He delighted in watching her pour minuscule amounts of liquid from one vial to another, his head dropped level with hers, mouth open to interrupt at the crucial moment before her tincture overflowed. He delighted in sniffing whatever concoction she was cooking up with that upturned nose of his so he could tell her it smelled awful and then smirk at whatever new way she’d say, “Shut up.” And he delighted each day in finding an increasingly frustrating way of asking if she would take him to where the iccali mushrooms grew.

“My dearest Red, I implore you, allow today be the day you so graciously lead me on our quest.”

To which she, in turn, delighted in telling him, “No.”

A week went by, and the only benefit of his consistent visits was that Horace had come to the door once, assumed she had a customer, and left without venturing inside. She would never admit it to him, but his usefulness grew tenfold that day, which wasn’t much when it began at zero, but she stopped slamming the door on him after that.

One evening, only a few moments after her bothersome visitor had gone, she found herself wishing he’d return when Horace finally did waltz through the door.

“We’re closed.” Evangeline stuffed the ledgers she’d been updating back under the counter.

Horace neither smirked nor quipped back, a little less amiable than she expected. But he did take a longer look at the tinctures lining her walls. He was never so interested before. “Quite a lot of stock, Angie. You’ve been busy.”

She shrugged. “And I still am, so if there’s nothing I can do for you—”

“You know what you can do for me. Or rather, yourself.” Horace took a vial of adder’s bile off a high shelf. “All of our decisions come with consequences, Angie. Like this”—he dropped the glass, and it shattered on the floor—“means you have cleaning to do.”

“What the fuck, Horace?” Evangeline stood swiftly, her stool clattering to the ground behind her. Glass tinkled and then fell still, the liquid sizzling on the wooden floor, and she marched to the edge of her counter but stopped.

Horace had never broken something in her shop before. He never levied a genuine threat either, but then that had been what happened the last time he visited, hadn’t it? She glowered at the stain on the floor, swallowing back her sudden apprehension.

He only shrugged, taking long strides toward her. “Oops. Mistake.”

Back away, her instinct told her.

Stand your ground, her nerve replied.

“Mistakes can be avoided though, if we make the right choices.”

Knives out of reach, she clenched a fist around nothing, veins pulsing with the desire to swing. But the satisfaction of her fist meeting the bones of his face would not outweigh the consequences. If only she had a bit more of her mother’s arcana, but even at her best, Maisie hadn’t ever been a fighter.

“Something happened,” she said, the thought springing to mind before she could hold her tongue. “You’re in trouble.”

The way his brows lifted told her she was right.

“I haven’t seen any of your lackeys lately, and Ya’nni hasn’t come sniffing around either. Finally got arrested, didn’t he?” A smirk curled at her lip, too pleased to think of the elven mage who had almost broken into her shop rotting in prison and the Terrins losing their minions, unable to demand protection payments elsewhere in the city. “It’s your books that are going to be in question. That’s where you got that whole idea.”

“Just a bit of bad luck.” And then he was in front of her, hand on the counter, looming far too close. “It can happen to anyone, Angie.”

Evangeline bared her teeth, that name grating right up against her molars. He never said it with affection, even when he was trying to woo her in earnest years ago, and now it was so full of vitriol it could have burned an actual hole in the floor worse than the adder’s bile. “I’m asking you politely to leave,” she said, the request feeling anything but.

He didn’t move.

“Please,” she said, and as vile as the word tasted, it broke out of her feebly.

It was a lucky thing that Horace was so easily affected. Thrown from his bravado, he faltered with a smile he didn’t entirely mean. “Of course, Angie. It is after hours.” He cast a withered look at the mess he’d made, clearly reveling in his minor triumph, leaving the door wide open in his wake.

Evangeline stood under the frigid draft that swept in from the street. The cherry birches swayed, their leaves finally dropping though they’d held on as long as they could. Nothing could truly hold winter off, she supposed, but that only meant there was more work to do, but she couldn’t put Horace’s new rashness out of her mind, so she spent the evening and night bolstering the protection spells on the shop.

When the insufferable stranger showed up the next morning, Evangeline was so exhausted from a lack of sleep she almost smiled at him. Not because he was there! Great elven god, not for that reason at all. She was only still a little spooked, and the smell of cinnamon was soothing.

Evangeline made up for the almost-smile by being extra surly with him. The imbecile loved it, though she was unsurprised—she knew he would.

By lunchtime, they fell into their routine. She suggested chores, he balked, he requested aid, she refused. And then, as they were in the middle of a heated argument about the pronunciation of the herb “uphoyenne,” the shop door burst open.

“Evangeline!” The tanner’s young son, Gilbert, appeared in the doorway, his tiny frame gulping for air. “A boar gored Willie!”

Chapter 8

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