Page 14 of The Storybook Hero
The glint of glass on the rough pine caught his bleary eye.
No wonder he felt like the devil. Although, he added to himself, usually it took more than one bottle to have that sort of effect. The Russian stuff must be stronger than French brandy or Jamaican rum, judging by the cottony feel in his throat and the abominable ache in his head.
Alex wished his valet was here. Squid always knew just the right concoction for getting him on his feet. He missed his man’s sunny chatter as well, which never failed to lighten his depressed mood on mornings such as these. His stomach gave a lurch, as much from the realization that of late, most every morning began this way as from the pangs of hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he had bothered to eat. With a grimace, he raked his fingers through his tangled locks and sought his razor.
A short while later, he stumbled down the narrow stairs, bag flung over his shoulder, and headed back down toward the Neva River. At a small shop close to the water’s edge he joined a crowd of laborers in purchasing a steaming cup of tea and a wedge of rye bread spread with plum preserves. The heavily sugared brew caused his lips to pucker, but the steaming brew made some inroads in settling the gnawing feeling inside him. Hunching over in the wooden chair he began to nibble at a corner of the bread as he contemplated his next move. Though the grimy window a sea of masts was visible above the peaked roofs. It shouldn’t be difficult to find a merchant ship heading back to London.
For an instant, a bit of crust nearly stuck in his throat, but he forced himself to swallow. What did it matter that he was slinking back, tail between his legs, without even making a try to accomplish his mission? Nobody really expected him to do otherwise.
He took another gulp of his tea.
The trouble was, what did he expect from himself?
Bolting down the rest of the bread, Alex took up his bag and shouldered his way out of the crowded room. He paused for a moment, watching a straggle of drunken sailors and burly laborers make their way through the fog toward the dockyards. But instead of following them, he turned abruptly and headed in the other direction, past the narrow canals and pastel buildings shimmering in the pale northern light.
Near the outskirts of the city, after numerous inquiries, Alex found the inn he was looking for. Cursing himself for a fool, he tossed his bag into the dark interior of a coach reeking of stale onions and cabbage. after a tiny hesitation, he climbed inside.
The cool,appraising stare would have been even more unnerving had not the eyes been those of a twelve-year-old. Still, Octavia couldn’t help but shift uncomfortably as she stood in front of the narrow desk.
The young girl laid down her pen and smoothed the sheet of paper on the polished wood. “Are you the latest one?” she inquired.
Octavia nodded. “I am Miss Hadley. And you are Emma?”
The girl’s nose wrinkled slightly in disgust. “Who else would I be?” she said, just loud enough for Octavia to hear. “I hope you will display more intelligence than that if I am to be forcedto listen to you for hours on end.” The tone made no attempt to hide what she thought of governesses in general—and the newest one in particular.
Octavia chose to ignore the deliberate rudeness. “May I sit down?”
Emma shrugged her thin shoulders.
Pulling up the only other chair in the attic chamber which had been turned into a makeshift schoolroom, Octavia sat opposite her new charge and cleared her throat. “Do I look to be so easily intimidated,” she asked lightly.
There was no reply as the girl picked up her pen and began to trace elaborate doodles in the margins of her writing.
She tried another tack. “As you say, Emma, we are going to be in each other’s company for a good part of the day, so I would hope that we might try to be friends.”
“Why bother?” shot back the girl. “You won’t be around any longer than the rest.”
“What makes you say that?”
Emma didn’t look up from her paper. “The others hated being in such a strange, place, with such different habits and speech. They said it was land fit only for hermits or madmen. All they wanted was to go back to their homes and families.” A pause. “You will, too.”
Octavia made a wry face. “Well, since I have neither, I rather doubt it.”
The scratching of the pen stopped. “Everyone has a family. They have to take you, whether they want to or not.”
“Not me, I’m afraid. I’ve already been given the boot by the only relatives I have. Not that it matters—I wouldn’t go back there for all the tea in China.”
Emma fidgeted in her chair. “What did you do?” she finally asked, not able to hide her curiosity.
“Let us say just that I … well, I had a disagreement with my cousin’s husband. A serious one.”
The girl thought on that for several moments. “I act disagreeably, but they’ve nowhere to send me. I guess they aren’t allowed to simply turn me out,” she said in a small voice.
A glimmer of understanding came to Octavia’s eye. “Aren’t you happy with your aunt and uncle.”
“They aren’t really my aunt and uncle, just distant relatives,” she answered quickly. “And they don’t want me here. I know that they don’t.”
Octavia made no attempt to foist any hollow platitudes about unconditional familial love on the child. “I know how you feel.”
