Page 28 of Disenchanted
“Twinkles. It is what my people— er, ah… what the fey call gems. Or so I have heard,” he added hastily. “These are the green twinkles Julius acquired for his good lady.”
“Julius?” I echoed.
“Julius Upton,” the shopkeeper replied irritably. “Your father.”
“I know who my father was. But how did you know him?”
Withypole’s gaze shifted away from me. “I am sure lots of folks did, him being such a notable advocate, pleading cases before the king.”
“You have my father mixed up with someone else. He was never any sort of advocate.”
“He gave it up before you were born. Had to, didn’t he, after defending too many of the wrong sort of people.”
“What do you mean the wrong sort of people? Are you trying to tell me my father defended villains?”
“No, I mean representing the kind of people that the king didn’t want defended. Such clients do not make for a successful career as an advocate. Your father was better off out of it.”
My mind reeled from what Fugitate was telling me. I could hardly bring myself to believe it. My father had been such a quiet, reclusive man. I could not imagine him speaking before the king to defend anyone, let alone a person who had offended his majesty. It would have been such a defiant thing to do, and my passive father had never seemed the sort of man to take such risks. And yet I was troubled by my memory of him refusing to comply with the law that our auras be registered.
Could Withypole be speaking the truth? He sounded as though he had been well acquainted with my father, enough so that he referred to him as Julius and he recognized my mother’s emeralds. Had my father bought the earrings from Withypole? Was that how they knew each other? When my father had read to me out of the book of fairy lore, why had he never told me that he had met a real one?
I was bursting with questions, but Fugitate clammed up, refusing to tell me anything more.
“That’s all I know about your father,” he grumbled. “Now are you going to waste my entire afternoon or are we going to get down to business? How much would you want for these twink— these emeralds?”
I seethed with frustration, but it was clear I was not going to glean any more information from Withypole.
“I need at least eighty gold pieces.” I said.
“Eighty! What do you need such a sum as that for?”
I had been in Fugitate’s shop many times selling things. The transactions had all been brisk and businesslike. Never had he once given me a hint whether he had known my father or shown any interest in what I intended to do with my money. I was so taken aback by his demand that I answered him.
“I want to attend the royal ball.”
“You and every other silly girl.” He made an odd chuffing sound. “I would’ve thought Julius Upton’s daughter would have better sense. A royal ball to win the heart of Prince Florian? Bah! You would not want to win that prince, Miss Upton. Better to forget about the ball, better to stay away from the palace altogether.”
Only that morning, I would have heartily agreed with him. But that had been before my conversation with Imelda had forced me to reconsider.
“Nonetheless, I still need to buy those ball tickets, although it is more for my sisters than myself. As much as I appreciate your advice, Master Fugitate, it is not your concern how I spend my money. So how much will give me for the earrings?”
Withypole’s lower lip jutted out. He squirmed, but he reached for his jeweler’s glass to inspect the emeralds more closely. “I could perhaps offer you fifteen.”
“Fifteen! I won’t take a penny less than seventy-five.”
“Those earrings are very old-fashioned. I’ll probably have to take them apart and reset the gems to have any hope of selling them.”
The thought of my mother’s cherished earrings being broken apart made me ill. “You have never seemed to worry overmuch about making sales before,” I retorted.
“Times are hard, not enough customers these days. That is why I cannot afford to be too generous. I can maybe go as high as twenty.”
“They are worth at least seventy and you know it.”
“Twenty-five. Best I can do.”
“Sixty-five,” I snapped.
Back and forth we went, with me trying to press him as hard as Mal would have done, but this bargaining felt different from those previous negotiations. Withypole wanted those earrings. There was an acquisitive gleam in his eye when he looked at the emeralds and yet he seemed reluctant to buy them. He would start to reach for them, only to clamp his fingers about his own wrist and draw his hand back.
