Page 9 of Tales of a Monstrous Heart
‘This whole bloody mess is your fault. The least you could do is pay attention,’ she scolded. Her pupils taking on the horizontal slits of a prey animal, needing them to better sense the threats lingering here.
‘I thought you weren’t talking to me,’ I noted dryly. She’d slipped into silence despite her frenzied activity after the papers arrived, which only deepened when Master Hale’s orders came next.
‘I’m taking a reprieve to make certain you’re not getting any more reckless ideas.’ She straightened the sleeves of her dull maid’s dress, as her eyes darted accusingly around every inch of the office she didn’t want to be in.
‘What trouble could I get into in a portal office?’ I tried to smile in reassurance, but her glare only intensified, dark, bumpy scales of slate-grey becoming more prominent beneath the collar of her dress.
‘It wouldn’t surprise me.’ She slapped a crease out of her simple black cloak, my art folder and our meagre bags at her feet. ‘You should have let the bastard get soul-snatched.’
‘Alma!’ I hissed, glancing around to see if any of the clerks had heard her.
‘It’s what he deserves.’ She shrugged. I couldn’t argue with her there. I wasn’t in the business of wishing foul fates on people, but the spoiled brat deserved more than he’d got.
Alma quickly resumed her hawk-like watch of the room. Ignoring the messenger boys who hurried by and the glances they gave, almost stumbling over their own feet at the fierce, dark beauty of Alma that no drab maid’s uniform could dent.
‘The maids spread terrible rumours about Lord Blackthorn,’ she said quietly, oblivious to the commotion her mere presence had caused. ‘They say he killed his sister and that he was born of a witch’s curse.’
‘They say many things,’ I hedged, being slightly relieved they hadn’t said he was a lecher at least.
‘Apparently he doesn’t make appearances because he’s riddled with a rotting disease after the war,’ she continued, straightening the cuff of her dress. ‘He probably only has one tooth left in his head.’
‘Really, Alma. The rubbish you listen to.’ I sighed in an effort to resist asking just exactly what rotting disease they thought it was and just what dark entity had caused it. In Blackthorn’s line of work, the possibilities were endless.
‘Katherine Woodrow.’ My name echoed around the chamber. The scratching of quills stopped.
Clerk Roberts strode towards us, considering me over his small oval glasses, a stack of portal papers in his grasp.
‘Clerk Roberts, I hope you’re well.’ I bowed in greeting.
‘Well enough,’ he replied curtly, reaching up to straighten the collar of his maroon tunic. ‘Weren’t you causing chaos in the ruins last night? I’m certain that’s a removable offence.’
Of course he’d know about that. The whole Institute probably knew.
I ignored the remark, my smile sharp as I held out the papers. ‘I have my partnership papers.’
The old bastard reluctantly took them, his beady eyes growing wide as they drifted over the papers, once and then again. From his suddenly grey pallor, the papers were real.
Roberts’ eyes darted from the papers to my face, the edges of his glasses beginning to fog.
‘Is there a problem?’ I asked politely, ignoring his hateful gaze. ‘If you wish to summon Lord Blackthorn, I don’t mind waiting.’
He continued to glare, something working behind his eyes, building up to a familiar cutting insult. Master Hale’s whore … or maybe his bastard.
‘Does she need to repeat herself?’ The deep voice of Master Hale came from behind me, making the clerk nearly drop his papers in shock.
‘No, sir,’ Roberts grumbled as he bowed deeply, turning on his heel and snapping commands at the gate assistant perched on a low stool, awaiting instructions.
Hale hobbled closer, his breath laboured as his navy robes were buttoned up wrong and his cloak was in need of a good pressing.
‘Good morning, Alma,’ he greeted, laying a reassuring hand on Alma’s shoulder, which slumped in relief, colour filling her paled cheeks.
‘Good morning, Sir.’ She smiled.
His tired gaze came to me, a redness to his eyes. There was something distant about his expression, which worried me that his ailing mind was catching up to him.
‘Master Hale?’ I frowned in concern, wondering if he’d taken any of the healing draughts I’d made for him.
He shook his head as if to dismiss a dark thought with the weakest of smiles, and instead extended the large volume he had tucked under his arm, holding it out to me, a thick red ribbon tied around it like a gift. The roughness of the leather was familiar to me, as were the delicate spine and yellowed pages.
