“Why is that disgusting? Doesn’t everyone do that?” He looked at me. “And don’t think for one moment I’m carrying either of those bags. What do you have in them? Stones?”
“Books,” said Bee scornfully. “Books, books, books.”
“Not a single one I am willing to part with,” I retorted.
Even had we trudged without the burden of books, Fox Close was quite a long way south and east across the city, close against the excise office and the customs embankment and near the quays. It was in a district inhabited by people who would not have been welcome to live in the houses around Falle Square: foreigners, radicals, technologists, and solicitors. The cocks had crowed by the time we staggered onto Enterprise Road, although the brilliant gaslamps lining the street—the very latest in design—still burned with a remarkable cheer that lifted my spirits and fed a flare of hope to my weary heart. Bee stared and stared, for there were a lot of trolls—and men, and a few goblins not yet burrowed into their daylight dens—coming and going into offices and coffeehouses and shops, all of which were already open and bustling, as if to make up for lost time after yesterday’s festival closings and the riots the day before.
“There is Fox Close,” I said, indicating a humble lane tucked away between a tavern and a coffeehouse but equally busy if one judged by the foot traffic pouring in and out of its throat.
As we made our way down the lane, the gaslights began to hiss and fail, but it was day’s arrival, not that of a cold mage, that shuttered them as the gas was turned off. Ahead, on the right side of the lane, hung a newly painted sign, visible in dawn’s light. The script painted on the sign was pin-perfect, orange letters shining against a feathery brown backdrop: GODWIK AND CLUTCH.
“I hope this works,” Bee muttered.
We hauled our bags up to the stoop and earned a few curious looks but no offers of help. I plied the knocker. We waited. Rory sighed, looking ready for a nap. I licked my lips, and then was sorry I had done so, for my lips were so dry and cracked that my tongue released a smear of blood. Bee adjusted the fit of her gloves on her fingers. I untangled my cane where it had gotten caught in a fold in my skirts.
The door opened, and a troll looked at us, cocking his head first to one side and then the other to get a good look with each eye. He wore a drab jacket that set off astonishing scarlet and blue and black plumage and crest, truly spectacular.
I found my voice from the pit where it had crawled in to hide. “May the day find you at peace,” I said, a little hoarsely. “My name is Catherine Hassi Barahal. This is my cousin, Beatrice, and my brother, Roderic. We’re here to see Chartji. The solicitor.”