Looking around the café while Avery took René up on the invitation to take anything he wanted from the tables of Halloween treats, he thought over everything he’d learned from his “council” as Madame Tuor had referred to the assembled group of those fully in his corner. “I’m sure you will shortly have Mr. Akerregi behind you as well.”
“And how is that?” Mr. Smith had asked, in what Henry had come to know as his professional calm. A tone that resembled only a casual interest in the subject but expected the details for the record, masking the urgency of his demand.
“We met earlier when I picked up an order for the ladies,” he’d answered. “And he… uh… hired me. I’m going back later to go over the details.”
Mr. Smith had the strangest reaction he’d personally witnessed and suspected had not been seen by anyone prior—rocking sideways in thought and then in the other, forehead creasing as his brows emulated both parts of a silent but animated internal debate. Whatever it was about, it was quickly settled. “While I have been hoping you would do something else with your time, I was hoping it would involve a culinary school. It’s not too late,” he’d said carefully.
“School costs money, and I need to make money. And Mr. Akerregi’s skills are amazing. I doubt there’s anything better than one-on-one instruction from someone of his caliber. I want to learn everything he’s willing to teach me,” Henry had explained to the squinting eyes and tight-line wincing not-smile of his father’s closest friend.
A strange, pained sound rumbled from the big man. “That is where my concern lies,” he said, then turning his attention to Madame Tuor. “Is this advisable? You know this… man well?”
Kika thumped the notebook she’d extended for their attention. It read, “Henry is an adult.”
“Henry is twenty. A very young adult as far as the Obvious go,” Mr. Smith argued.
“Henry is right here,” he’d put forth, glancing back and forth between them.
“I adore Mr. Akerregi,” Tuor said with finality.
“Oh,” Mr. Smith said, shoulders lowering a bit. “Oh?”
Henry had had to leave the conversation to pick up Avery, but he had many questions left unasked and even more now, as he took in the sights of Le Café de la Chèvre, as the sign reads. He wonders about the name and if René minded that everyone called it Goat’s instead. Does he call it Goat’s? Why did the original owner name it that? The sign was very old. Maybe it was just a matter of finding a cool antique sign? Madame Tuor has antiques… Did he get it from her place?
He takes in the rich wood booths with velvet cushions, each in a different jewel tone. There are framed paintings of people—some with powdered wigs, some with long black hair, various fashions from history spanning time witnessed, he imagines, by the old building. He knows Melitown is one of the earliest cities on the continent, so old it surprised him it remained relatively small compared to other well-but-later-established ones that became capitals. And nothing significant enough to make the history books seemed to have happened here, which always confused him. You’d think it would be known for something more than the local honey. So many new questions. He pulls out the small notebook he’d grabbed from home and the lucky pen he wished he’d had with him at Madame Tuor’s and jots them down. By the end of the page, it reads like a terrible spoken word performance. He flips to a new page and adds, “Does the café host any events? (Open mic, poetry readings, knitting circle).”
He continues to steal glances around the room, everywhere except the counter, while keeping one ear on the owner chatting with the line that buzzed with enthusiasm as they looked at the cases and the other on Avery’s passionate review of his bat-shaped paper plate piled with sweets. He plucks a coffin-shaped ginger snap from the hoard and has a brief moment of bliss before returning to his observations. From his vantage point in the café’s main seating area, there is almost too much to take in, while from what he’d noticed earlier in the day, the area around the counter was uncluttered and easy to clean. On closer consideration, Henry didn’t see chaos in the building, which he’d describe as a series of nested curiosity cabinets. Each bibelot’s placement was deliberate and carefully arranged with the surrounding pieces to guide your eyes around this surprise museum.
René has always enjoyed his customers: their lively conversations and the strength of their desire when presented with an array of delicious food meant he’d barely had to work for a meal in several centuries. The easy indulgence offered by hungry humans spoiled for choice was a balm after his earliest years spent attempting to find a steady supply of Want that wasn’t overpowered by Need. Distinguishing between ingredients and developing his personal recipe had taken him considerable time and experimentation. If he’d bothered to mingle with his brethren, they would be in awe of his innovation—if only they could get past their reverence for tradition. On this day, however, René has a desire of his own—he would like them to hurry up so he can savor the treat waiting for him.
And such a treat Henry Merlo is. The man emanates a bright, zesty curiosity, one of René’s favorite flavors. It makes him curious—wondering just what his connection is to the city’s eldest and most revered member of the Obscure. The Madame was not inaccessible to the local community but rarely dealt with the Obvious as far as he knew. He’s not a diviner, or he wouldn’t have been surprised by his brother’s declaration. He doubted he could dance the language of bees; besides, a Keeper would not be running errands for the lady. No, she sent him specifically to get his attention. ‘Tuor sent me to pick out two cakes and a surprise, owner’s choice.’ His choice, indeed! Hearing he was laboring in the disaster on Ramble Ave, there would be no way he could let that continue. She might as well have sent him in an embroidered Café de la Chèvre apron and holding an offer letter with notes clipped in all the places I was meant to sign. Not that he is complaining. It would be nice to know her designs for them. He shivers at the thought of the smug expression the kikimora was sure to have next time she comes in, knowing she would for sure think this was more her boss doing him a favor than the other way around. Such a kiss-ass, that one. But he was certain it would be mutually beneficial. Anything Tuor meddled in would be the right thing for all parties involved. What is your deal, Henry Merlo? It couldn’t be as simple as “guy needs a better job, café could use help” for her to set things in motion.
Impatient and truly seeing the value an extra set of hands would offer for the first time, he randomly grabs at loose dilemmas flowing from the line—a hankering for chocolate, a craving for a bit of salty with the sweetness, a wish for something new—and gives them a little boost sending the last of them happily on their way with their boxes of his reliably perfect options. With a quick, quiet apology to the Veil for selfish usage, he sends a mental nudge around the tables that everyone would really rather be enjoying the beautiful Autumn night and the sights Halloween offers. One more round of pours for some to-go cups for the regulars—suddenly feeling like calling it a day—and he was free. Walking by a toad, who has been sitting at her small bookcase-top table, giving him a look, he tsks, “Whatever. Let me be.” She lets out a small bark ending in a trill and closes her eyes.
“Sorry to keep you waiting. I’m out of mostly everything, and I think we’re through the trick-or-treat window, so I’m going to hang up the sign,” he says, sliding a fresh cup of cocoa laden with spherical marshmallow wisps in front of the younger Merlo. “Would you like to wander around and look at my treasures, Captain? If you pass through the arch under the figurehead, you’ll find some puzzle boxes and books a young seafaring gent such as yourself might fancy.” He motions toward a larger-than-life wooden woman suspended from the ceiling. Her long, wildly waved hair, gilded horns, and chest covered only by strings of pearls and once-brightly painted faceted jewels were carefully carved but weathered with time. Her flowing skirts split high at each thigh, revealing two goat legs. A faun? Henry tries to remember his childhood obsession with mythology books. Is there a different word for lady fauns?
“Pretty!” Avery says, eyes on her as well.
René smiles. “Thank you! You’re very cute, aren’t you?”
Avery tilts his head, “Oh, um, thank you? I mean, I guess so. Henry says so sometimes, too. I’d rather be cool, though.”
“You can be both, Captain Cool,” says Henry. “Can you very carefully carry that over to the other room? And not spill it in there either?”
“Of course, I can,” he scowls back, doing nothing to disprove the cuteness label.
“Go on then, but leave your candy haul here.”
Avery nods and climbs down from the raised booth. Determined to demonstrate his caution, he slowly slides the cup off the table with both hands and keeps it level as he disappears under the retired ship’s guardian.
René, having returned from locking the door and closing the curtains, beckons for him to follow. “Let’s get a drink and sit in the drawing room.” Henry tucks his notebook into his inside pocket and slides from the table to follow, taking the opportunity for a good look. His skin still has that pale blue cast, even in the warm glow of the old lamps. It looks even bluer somehow than when they’d met in the daylight. His arms have the thinnest linework tattoos, unrecognizable symbols inked from his knuckles upward, disappearing beneath the cuffs of his dress shirt. Where do they stop? Henry’s face heats, and his eyes drop to the floor. He’s surprised that René’s boots are heeled and contribute a few inches to his height. They were probably closer to the same size than he’d thought.
Stopping behind the counter, he turns to the back wall, and before Henry can tell what he’s doing, he has a tray with a small two-person tea set in his hands and is leading the way through an archway he hadn’t noticed before. They enter a smaller room where two couches and a settee frame a low coffee table on three sides, under a series of glass bauble swag lights reaching across the ceiling from the corner of the room, their unsightly electrical cords woven through brass chains and hidden behind an onyx obelisk tall enough to nearly touch the ceiling, bookended by groupings of parlor palms. René motions to one of the couches, and they sit facing each other, forcing Henry to abandon his avoidance.
“Now then, Henry, I hope this evening’s rush didn’t put you off the job. You’re still interested?” René asked politely despite tasting the answer before he sat down.
“No, not at all. I felt like I should try to help out, but realized I’d be in the way,” he answers.
“Oh no, that would’ve turned into a dozen regulars engaging us in long conversations. We’d still be fending them off. They are going to eat you up,” he says, making mental notes to deal with this inevitability.
Henry’s eyes widen and he lets out a nervous laugh. “Figuratively, I hope.” Realizing he’d said it out loud, he clamps his mouth shut and thinks back to his unplanned rambling at the counter earlier that day. She said the café isn’t bewitching me. So, is he bewitching me? Or do I just ramble out loud without a filter now? Focus. Focus.
He tries. Looking up at the man in an attempt to be normal, he immediately fails, gasping at the eyes staring intently at him, no longer the dark brown he’d expected but a pale amber striking a stark contrast with the black horizontal slit pupils you’d expect to see on a goat. He blinks and scrubs his hands down his face and back into his hair to push his ever-wayward layer back for a clearer view. Two dark brown eyes look back.
René watches, head tilting as Henry blinks across the table at him with a confused look on his face and nervously brushing his hair behind his ear. “Can I ask you a personal question, Henry?”
“Sure?”
“Has someone tried to eat you? Is that how you came to know Mme Tuor?”
“Wow, that is very personal,” he laughs a more genuine, relaxed laugh. René lifts one perfect brow, so he quickly adds quietly, glancing toward Avery’s direction, “Not eat, no. But I had a, um, situation with some fear eaters?”
René growls, eyes flashing with the warm glow once more. Caprid, Henry thinks. That is the word for those pupils. His fingers twitch around his lucky pen, wanting to write it down. Stop being weird. Wait. Am I the weird one here?