Den of Shadows Collection: Lose yourself in the fantasy, mystery, and intrigue of this stand out trilogy. Christopher ByfordЧитать онлайн книгу.
‘You know I’m susceptible to flattery. Please, I may not be able to control myself,’ Misu replied, deadpan, looking over the table’s contents, and deciding what it lacked was a drink of her own. She called for one of the girls to bring her a water with ice. The girl promptly did so.
‘There’s a number there for you. Some by name. Most even got it right this time.’ Franco gestured to the separate assortment of paper placed delicately aside.
‘I don’t know if I should be relived or disappointed,’ Misu whined. She withdrew the first envelope addressed to her and took a letter opener to its seal.
‘Catching eyes, breaking hearts. See anything you like?’
One of the letters was waved between them. ‘Hah! This here is asking the permission of my father to arrange a marriage. I assume he means you, old man. Oh now, that is funny.’
Franco almost spluttered on his coffee. ‘Old?’ he repeated, placing the bone china cup onto its matching saucer. ‘I said I’d marry you off, but now I’m thinking I could just straight up sell you to some dapper gentleman.’
‘And how much would you get for me?’ Misu leant on her hands, blinking her deep hazel eyes.
‘Not enough for the trouble, that’s for sure.’
The pair laughed in unison, flicking between the reams of envelopes and opening them in turn.
Misu slid one of the letters from the middle of the rejection pile. It was plain, with no gilding, no fine handwriting or extravagant print. It had a name, an accompanying address, and a simple request inside. It was also addressed to Franco directly. Its seal remained unbroken.
‘Here. You missed one.’ She slid it over. ‘Looks like it could be interesting.’
* * *
Strange, he pondered, that was quite unlike him.
Franco rectified the oversight by finishing his morning drink and reading the letter’s contents aloud.
Mister Monaire,
Naturally I assume your time here in Windberg will be short and taken up with your events and other dealings, but I hope you will find the time for this.
I have a proposal for yourself that will, given time, be a fruitful endeavour for all parties. I am aware of your reputation as a businessman and your unique venture could increase both our fortunes.
I invite you to meet me at Pilgrims Smoking House, in Six Trees, for a discussion on this most important topic. Just send word of your interest and I will make arrangements to meet.
Kindest regards,
Donovan Kane
Franco was half inclined to crumple the paper in his palm.
‘Why is it that people want to approach me with crackpot business ideas? I am not a bank. If I had anything to invest, I would invest it here.’ He sighed, tossing the paper aside. Misu recovered it, slapping it on the table once more.
‘And why is approaching you such a bad idea? You clearly have a mind for such things and you’re encouraging others with your reputation. I fail to see any downside.’
‘The last time I met one of these charlatans, they wanted me to add a couple more carriages to the Den. Do you know what they wanted me to fill them with?’
‘What?’
‘Dangerous animals.’
Misu hooted in amusement. ‘Animals? Like some sort of –’
‘Travelling zoo.’ Franco finished the sentence. He waited for her laughter to subside, the idea inviting far more hilarity than was necessary.
‘I’m sorry. I was just thinking of you cleaning out cages with a broom.’ Misu subdued her giggling.
‘That in mind, I think I’ll give this a miss. Mister Kane can be left waiting.’
‘We need money,’ Misu reminded him, knocking the ice around her tumbler.
‘Yes, I know that.’
‘So, it wouldn’t hurt you to just speak to one of these people. You never know, it could be profitable. The answer to your problems.’
‘Problems?’
‘Money,’ Misu clarified.
‘You really think that?’
‘There’s nothing to lose, is there? Except a morning of you cluttering up the Den with your sour-faced self.’
‘I’m not sour-faced.’ He puffed up his lips in defence.
‘There, you see? You’re doing it now.’ Misu leant back and waved him aside. ‘Go and see this guy this afternoon and talk. You may even have some fun while you’re at it.’
‘I have plans for later. It wouldn’t be convenient.’
Misu took hold of Franco’s cup and measured the remaining coffee with a squint. She swigged the last quantity with a tip of the neck, skimming the cup back over.
‘There. You’re done. Your busy schedule is now free. Nothing else to do this morning?’
‘I suppose not.’
‘Then problem solved.’
* * *
Pilgrims was a tucked-away smoking bar, where men normally congregated to discuss affairs of the day and drink in the evening. Its seating was simple, its décor rustic and weather-beaten, with the lines of tables leading through the alley to its entrance. Patrons puffed on supplied hookahs that burnt tobacco and filtered the smoke though a water-filled basin. Its walls were covered by tin advertising signs, eroded by a combination of age and the elements.
Even at this time in the morning the tables were busy. The chatter was light-hearted as Franco edged past, looking for his contact among them. A wave from the back caught his gaze, from a smartly dressed individual with short, slick black hair. He wore a light beige suit in contrast to his olive skin, and rose on Franco’s approach, shaking his hand firmly in welcome.
‘Mister Kane.’
‘Please, Mister Franco, call me Donovan.’
Franco scooted the chair backward with a squeak before folding his hands on the table.
‘Thank you for your time. I was worried you wouldn’t take me up on my offer, but I needn’t have fretted. Here you are.’
Donovan snapped his thin mocha fingers together ushering over a waiter, who took an order of sour mash. Franco declined, being that it was far too early for such indulgencies, though late enough to smoke.
The hookahs that adorned the centre of every table were tall and slender, constructed of steel and glass. Patrons sat relaxed, in the midst of morning discussion, taking turns to draw the hose between and exhaling the contents in the air. They burnt with a mixture of flavoured tobaccos. Donovan filled the one at their table with another spoonful of shisha from an accompanying plain bowl. He took the hose in hand and placed it to his lips, drawing in the vapour with a patient breath. When done, he handed it to Franco, who obliged out of politeness, though immediately began to splutter at the strength of its contents. Its potency was enough to make his eyes weep.
Donovan watched intently and laughed. ‘An acquired taste, my friend. Forgive me, maybe something lighter is more agreeable to your palate.’
Not such a bad idea, though the second inhalation found his throat without burning as much. The length of pipe was passed back across to Donovan, who puffed away, quite contentedly.
‘A little exotic, nothing more,’ Franco said.
‘Exotic,’ Donovan repeated with