Chapter Two: The Special Order

Susan receives a visit from Mr. Reynolds, a man who works for the Duke and places a very special order. Henry learns more about the history of the King family and tries to become closer with the Misses King.

     A week after Mr. Michael's employment began at King's Books, Susan was working in the shop alone. The day had passed with little circumstance, and with the shop in good order, as well as the books and stock rooms, Susan watched the shop from behind the register. She was reading a book. The afternoon was passing slowly. With the start of the fall term at the Academy business had been steady, but was slowing by the day. Jane was out shopping and passing her day comfortably, at least for another couple hours. As she eyed the clock, Susan swore that time was passing slower.
     "It's only two!" Susan cried. "What a long day."
She returned to her book, which she was half reading. Susan ran her fingers along the page as she daydreamed about nothing. The tips of her fingers hit a great many words on their careless trip. As Susan dragged her fingers along the page, she felt a sensation in her arm and heard murmuring in the back of her mind. When she snapped out of her vacant stare, the bells on the back of the front door chimed and the door slammed shut.
     "Hello," Susan said. She was happy to have a distraction.
     There wasn't a verbal answer to Susan's greeting, but rather a clik-clik of a walking stick. Susan's eyes widened as she recognized the older man coming through the door. The color from her face faded and her heart sunk, retreating to some unknown corner of her body.  Her breath shortened and quickened. If only she too could hide from the man who just entered the shop.
     The man was tall, muscular, and carried a foreboding air. He was well into his fifties. With each step he took towards the register, Susan recognized every last feature of him. He hadn't changed much in the last twelve years. The white beard, which was a perfect square shape was met by a proper, full and robust moustache. His gray hair was kept short, which was out of fashion in the current court. His dress hadn't changed either, a completely black suit, silver gloves, small silver rimmed glasses and a black walking stick. With each intimidating breath, the man's nostrils flared.
     "Good afternoon, Miss King," the man said.
     "Mr. Reynolds," Susan replied, bowing her head. Mr. Reynolds, a servant to the Duke, was known very well in the King family. He was known mostly for his cruelty and his bearing of bad news. "It has been some time since I have seen you. Have you been in good health?"
     "Aye," Mr. Reynolds said, eyeing the shop.
     "And how is your master?"
     "Ah! How fortunate you should inquire after him," Mr. Reynolds laughed.
     "How so? Who could pass the opportunity to inquire after our great lord?" Susan was shaking.
     "My master, His Excellency, has business with you."
     "Does he? What business?"
     "Book business."
     "Ah," Susan said, calming down.
     "He feels that you and only you," Mr. Reynolds said, removing his gloves, "are competent enough to process his order."
     "How flattering," Susan said, looking away in disbelief.
     "His Excellency has his eyes set on a particular book. He claims that it may hold an answer for a question he's long had."
     "Pray, which book is he looking for?" Susan asked, taking a pen and paper. "It's likely we have it. If not, I can find it."
     "I should think you have a copy." Mr. Reynolds brought his walking stick to rest on the counter. "I know His Excellency thinks so."
     "There are a great many books here, so it is likely."
     "I hope so. The book His Excellency requires is:  The Forging of Words and Language."
     Susan dropped her pen.
     "Are you well? Are you going to faint?"
     "Faint? No."
     "Did you hear me?" Mr. Reynolds reached for Susan's trembling hand.
     "I did," Susan answered. "Why does His Excellency need that book?"
     "It is a great text, or so I am told," Mr. Reynolds whispered, clutching her hand. "A great work, written by a great man. A legend!"
     "My uncle."
     "Your great-uncle."
     "Indeed. Forgive me."
     "It's of little consequence."
     "There are so many other books that he could—."
     "We both know there are not any other books that stand up to your great-uncle's. A book about smithing and its history, a text that delves into the possibilities of smithing. Someone like you should know and appreciate that."
     "I don't understand what you mean." Susan blushed.
     "I'm sure you don't," Mr. Reynolds laughed and eyed her hand which he still held. "Susan, Susan, Susan." Mr. Reynolds kissed her hand. Susan recoiled at the gesture, trying to get her hand away from his. "Don't play coy with me. Your family is incredibly well-known. Better known than you may think."
     "What are you implying?"
     "There's been a rumor about you floating in the court," Mr. Reynolds said. "Ever since your father died, that you inherited more than his shop."
     "I didn't inherit the shop at his death, Mr. Reynolds. Only recently have I come to run it by myself."
     "Yes, well, one day it will be yours."
     "Along with all the bills and stress," Susan said weakly.
     "Money wouldn't have to be an object, Susan, if you just came out."
     "Came out? About what?"
     "Tsk-tsk. I thought you'd know better than to play with the aristocracy. You know, and I know, and more importantly His Excellency knows all about you. He's always known."
     "Sir, I don't understand what you're saying."
     "Of course not, an honorable girl such as yourself can only be naive," Mr. Reynolds cooed. "We can save that conversation for a later time. I do enjoy my trips into the city. Tell me, Susan, do you have a copy of this book?"
     "I have no available copies at present," Susan said, snapping her hand away from him. "I can order or find a copy somewhere, though."
     "How long until you have an available copy?" Mr. Reynolds asked, pulling his gloves on.
     "A month perhaps."
     "Very well," he said. "A month to the day. Good day, Miss King."
     With that, Mr. Reynolds stepped out of the shop and Susan collapsed to the floor. The bells chimed as the door shut, and Susan could hear the somber clik-clak of the walking stick outside. The color was drained from her cheeks and her breaths were jagged and heavy. Her hands went to the locket resting over her heart and she clutched it. On the verge of tears, Susan began to pray.

     Henry was at the market buying some fruits, vegetables and other things. The brisk air in the crowded center was filled with the smells of autumn. Spices filled the air, and Henry's mouth watered for candied apples and spiced pies. Children were playing in the aisle ways of the market, kicking leaves and screaming as they fell into piles of leaves. Henry laughed in amusement.
Henry bought some apples and put them in his large canvas bag. A quiet rumble came from beneath Henry's gray, cabled, wool sweater from his stomach. He looked across the markets southward to wear the gardens of the city were. On the east side of the gardens were a series of cafes and restaurants. Not having been to any of the cafes or restaurants in Carson yet, Henry decided to indulge himself and go to one of the cafes.
     The cafe closest to the corner of Market and Side St., Something Brewing, seemed promising to Henry. The cafe was charming, with an open patio area with several small tables and chairs within a black iron fence. When Henry came upon the red brick building, he claimed a table and situated himself. The young waitress came, gave Henry a menu and took his order after a minute of him looking at the menu. The daily special seemed promising, onion soup with a ham and cheese sandwich, with a cup of fresh coffee.
     As Henry waited for his food, he observed his surroundings. There were several older women at a table to Henry's right, all of whom wore light jackets and brown leather gloves. A younger woman, perhaps a daughter of one of the ladies, had just joined them and was rambling.
     "I've just seen that Mr. Reynolds!" the younger said.
     "Mr. Reynolds who works for His Excellency?" a lady with red hair asked.
     "The very same!"
     "Always a bearer of bad news!" a woman with a green scarf added.
     "I remember twelve years ago when he had, well you know," the red haired lady said. "I knew his aunt, bless her soul. He was always lurking around that book store."
     "That's where I've just seen him!" the younger said after calling for a cup of tea. "He was walking down the street, just having left the house. Those girls are very sweet, but I wonder what he was doing there."
     "Perhaps making a purchase," the woman with the green scarf said.
     "He didn't have a bag."
     "The last time I heard that he went there, he went to see poor Mr. King," the red haired lady said.
     "What a kind man he was!" another lady said, biting into a biscuit.
     "Yes," the red haired lady answered. "Mr. King was a smith, was he not? I wonder then, if one of the girls may be as well." The women chuckled to themselves. "Well, it is best not to fret about the state, and what it deems others to do with their skills."
     Henry found himself eavesdropping after the mentioning of Mr. King. Mr. King was Susan and Jane's father, that much he could surmise. Henry wondered, Who was Mr. Reynolds? He forgot his inquiries when his food arrived. After finishing his sandwich and soup, Henry noticed the ladies had left. Henry was on his third cup of coffee when, while observing the people in the street, he saw Jane King walking down Market St., crossing Side St..
     "Miss King!" Henry called when she was near.
     "Mr. Michaels," Jane said, walking to see him. She was wearing a charming pastel pink dress that was accented with soft, flowing lace. Her hair was curled under a day hat. Though she was not of noble rank, Jane could have easily challenged any of the ladies and countesses at the operas.
     "How are you?"
     "Very well, and you?"
     "Better now."
     "Have you had lunch?"
     "Yes."
     "Oh, I would join you if you had not," Jane said.
     "If you'd like a cup of coffee," Henry offered.
     "Yes, that does sound nice. A warm cup of coffee for a chilled autumn day." Jane came into the enclosed patio, called for some coffee and sat with Henry. "Have you been seeing our city?"
     "Indeed. I have always wanted to come to Carson."
     "For pleasure?"
     "Academics."
     "Ah!" Jane said. "You're a scholar! Or do you have some gift?"
     "I would be a scholar."
     "What would you study?"
     "Everything," Henry answered.
     "Why?" Jane asked, receiving her coffee. "If you knew everything, what then?"
     "What do you mean?"
     "Life is like a great story," Jane said, adding cream and sugar to her coffee. "Imagine, you have your life as a book, and the events of the world are in that book. Now, day after day you advance through the book, learning lessons with every chapter. If, when starting out in the book you knew nothing about what was to happen everything would be fresh and exciting! The decisions that you would make would be very risky and daring.  But, if you knew everything the book of your life would not be challenging. I think that it is our destiny, as humans and rational creature, to yearn for challenges. Who wants to know how their life should fare before it is lived? It is as knowing the ending of a play. How sad for the dramatists if they cannot move their audience because the know already who the murderer is or that the fated lovers will be separated by the end."
     "I suppose it would be dull in some places, yes."
     "If you could choose one subject, what would you study?"
     "Literature, I suppose."
     "Suppose? No, you should know!" Jane laughed. "I would study theater!"
     "Would you?"
     "I study it now, but from the audience." Jane grinned and drank her coffee. "Oh! To be on stage, that is where I want to be."
     "Playing?"
     "Yes."
     "But do you think it is better to imitate life?" Henry asked. "Or to live it?"
     "To live it. The experience is genuine and original."
     "And as you've stated, you would not know how, in your case, the play ends."
     "Very true. Would I be a heroine, embracing my dearest love in the end, or would I be dead from a horrible tragedy? Perhaps slain in my sleep, or by myself? These modern dramas are over-the-top sometimes."
     "I should hope you never have means to kill yourself," Henry said.
     "How kind of you!" Jane laughed. "I hope so as well. Growing up was a challenge, especially in our house. I don't see why I shouldn't have a happy life from here on out."
     "What do you mean?"
     "The loss of our father was especially hard." Jane lowered her eyes. "He was a very good man, Henry. He would have liked you, I think. He liked everyone."
     "How old were you?"
     "I was six when he died," Jane said. "We used to play various stories, if not to play with dolls, then we would act."
     "He was a smith?"
     "I never saw him smith," Jane said. "I'm told he was a wordsmith, and a very fine one, but I never saw it."
     "What exactly is smithing?"
     "Being able to do with words that others cannot," Jane said, finishing her coffee. "I've just come from the bookstore down the street. Our main competition, Academic Notable, and I saw an advertisement in their window for my cousin. He'll be giving a reading soon."
     "Is he a smith?"
     "He is the Duke's personal smith."
     "Is he?" Henry was intrigued and impressed.
     "Or so I've heard from my mother."
     "It would be interesting to see a wordsmith read his work."
     "It is a rare occasion." Jane asked for some more coffee from the waitress who had a carafe.
     "Who is Mr. Reynolds?"
     "He is the Duke's manservant. A brute, really," Jane answered, stirring sugar into her fresh      coffee. "Why do you ask after him?"
     "I've just overheard some women talking about him and your father."
     Jane stopped all her movements and looked at Henry directly, her face still lowered to her coffee. "What did you say?"
     Henry repeated himself.
     "And what did they say about Mr. Reynolds?"
     "That he had left a bookstore, I believe your store."
     Jane remained still.
     "Are you okay?"
     "Whenever Mr. Reynolds would come to see my father, my father would become agitated. He would pace back and forth and he couldn't think straight. I was young, but I knew that this man was bad news."
     "That's what the women said."
     "Excuse me," Jane said. "Susan is alone at the shop."
     "Is he such—."
     "Yes. He is that bad of news."
     "I didn't know," Henry said. "Had I known I would have gone to the shop immediately."
     "Yes, I know," Jane said. "I must go now."
     "Allow me to walk with you," Henry said.
     "Yes, if Susan is worked up, someone must watch the shop." Jane called for the bill. She fidgeted as they waited. "What did you have?"
     "A cup of soup and a sandwich."
     Jane dug into her purse and pulled out a ten-note. "Come on, there's no time to wait."
     "Miss King, I can't let you—."
     "It is fine— now hurry," Jane said, walking from the patio. She was on the verge of running. Henry watched as Jane sprinted through the market and then the streets towards the shop. People turned to see the girl whose footfalls clacked anxiously against the stone pavement of the streets. The pink dress swayed with Jane's unladylike movements. Henry followed, but was not as anxious nor eager as Jane. When they came to the shop, Jane burst through the door shouting, "Susan!"
     Henry shut the door behind him and watched as Jane went behind the counter. Susan was folded on the floor, shaking. Jane cooed and called to her sister. Susan buried her face into Jane's chest. He felt out of place watching the scene between the sisters. Susan trembled and heaved as she pressed herself against her sister's flesh. Jane patted Susan's hair, hushing her. The color had been lost from Susan's face, and while Henry was unsure of what had passed between Susan and Mr. Reynolds, he was sure that it could have not been anything trivial. Susan let loose a whimper with a heavy exhalation. The scene made Henry angry. He looked away, sighing in disgust and turning away from the sisters. Jane looked up at Henry and then looked at the door.
     "What happened?" he asked.
     "I'll know once she stops shaking," Jane said, pulling Susan to her feet. Henry gestured to help, but before he could Susan was on her feet. Jane let Susan lean against her. "She needs to lay down."
     "Can she get upstairs?" Henry asked.
     "I can manage!" Susan snapped. Susan's eyes were filled with a terrified fire and she shook as she spoke. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself."
     Henry lowered and then averted his eyes. There was no question that Susan was embarrassed. Henry would have acted the same way if he had been in Susan's position, but the reaction made Henry feel less than welcome. He cleared his throat and nodded. "Of course you are. I didn't mean—."
     Susan glared at Henry and then around the shop. Jane was embarrassed for her sister's behavior. Before either Susan or Henry could speak, Jane lead Susan away. Susan resisted at first, not yet finished with her episode.
     "Stop it," Jane said, leading Susan away.
     Henry remained in the shop for about an hour. Jane came down and told him that she appreciated him watching the shop. She insisted that everything was fine, but her face said otherwise. The shop was dark and silent and the awkwardness of the situation had only intensified the words spoken. Jane urged Henry to leave, to go home and get some sleep. The morning would only be harder on them all if no one got any rest. Although Henry was free to leave he didn't want to go. What he wanted was to know what had happened to make Susan breakdown. Before he could ask, Jane insisted he leave.
     "Good night, Henry," she said. "You're working tomorrow, right?"
     Jane knew that he worked in the morning. She had already implied it. Henry nodded and gave half a shrug. "Yes."
     "Please don't mention anything about this to anyone," Jane said. "And please don't ask anymore questions. It's very fine and well to be curious and inquisitive, but you are still a stranger to us. Our family has a sensitive history, Henry. Do you understand?"
     "I do not know anyone who does not have a sensitive history, Miss King," Henry said, lowering his eyes.
     "In time," she said, "we will be like family." Henry believed Jane and he understood her too. Jane's eyes were soft and compassionate, which reminded him of his mother and his sister simultaneously.  There was a brief silence and during the silence Henry felt the need to move, to go home. Jane smiled and continued, "One day when we are like family— because it's bound to happen– it always does— then, you may ask all the questions that you want to ask. I can see it in your eyes. Those questions are burning in you."
     "Is it wrong of me to ask after—."
     "Stop right there, Mr. Michaels." Jane's face and voice were firm. Henry had seen Jane act silly and he had seen her serious. In this moment while she stared at him with an authorized face Henry knew that Jane was not acting. She was really serious, not that he hadn't doubted the seriousness of the night's course of events. Despite Jane being so much younger than he, she was not afraid of him. Why should she be afraid of him except that he was a man?
Henry looked at Jane and obliged her.
     "Let me take care of my sister for now," Jane said, adding, "good night."
     Henry bowed his head and left the store. The bells chimed after him, and Henry exhaled raggedly as he went onto the street. His apartment was two blocks south, but he wasn't ready to go home just yet. He adjusted his bag from the market in his hands and turned west on Market St., where at the corner of First St. Henry saw Academic Notable. The shop was similar in size and design to King's Books, but what stood out to Henry about the shop was what was in the front display window. Henry approached the glass, peering at a table filled with purple leather-bound books. Next to the table, which was draped with a lavender silk cloth, was a large portrait of a man.
     The man was in his late twenties with long, brown hair in a queue. The black ribbon that held the bundle of hair together was not in a bow, but left to float untied. The man was shown wearing a bright, springtime-green jacket, which boasted incredible stitching. The man smirked in a smug sort of way that didn't sit well with Henry. The man's portrait emitted an air of pride. Underneath the portrait was a sign with large lettering. Henry was affirmed of the man's identity upon reading the sign.

Only at Academic Notable!
Stewart King
Royal Wordsmith and Poet.
Reading from his latest collection this Thursday.

     Henry had not seen the book of poetry at King's Books. He wondered if the text was just released, or if it had been in print for some time. Another thought came to him:  Why hadn't the family of the poet booked the reading?  Jane had seemed to know about the book and the reading. Henry went into the shop and saw that it was filled with students from the Academy. Was it the upcoming reading that was drawing the students?
     Henry went to the window display and took a copy of the purple book in his hand. He had never been one for poetry, and as he looked at some of the verses he wondered what it would be like to see a smith read. With his curiosity piqued, Henry bought a copy of the poetry collection and decided that he would ask one of the Misses King about their cousin.

     The next day, Henry came into King's Books and saw Susan at the register. Susan glanced up at Henry when he came in, but didn't say anything to him. Henry came to the counter and looked at what Susan was working on. There was a list of bookstores and individuals in front of Susan. She had crossed off several names on the list as well as several names circled.
     "Good morning," Henry said.
     "Good morning."
     "What are you working on?"
     "Special orders."
     "Oh. Anything in particular?"
     "Yes." Susan didn't look at Henry. Susan took her list and folded it before she placed it under her arm. "I'm going to my office."
     "Before you go," Henry said, "I had a question."
     "What?" Susan asked. She looked up at him with an indifferent expression. Her green eyes looked as though they had cried all night; her face was sunken in. Henry cleared his throat and produced the purple book of poetry from his coat pocket. Susan's eyebrow arched when she saw it. "What is that?"
     She took the book from Henry's hand and read a poem from the middle of the book. As she read it her mind became fuzzy and hazy. When the sensation became too much, she shook her head in agitation, snapping the book closed.
     "Miss King?"
     "What have you given me?" Susan opened the book to the title page and saw her cousin's name. "Very funny."
     The book was thrust viciously back into Henry's hands. Henry didn't understand what Susan had meant, so he pressed on. "Miss King, your cousin is giving a reading at Academic Notable, and I was wondering why he wasn't—."
     "Because he is a disgrace to my family," Susan said, as she turned away. "That's why. Stewart is the family drunk and playboy. He sold out to the nobility. Oh, how he leapt into their gilded carriages when they offered a patronage."
     "Is he such a disgrace? After all he is family."
     "When his father died, Stewart gambled away most of his inheritance," Susan answered. "When his first of many fiancées left him, he fell into months of drunken rages. When he realized what he could do, and what he could get for it, he sold his soul. And by that I mean smithing."
     Henry was silent.
     "Any other questions about my family, Mr. Michaels? What other skeletons can I produce for your amusement?"
     "You mistake me, I do not find amusement in this—."
     "Then mind your business."
     "Do you have any questions for me, Miss?"
     Susan turned to look at him. "Questions?"
     "About my family. I would not dare to think that I should acquire so much information about your family without offering knowledge of mine."
     Henry did not want to talk about his family or his past. His desire to talk about who he was and where he came from as strong as Susan's; merely a reluctance. In offering knowledge about himself and his family, Henry knew that he could calm Susan's bombarded nerves. The theory worked. Susan took the bait.
     "What will you tell me?"
     "I do not know my father; Michaels is not the name that I should have had if my mother had married the man she loved before my step-father." Susan's eyes filled with interest. Henry had used the correct opening line to his past and family. "My step-father is an accountant and the only thing I can claim to have gotten from him is his name. I have a sister named Andrea, she is about Miss Jane's age. My sister has a passion for music, which will never be realized in my father's house."
     Susan was silent, reflecting on what Henry had told her. "I'm sorry to hear about your father."
     "As am I. I would have liked to known him. I am unlike my mother in so many ways that I can only wonder if I take after my father."
     "I'm sorry for your step-father," Susan said. "And your poor sister."
     "She is a good soul."
     "Well," Susan said, "I think that is enough for now."
     Susan turned away and went to the door that was beneath the staircase, heading down into the cellar where the office was. Henry looked at the purple book in his hands and felt silly. His cheeks burned and he scolded himself for approaching Susan the way he had. No doubt Susan was confused about what Henry had meant in suddenly opening up to her. Henry heard Susan close her office door downstairs and he slumped behind the register. He wasn't yet allowed to work the register, but he was sure that Susan wouldn't come up for some time. The shop was empty, and being left to his lonesome overcome with emotions Henry opened the small purple book of poetry and started to read.
     "My lady is as a dove—" His voice echoed in the shop between the empty aisles of shelves and downstairs where while trying very hard to ignore Henry and especially the poetry, Susan could barely hear him.  "—she shies away from the burning of my touch–" The words were just above the sound of a whisper, but the words echoed in Susan's mind, causing her heart to pound. "—I would not burn her—" Susan folded her hands over her face, rubbing her eyes and then covering her eyes. "—not while she burns me, devours me with every passing glance—"
     "Stop," Susan whispered as she began to sob. Henry couldn't hear Susan, but still he stopped as he became tired of the poem. Both Susan and Henry hunched over unsure of what to do exactly.
     "Oh, poetry," Henry sighed, rolling his eyes. "What good is it?"