Working in a dead-end, post office job in the heart of a primarily-Human city, Arya Salcrest cannot let her secret out else she loses her rights and her safety. Norren Sterling, a member of the Council whom she met after a failed museum trip, is det...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
Arya jumped, her heart leaping to her constricting throat as she whirled away from the painting and towards the source of the voice. Her gaze landed on a tall, lean man standing a few steps away with a gentle smile on his face. He hasn't moved or did anything suspicious, merely keeping his hands behind his back. Or maybe he was hiding a knife there all along?
Arya opened her mouth to speak but no words came out. She found herself oscillating between the man and the painting.
The man, bless his heart, chuckled in such a light tone it was easy to forget he was human. Or maybe he's like Arya too and just hid it better. Either way, he didn't seem like a bad person who would harm her. Not anymore.
"I've met a lot of women and they always react whenever they see me," he said, still rooted in his place behind Arya. "Yours is the most unique and the most memorable, by far."
Arya blinked at his words. Then, an uncontrollable smirk crept to the corners of her lips. "Many women, you say?" she teased. "Someone's a playboy."
The man snorted and ducked his head. He shifted his weight from foot to foot. "Hazard of the trade," he said. "I'm a merchant, see. It's only my job to meet people. A lot of them."
Arya raised an eyebrow. She had forgotten about the painting or that she cared to know who commissioned it. "Oh, are all of them women?" she asked. She had only meant to keep teasing him until he burned bright red but he wasn't budging. His face was a carefully-arranged mask. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking.
He rolled his shoulders, his broad shoulders, in fact. His beige overcoat showed off the gilded vest and the small peeks of a beige dress shirt underneath. Matching trousers covered his legs, giving way to his shiny leather shoes. He didn't have a top hat or a monocle but he did have a long chain clipped to one of his belt loops and disappeared into his pocket. A watch, most probably.
And now that Arya was really looking, she noticed a thin cane jutting behind him, held by the hands clasped behind him. So it wasn't a knife. But would he beat Arya with it?
"I'm sorry for beating you in admiring the lark," Arya ducked her head and stepped aside to give him the unobstructed view. He didn't move from his spot. "I don't know why but this painting...it's beautiful. But I should go."
Arya was about to turn away and leave him there when he said, "It's a mistlark," his voice was deep and silky, like a well-laundered satin sheet. "They used to live in the forests surrounding Aldermere but their population has died down to nothing but a few thousand. From deforestation or from the smoke coming out of our steam chutes, I don't know."
She pursed her lips, shoes still pointed towards the direction away from the man but her upper body somehow leaned towards him. "But these birds still sing," he was saying, seemingly unaware of Arya's conflicting instincts. "If you quiet down during a warm, summer night, you will hear them. And they do sing beautiful songs."
