Chương 49: Beside the Tea

I leaned against the table while the lighting system settled into its updated setting. The lamps along the walls had been adjusted for the changing season, warmer now and softer against the gray morning beyond the windows. Summer's brighter setting had begun to feel harsh once the clouds stayed longer and the evenings came earlier. Through the front glass, I watched a small leaf drift along the street.

The wind carried it past the bakery side of the road, turned it once, then let it settle against the lower rim of the window. I sat down and listened to the music playing quietly through the room. Usually it disappeared beneath chairs moving, orders being called, the tray route knocking through the passage, or Tovan working at the stove. Today there was only the music, the faint wind against the glass, and the occasional sound of someone passing outside. I lifted my cup.

Cinnamon came first, then the little sweetness underneath it. Beside the tea sat a narrow brown bottle of Batch Eleven. My shoulders still carried some stiffness from training earlier in the week. Nothing serious. I had brought the potion downstairs with the intention of drinking it after I ate something. There was no hurry. Outside, the weather had turned breezy and cool. Inside, the restaurant held its warmth. Today was off. A proper day off, according to Tovan.

The conversation had happened after closing a few nights earlier. He had asked what I had done with my last few days away from the restaurant. Training. The workshop. Checking equipment. A supplier visit that had taken only part of the afternoon. Apparently none of those counted. I had disagreed with that definition. Nessa had been at the table with the accounts open. She listened for a while, checked the schedule, and eventually agreed with Tovan. That ended most of the argument.

So today there was nothing planned. No training, no workshop, no testing. The restaurant itself was closed, and everything that needed preparing had been handled the evening before. The season was changing, and most of the things I had wanted to update had already been updated. We had spent the past months testing the kitchens, routes, storage, preparation space, cupboard output, and production schedule. The things that caused trouble had been adjusted. The things that worked had mostly been left alone.

That last part had taken some practice. Our output had increased with it. We could finish more of the guild orders without forcing everything else around them, and Rowan House orders had settled into a regular place in production rather than becoming something the entire kitchen needed to bend around. The profit margin had increased too. Nessa would have preferred that statement with several weeks of figures beside it, but the direction was clear enough. Everything was where it should be. For now.

I took another drink and rested one arm on the table. The cup warmed my palm while a slower piece began through the recording system, mostly strings with something soft beneath them. Tovan could stay inside the cooking longer than I could. His ideas about mixtures still fascinated me. He could stand over a pot and change one small thing—a spice, the size of a cut, when meat entered, how long an onion stayed against the heat—and follow what happened from there.

Sometimes he worked on something for days without caring whether there was a system around it yet. He wanted to know what the food could become. I wanted that too. I simply noticed everything around it at the same time: the heat, the timing, the mana, the equipment, how many portions a batch could produce, whether someone else could repeat it. Tovan could stay with the pot. Movement outside caught my attention. Nessa was walking along the street with her family.

Her pace was different without the restaurant around her. Slower. No ledger beneath one arm. Nothing in her hands. She noticed me through the window and lifted a hand. I raised mine in return. The wind pulled at the edge of her coat while someone beside her glanced toward the restaurant. Then they continued on, their figures passing through the warm reflection of the lamps in the glass. I watched until they disappeared beyond the window. The leaf was still caught against the rim.

Looking around the dining room, I found nothing that needed doing. The tables had been wiped the night before, the chairs were tucked in, and the cupboard markers outside remained set for the meals we had prepared in advance. The kitchens were as updated as they could be. My eyes went toward the stairs. Maybe it was time. The thought stayed there for a moment. Then I let it. I finished the tea, took my coat from beside the door, and stepped outside.

The wind slipped beneath my collar and carried the smell of cold stone, chimney smoke, and bread from farther down the street. The district was quieter than usual for the time of day. A few people crossed between shops with coats pulled close, and the low clouds made almost noon still look like morning. I locked the restaurant and walked toward Mara's bakery. Warm air reached me when I opened the door. Butter and bread filled the room, along with the dry warmth of flour and the lingering heat of the ovens.

Miri was behind the counter by herself, moving pastries from one tray to another. She looked up when the bell above the door settled.

"Hey, Miri. Can I get that croissant?" I pointed toward the tray nearest the window.

"Hey, Joe." She reached for one, the paper beneath it giving a soft crackle.

"You off?"

"Yeah. Today." She slipped the croissant into a paper sleeve and folded the top against the counter.

"What about you?" Miri glanced toward the back room before returning to the tray.

"Mara took the day off too. She baked for a bit this morning, then went off with Amon." Her mouth pulled into a small pout as she said it. Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings. I laughed under my breath.

"Heh. Thanks." I paid her and took the croissant. The paper was already warm against my fingers. Miri looked at my empty hands.

"No notebook?"

"I have one at the restaurant."

"Of course." A fresh tray shifted somewhere in the rear room with the faint scrape of metal on wood. I left before that became a discussion. The air had grown colder by the time I reached The Second Spark. A few drops had begun gathering against the paving stones, darkening them one spot at a time, though not enough to become proper rain. Inside, the warmth had stayed. I hung up my coat, poured another cup of cinnamon tea, and returned to the window table. Batch Eleven was still where I had left it.

The croissant broke softly beneath my fingers. Thin flakes fell across the plate and onto the edge of my book. Butter clung faintly to my thumb. I ate enough that I could have taken the potion. I didn't. The tea was warm, the room was quiet, and my shoulders were not bothering me enough to make it urgent. After a while, I opened the book. I normally used it for notes, measurements, drawings, or things I intended to build. Today I turned to a clean page and began drawing what I could see through the window.

The opposite buildings first. Then the roofline, the awning, and the street beneath it. My first window was too tall. I noticed. I kept going. The music continued quietly behind me. I reached toward the control and turned it a little louder than the regular setting, just enough for the notes to reach the far wall. Smooth. I sat back with my tea, the croissant beside the book, and continued drawing. At some point, the few drops outside stopped. The leaf disappeared from the window rim. I did not notice when.

I also missed the first knock at the door. The second came through somewhere between the music and the scratch of my pencil. I looked up. Jacob stood outside. I closed the book and crossed the room. His outline behind the glass looked uneven, one shoulder sitting differently beneath his coat.

"Sorry about that." I unlocked the door.

"No worries." His voice came out rougher than usual. The moment he stepped inside, I saw the limp. His weight stayed on one side as he crossed the threshold, and one shoulder sat higher beneath his coat. Cold air followed him in before I shut the door again.

"What happened?" Jacob took a moment before answering. His hand rested briefly against the nearest table.

"Gargoyle." I pulled out the chair nearest the end of the counter. Jacob lowered himself into it carefully. The wood scraped softly against the floor, and he kept one hand on the table until his weight settled. I looked him over. No grayness creeping across his skin. No strange stiffness beyond what came from pain. Whatever had happened, the gargoyle was probably still alive.

"Bad?" Jacob rested his hand flat against the table and looked toward the window.

"Enough." The music continued behind him, clearer again now that the door was closed.

"Did you see a healer?"

"Already." I nodded. Jacob loosened his coat with one hand. As he did, a narrow brown bottle came out with it. He set it beside his hand before easing back into the chair. An apothecary seal wrapped the neck. Healing potion. The bottle was almost the same size as mine. I knew the type. I went behind the counter and poured him tea from the same pot I had been using. The cinnamon had settled stronger near the bottom. Then I returned to the window table for my own cup.

There was no reason to sit across the room while he was here. I carried the tea over, along with the croissant plate, my book, and Batch Eleven, and settled at the other end of the counter. The two brown bottles ended up several handspans apart. I did not pay attention to that. Jacob moved his potion aside before I set the fresh tea in front of him. Steam rose between his hands as he wrapped them around the cup. For a while, neither of us spoke. The next song began.

Outside, the street stayed gray and cold while the window slowly cleared where the warmth inside met the glass. Jacob took a slow drink and watched the steam disappear. I went into the kitchen. The stove caught with a low glow. I chose a smaller pot and added stock. Nothing heavy. Something warm enough to settle the body. I cut onion, a little root vegetable, and greens while the stock heated. Rice went onto another section.

Some meat remained from the previous day's preparation, so I sliced it thin enough to warm quickly. The work filled the kitchen without making the room feel busy: knife against wood, stock beginning to move, rice against hot iron, and the softer sound of music beyond the service opening.

"Does Amon know?" I asked while cutting. For a moment, there was only the faint scrape of Jacob's cup returning to the counter.

"No." My knife stopped. I looked through the opening. Jacob had both hands around the cup.

"He should."

"I know." I returned to the board and pushed the onions into the pot. They softened almost immediately in the heat.

"And the gargoyle?"

"Alive." I stirred once.

"Soothed?" A pause followed. Outside, the wind pressed lightly against the glass.

"Yes." Gargoyles usually kept to themselves. Someone had probably disturbed where it was resting.

"Pillar?" Jacob's thumb moved once along the side of his cup.

"Part of it." I waited.

"Work crew." That was enough. The rice had begun to toast around the edges. I moved it across the hotter section and added enough oil to coat the pan. The soup came together first. I tasted it, added salt and a little herb, then filled a bowl. When I carried it out, Jacob moved his cup aside before I reached him. I set the bowl down. Steam rose against his face as he picked up the spoon. I returned to the kitchen. For several minutes there was only the quiet movement of cooking and eating.

His spoon touched the bowl every so often, and the stock smell gradually filled the room beneath the cinnamon. By the time I checked again, Jacob had eaten nearly half the soup. The fried rice needed another few minutes. I turned the meat in the second pan. The edges had begun to brown. Behind me, glass touched wood. I looked through the service opening. Jacob had one of the narrow bottles in his hand. The brown glass mostly disappeared inside his fingers.

He pulled the cork, took a measured drink, and returned it beside the tea. The apothecary potion had been sitting there. I turned back to the stove. The fried rice stayed simple. Egg, onion, greens, enough fat to give it some weight. The meat browned lightly at the edges, adding a deeper smell beneath the stock and cinnamon. When I carried everything out, Jacob had nearly finished the soup. I set the plate beside him. He looked around the empty room.

His gaze passed over the unused tables, the closed service counter, and the softened lamps.

"You're closed."

"Yes." His attention moved back to the food. I sat down at the other end of the counter with my book. The croissant had gone cold, but I ate another piece anyway. For several minutes, neither of us spoke. Jacob ate while I returned to the drawing. The music changed, and outside the clouds darkened enough that the lamps reflected faintly against the glass. I added one of them to the page. It was too large. I left it. The spoon moved steadily against Jacob's bowl.

After the first few bites of rice, more of his weight settled into the chair. The shoulder he had been holding high lowered a little, and his coat stayed open now, the heavier fabric falling away from his ribs. He ate slowly. There was no hurry.

"You changed the music," he said eventually. I glanced toward the control near the wall.

"A little louder." Jacob nodded and looked back toward the window. A few moments later, he took another drink of tea. I returned to the drawing. The room stayed warm. The cinnamon had faded from my own cup, leaving more of the tea underneath it, but I drank anyway. Jacob finished the soup and most of the rice. The meat took longer. Between bites, he rested with his hand loose beside the plate. Once, he closed his eyes through nearly an entire song. I looked toward the stairs. The thought from earlier returned.

Maybe it was time. Not today. Today had already become something else. I looked back at the page. The unfinished street was enough. Jacob remained through another song, then another. At some point, his eyes closed again. His breathing slowed, and for a while the chair seemed to take nearly all of his weight. I kept the pencil moving quietly. Outside, the wind pushed another leaf along the street until it caught beneath the awning across from us. The lamp nearest Jacob gave a faint hum. I noticed. I left it alone.

Eventually, Jacob opened his eyes and looked at the empty soup bowl, then the remaining rice. After a moment, he finished the last few bites. I closed the book. He set both hands against the counter and stood carefully. The chair shifted back with a soft scrape while he waited for his balance to settle. The limp remained, though he looked less tightly held together than when he had arrived. Jacob pulled his coat closed. I stood and gathered his bowl and plate.

"Amon." He gave a small nod. I carried the dishes toward the kitchen. Behind me, fabric shifted as Jacob gathered his gloves and adjusted his coat. A moment later came the soft tap of glass being picked up from the counter. When I returned, the space beside his empty tea cup was clear. I opened the door for him. Cold air moved across the floorboards and stirred the corner of the paper beneath my croissant plate. Jacob paused on the threshold while he adjusted his coat around the injured shoulder.

"Thanks, Joe." The street behind him had gone darker beneath the clouds.

"Get some sleep." He nodded once and stepped outside. I watched him through the glass as he moved down the street, slower than usual but steady enough. The wind caught the edge of his coat before he passed beyond the window. I closed the door. The latch settled into place, and without Jacob in the room the music became clearer again. I gathered the last cup from the counter. The porcelain was still faintly warm against my fingers. A narrow brown bottle sat partly behind my book. I reached for it automatically.

The apothecary seal brushed against my thumb. I stopped. Jacob's healing potion. For a few seconds, I simply held it. Then I looked along the counter. My cup sat where I had left it. Croissant flakes remained on the plate. The drawing book was still open to the crooked street and the oversized lamp. The place where Batch Eleven had been was empty. Outside, Jacob was already gone. The next song began softly through the warm room. I looked once at the brown bottle in my hand, then toward the closed door.

Half a bottle of Batch Eleven had left with him.