The day was fine—spring was coming on strong now, bringing warm sun and low-tide stink. Aristide stood at the back of the trolley, leaning on the rail. His hair fell over his shoulder and streamed in front of his face, catching the light. No gray in it yet, thanks be. He looked more like his father with every passing summer, as the sun, and smiling for the stage, put lines in his face. He wondered how long the old man had kept a full head of hair, and when it had gone silver, if it had, before he died. He surely had done, by now. Life was hard for a farmer—which was why Aristide was a smuggler and a stage man in the most frivolous city in Gedda, and not wrangling with blighted sheep in a windswept pasture.
He stepped down from the trolley at Prattler Street and Solemnity and walked the last block dodging the dandified lunch crowd. The noodle house didn’t have a name—just a beautiful lapis-tiled arch above the door. Thick vines crept up the fa?ade. In the summer, they were laden with corkscrew flowers in shades of white and purple, but this time of year the tender green shoots were unadorned.
Aristide ducked in through a low door. The whole place seemed built for a more petite clientele. Sweeping through garlands of spider plant and sweet-smelling hoya, he searched for Zelda in the maze of folding screens and silk hangings. The deep bay windows were positively stuffed with blooming orchids.
“Ari. Ari, over here.”
He turned his head, and realized he’d already overshot. Hard to believe he’d passed her—she was draped in a resplendent silk wrap dyed black and orange, bright as embers. A headache band of fire opals low on her forehead glowed and shifted with her movements.
Still, she was short, and kneeling to boot, and her table was tucked behind an elaborate teak screen to keep conversations private. Her friend Mab sat beside her, feet drawn to one side. In a patchwork waistcoat and a yoked linen shirt thick with smocking, she occupied the decidedly more bohemian end of the southwest quarter’s spectrum.
Between the two women, a squat iron kettle balanced on a frame over a burner. When Aristide sat, across from Zelda, she poured for him. Tea pooled in the crystal glass, inky and thick with dark honey. He took it from her with a slight inclination of his head. The brass finger loop was warm, but not uncomfortably so.
“Delightful little p-p-place, as always.” He flicked his fingers over one shoulder, to indicate the noodle house. “I don’t think I’ve been since sometime around the new year. Love what they’ve d-d-done with the orchids.” Sipping his tea, he turned to Zelda’s companion. “My d-d-dear, how is the city treating you? Usually she’s divine, but she can be a bit of a b-b-beast if she’s feeling ornery.”
“Everything’s been wonderful, thank you.” Mab’s accent was thick as fur. She held her diminutive teacup with both broad hands. “Zelda’s been an excellent host.”
“Shown her all the sights, have you Zelly?”
The fence made a moue over her teacup. Her gaze held him like a jeweler’s tongs. “Only the pretty ones.”
From the corner of his eye, Aristide saw Mab bite back laughter.
A waiter came around the edge of the screen and bowed. “Good afternoon, sir. Madam, does the tea suit?”
Zelda swirled it in her cup. “Like a tailor.”
“Tell me,” said Aristide to the waiter, “have you still got those little sesame b-b-buns? The ones that are shaped like rabbits?”
“Of course, sir. And will you require anything more substantial?”
He waved the waiter’s attention to Zelda, who ordered for all of them. When he had gone, Aristide turned back to Mab, refreshing her tea.
“So,” said Aristide. “I told Zelda a little bit about my problem last night, but nobody gave me any t-t-tidbits about yours. What’s the nature of your sticky situation?”
“Interstate immigration,” she said.
“That’s not exactly d-d-difficult.”
“For me, nay. But for my husband, for my wife … things get complicated.”
“Hmmm. An old marriage. Interesting.” He brought out his cigarette case and offered it around. Zelda took one, but Mab turned him down, taking instead a pipe from her vest pocket. It was new, though smoke had already stained the ivory bowl, and beautifully made. Too new and too fine to be a family heirloom. A gift, then. He wondered from whom.
When she’d finished drawing and the scent of tobacco hovered in a cloud over the table, he asked her, “Where from?”
She cocked her head, balancing the bowl of her pipe in one hand.
“Where are you emigrating from?”
“Nuesklend,” she said.
“Ah. Unhappy with the results of the election?”
“Acherby isn’t kind to the faithful.”
The waiter returned, bearing a heavy tray. He set three bowls on the table, one in front of each of them. The noodles were broad and clear, tangled around small shrimp with pinprick eyes. A fried egg sat slightly off center of each portion, floating on the surface of the delicate broth. With each bowl came a selection of smaller salvers filled with cashews, saffron, and puffed barley. Lastly, the waiter set down a platter of small steamed buns shaped like fat rabbits.
When he’d gone again, Aristide took a moment to scatter crushed cashews over his noodles, then a pinch of saffron threads. The dainty, floral filaments made the broth shiver at their impact. He tossed in a handful of the puffed barley, which began to pop and snap as the liquid seeped into it.
“So,” he said, “your family wants to cross the border into Amberlough. Even with the c-c-current political climate, you should be perfectly able to acquire a residency permit.”