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His café was closed.
Not his café; Islington didn’t own it but he’d consider investing if it meant he could count on its operating hours.
As it was, they were closed due to “mechanical issues,” or so said the handwritten sign haphazardly stuck to the door. It ended with a “we’ll be back tomorrow!” and a smiley face that seemed to mock him.
Hell.
“I know a place.” Hawkes had appeared behind him. Or maybe he’d been there all along. One never knew for certain.
Islington glanced at his pocketwatch.
“Is it far?”
But Hawkes was already walking away, his gait long and ambling.
The place in question wasn’t far at all. The same street, in fact, though Islington couldn’t recall ever noticing it, despite its bright blue door. Hawkes stopped and looked at him, waiting.
“Do I just…go in?”
Hawkes blinked.
“Typically.”
He went in.
It was a living room. For a horrifying moment, Islington feared they’d walked uninvited into someone’s actual home but no, upon closer inspection, it was a shop after all. Mismatched tables and chairs, an old rug with a troubling stain in the middle running the length of the worn wooden floors.
There was also a cat.
“Tybalt,” Hawkes greeted with a nod—almost a bow, really—scratching the cat behind the ears from where it lounged on one aggressively yellow chair.
Through a swinging door in the back came a young woman, red hair, pink cheeks.
“Hello, welcome to—“ The woman began, then stopped abruptly as she looked at Islington. Her cheeks grew pinker.
Islington was no stranger to these kinds of reactions, his sisters teasing that “the unofficial mayor of St Crispian’s leaves a trail of swoon wherever he goes,” but he wasn’t so sure. Maybe it was just the nature of being a public figure, a fixture in the community. But recognition wasn’t the same as being known.
Still, he smiled at the young woman, three generations of manners behind it.
“May I see a menu?”
Her cheeks burned a deeper shade of pink.
“We don’t—that is—“
Then, a blur from the swinging door.
“Agnes, be so good as to put these out will you? They’re clean and dusted and a little chip in a teacup never hurt anyone.”
She was a mess of wild hair and flour. It was on her hands, cheeks, her left ear somehow. She was hefting a tray of plates and cups with great effort but when she saw him, she stopped.
Islington couldn’t explain it, but he knew this girl—woman—even as he was certain they’d never met. Something passed across her face and he thought maybe she was making the same calculation.
Islington remembered himself.
“Here let me—“
She was not anticipating him reaching for the tray, and he was not anticipating her pulling it closer to her person. And in that moment, the whole shop learned what a dozen pieces of china breaking at once sounded like.
The woman looked at the ruins, hands on her hips.
“Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry. Let me—“ he stooped to gather the pieces when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Hawkes.
“Perhaps introductions before we calculate loss.”
“Hawkes, does this reprobate belong to you?” The woman was smiling, more warmly than Islington expected from someone who just lost a whole set of dishes.
“Islington, Miss Emma Lion, owner of Lapis Lazuli.”
“What is Lapis Lazuli?”
“You’re standing in it.” Her arms were crossed now, assessing him. “Is it just ‘Islington’?”
“To my friends.” Which was true, but not precisely what he meant to say. What on earth had come over him in the five minutes he’d stepped foot in this place?
“Well.” She was still smiling, amusement winning out over offense. “I assume you came here for more than just destruction of property. Hawkes, your usual?”
Hawkes nodded.
“And for you…” her mouth twisted in thought. “Do you trust me?”
Yes, he thought. Absurdly.
x
When she delivered it to him a few minutes later, in a mismatched cup and saucer, it was with an exaggerated curtsy.
“Your Grace.”
“Is that supposed to be funny?”
“I find many things funny that no one else seems to.”
“Well, don’t.”
“Don’t find things funny or don’t call you ‘Your Grace?’”
“Islington, please.”
She lifted a brow.
“Does that make us friends?”
“Heaven help me.”
The woman—Emma—laughed.
“Enjoy.”
He waited to take a sip until she walked back into the kitchen.
It was warm, strong, slightly sweet.
He’d been right to trust her.
x
His-but-not-his café was indeed open the next day.
Islington kept walking.
x
Islington surmised that Emma had received his gift at the precise moment it was returned. The box marked FRAGILE waited on his desk, a note attached.
Islington,
Thank you, but I cannot accept your replacement china, however lovely it may be (Agnes especially loved the daffodil pattern). Nothing is owed, seeing as how the broken china has been repurposed and therefore nothing has been lost, monetarily or otherwise.
You might consider returning to see for yourself.
Emma M. Lion
x
It was a tea tray.
A tea tray with broken china pieces glued on to create a mosaic tile.
Agnes displayed it proudly as she served him his tea, a hopeful expression on her face as she waited for his judgment.
It looked…
To be quite honest, it looked like something his nieces would make. But this wasn’t a demerit in Islington’s estimation. It was clever, resourceful, and it made his replacement set look paltry by comparison.
Still, he needed to pay her back.
He waited until Agnes wasn’t looking to place a wad of bills in the tip jar before taking his leave.
x
“You.”
It was said with more venom than Islington thought her capable.
He looked around, unnecessarily, seeing as it was just he and Hawkes in the café.
“Yes?”
Emma’s eyes narrowed from across the counter.
“You know what you did.”
“I assure you, I don’t.”
“The money,” Hawkes said, eyes never straying from his book.
Emma stormed over, thrusting the bills in his direction.
“Take it back.”
“What? No.”
“We don’t need charity, thank you.”
“It was a tip.”
“It wasn’t.”
“There was a jar.”
Emma looked pleadingly at Hawkes.
“Hawkes, you brought him here, you reason with him.”
“Neither a borrower,” he mused. “Nor a lender be.”
Emma looked heavenward for patience, the furrow between her eyebrows like hands in prayer.
“I broke something that belonged to you,” Islington argued. “Common decency demands that I replace it.”
“Even if I’ve repeatedly refused?”
“The laws of the universe must be balanced, Miss Lion. I can’t afford to be in debt.”
“I assure you,” she said coolly. “You can.”
Islington could feel Hawkes smiling behind him.
They stood there like that: Emma holding out the money, Islington refusing to take it.
“I’ll tell you what,” Islington said finally. “I can repay you with labor.”
Emma let out an impressive snort.
“You don’t believe me?”
She glanced at his person, as if the answer was obvious.
“I’m perfectly capable—“ he began.
“Because this job is so easy, is it?”
“Are you determined to twist everything I say and do into something malicious? Can you not accept that I simply want to help?”
“In my experience, sir, offers of help are rarely that simple or that freely given.”
“Try me.”
She looked as though the only thing she’d try was throwing the tip jar at his head.
“Fine. Meet me tomorrow at 6:00 o’clock. In the morning.”
She said this to shock him; he could tell by her arched brow daring him to argue.
“Perfect. Do you have a spare apron?”
“Tybalt sleeps on it but don’t worry, I’ll have it pressed and cleaned by tomorrow.”
“No need,” Islington said with a smile. “I’ll bring my own.”
x
“You’re here.”
She looked down at him, umbrella in hand, her hair already coming undone from its bun as the rain made sport of the pieces around her face.
The thrill of victory for having surprised her shouldn’t have been so strong, and yet.
“I’m a bit early, it’s true,” he said from his perch on the front steps. “Punctual to a fault.”
Emma straightened, stepping around him to enter the shop.
“I gave Agnes the day off, so you’ll be on your own.”
“Where will you be?”
“Reviewing the ledgers, making sure I can keep the doors open without the assistance of any wealthy benefactors.”
It was a barb, but there was truth behind it too, in the hard set of her jaw and the straightening of a chair that didn’t particularly need it.
“Ah.”
She looked at him.
“What does that mean?”
“It means…ah. I see.”
“Do you?”
He shrugged.
“Not entirely. Not yet. But I’d like to.”
She opened her mouth, closed it, the question she wanted to ask but didn’t flashing in her eyes: why?
He wouldn’t have had an answer.
Emma cleared her throat.
“I’ll be in the back should you need anything. Tybalt,” she called over her shoulder. “Watch him.”
x
It was a day of revelations.
One: an errant splash of hot water on one’s skin hurt like hell. (“It wasn’t the first time Islington had been burned—he could pour his own cup of tea, thank you—but never had it happened in such rapid succession. An angry red welt had formed in the space between his thumb and forefinger.”).
Two: people did not come to this café for the tea, or coffee, or Agnes’s scones. They came for Emma.
This wasn’t a revelation, necessarily. Hadn’t he come back for that very reason if he was being completely honest with himself? But much like the splashes of hot water, the force of the knowledge came in rapid succession.
“Is Miss Lion here?”
“Emma’s usually behind the counter on Wednesdays. What have you done with her?”
“Could you tell her I stopped by?”
Islington wondered at the café being in any trouble at all with the very obvious loyalty she inspired, so numerous were her admirers.
Three: with one such admirer, the feeling was - apparently - mutual.
He’d arrived at the end of the day, when the afternoon sun sent long stretches of light across the shop. Tybalt lounged in the middle of one and looked up at the newcomer with lazy approval, which earned him a scratch behind the ears as the stranger made his way to the counter.
“Excuse me, is–”
“I can help.” Emma appeared as if by magic. Islington noticed she stood a little straighter, eyes a little brighter. “Islington, you haven’t had a break all day.”
“I’m fine.”
“Really,” she implored, her teeth slightly gritted. “I insist.”
Ah.
“You haven’t gotten rid of Agnes, I hope,” said the patron. “I would miss those scones.”
“She has the day off. This is my…apprentice.”
Islington glanced sidelong at her.
“Apprentice is a strong word–”
“My page.”
“That’s really–”
“Squire, if you will. Islington, this is Mr. Pierce.”
They shook hands, chatting while Emma busied herself with Pierce’s order (for which she did not have to ask, Islington noted). He was a photographer, had traveled the world documenting places and wars, and spoke with the peculiar talent of making one feel entirely attended to, even as some part of him was aware of everything else in the room.
When Emma delivered Pierce’s order to the counter, he stopped mid-sentence to thank her. She smiled. He smiled.
Islington was, decidedly, unnecessary.
“Instead of that break, I think I’ll be going.”
“So soon?” Emma said, all innocence. “It feels like you just arrived.”
“Indeed. The shortest eight hours of my life.” Islington nodded to Pierce. “Enjoy.”
Pierce raised his cup in farewell.
Islington gathered his things and nodded to Tybalt on his way out. He glanced back to say goodbye, but Emma was already engrossed in conversation, elbows braced on the counter, laughing at something Pierce had said.
He left.
x
Islington did not return to Lapis Lazuli for the next week.
This was not, he felt, newsworthy.
He had meetings. Correspondence. A luncheon he had agreed to and immediately regretted. There were, in fact, any number of reasons a man might not visit the same café two days in a row, particularly when he had just spent eight straight hours there and gone to bed with the smell of tea and lemon lingering on his person.
The following Thursday, however, he found himself on the same street, before the same blue door. It was propped open; invitation or temptation, Islington hardly knew the difference anymore.
Before he could decide which it was, Tybalt appeared on the doorstep, tail swishing like a fencing foil. Islington didn’t claim to have divine animal-reading abilities, but he could swear the cat was weighing his means of escape.
“Don’t even think about it,” Islington muttered.
The cat leapt onto the street.
He was a sprightly thing, darting between passers-by while Islington pushed through the crowd after him, scattering apologies as he went. He finally cornered the devil in a back alley, scooping him up in his arms.
“I have half a mind to let you go,” Islington told him.
Tybalt was unconcerned.
When Islington pushed through the blue door a few minutes later, he found the café empty, save for Emma reading in a pink velvet chair, her legs dangling over the armrest. She glanced at him, also unconcerned.
“There you are.”
Islington did not know to whom she referred.
“I believe this belongs to you.”
“You needn’t have chased him,” she said, getting up from the chair to retrieve the creature. “He always finds his way back.”
“I’ll remember that the next time I see him wreaking havoc through St. Crispian’s.”
He had nearly reached the door when her voice called him back.
“Tea for your trouble?”
“It was no trouble.”
“As a ‘thank you’ then.”
“No thanks necessary.”
Emma eyed him with that same arched brow.
“Can you not accept that I simply want to help?”
His own words, tossed back at him. Not as a challenge, but perhaps an offering. A door propped open.
“Tea would be lovely.”
x
She joined him, back in the pink velvet chair, while Islington took the chaise opposite.
“You missed Hawkes earlier,” she said.
“Was he the one who left the door open, then?”
“That was my doing. I like keeping it open on a day like this.”
“A Thursday?”
“The air is clean today. Fresh. Didn’t you notice?”
“While I was chasing a mad cat through town? No, I didn’t.”
“Pity,” she said, smiling behind her teacup.
x
“Where’s Agnes?” he asked as she poured his second cup.
“Hiding.”
“From what?”
Emma looked at him.
“No,” he said.
“She’d nearly recovered, poor thing, after a full week absent of your ducal presence.” Emma sighed. “Then you had to ruin it.”
“I beg you, stop.”
“You’ll have to visit more often, Your Grace, to help her build immunity.”
“If it’s a matter of public health, perhaps I will.”
x
Islington did return.
He was a man of his word, after all.
He still had meetings and correspondence, but he worked them around his visits. The chaise was always waiting for him, just like Hawkes and his yellow chair, Pierce in the wingback beside the unlit hearth. Sometimes Emma joined them, sometimes not. But she was always there, somewhere in the periphery, never far away.
Agnes worked her way up from one word to two, eventually whole sentences.
He was glad.
Glad to be here, with these people, in a place where the door was always open, not just on Thursdays.
x
It was on one such Thursday that he found her crying.
He’d nearly walked past the café, it being technically past closing. But the lamps were still lit, and he thought: why not? A warm cup before the cold walk home.
He knocked as a matter of etiquette even as he pushed open the door.
From behind the counter came an unmistakable sniff.
He peered over.
“Lion?”
She looked up at him, eyes red.
“Hello.”
“Have you been here long?”
Emma shrugged.
He went around the counter and slid down to sit beside her. Wordlessly, he handed her his handkerchief.
“Something must really be wrong,” he said after a moment. “You took it without argument.”
She laughed wetly.
“I don’t have a fight in me today.”
“That’s a first.”
“It’s really, really not.”
He leaned in just enough for his shoulder to brush hers.
“Care to talk about it?”
x
It was money.
There was never enough of it, always something in need of repair, costs of everything always going up.
“I already had to let Parian go,” she said through another round of tears. “I can’t bear to think of saying goodbye to Agnes, too.”
“It won’t come to that.”
“It might.”
I won’t let it, he thought but absolutely did not – would not – say.
She laid her head on his shoulder, like out of all the expenses in her life, this one cost her nothing.
“You’re thinking quite loudly.”
“And I will leave it at thinking.”
“Why?”
“Because the last time we spoke about money, you nearly threw me out the door.”
“True. But if you have advice, I’d listen. You being such a ‘man of business’ and all.”
“I think I prefer ‘Your Grace’.”
Emma peered up at him, head still on his shoulder.
“Please.”
The word plucked a string inside of him, and he feared the reverberations would never cease.
“I’d need to see the ledgers.”
Emma stood then and extended her hand.
He took it.
x
It wasn’t all bad.
“But it’s still bad,” Emma said next to him. The candle was down to its last breath, and Islington’s back ached from where he hunched at her desk.
“Not all bad,” he said. “I think there are places where you can cut costs significantly, areas where you can explore more economical options without sacrificing quality. The menu–”
“I don’t believe in menus.”
“You might need to start.”
“But it’s part of the charm! Anyone can walk in off the street and order not just what they want, but what they need in that moment.”
“Maybe what they need is structure, stability, knowing that the same thing will be there every time they ask.”
“Unless it’s not because the Man of Business said to cut it.”
“Then they’ll try something new. And they’ll love it because you made it for them. That’s your greatest commodity, Emma. Not what’s served, but who serves it.”
She went very still.
“There’s something you do here that can’t be entered into a ledger,” he said. “People trust you. Trust that.”
For once, Emma had no answer.
The candlelight flickered between them, casting more shadow than light.
Emma glanced away first.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
For once, he had no retort.
“You’re welcome.”
She didn’t let him leave without a cup of tea, hours later than he had originally planned.
The walk home was still cold, but Islington couldn’t feel it.
x
Henry,
I heard the strangest rumor that you’ve started working at a café.
I admit I can’t picture you waiting tables, but then my imagination has never quite kept up with yours.
Please write back to confirm, and include something for your nieces, who miss you terribly.
Love,
Mariana
x
Mariana,
Nonsense.
I only work when Agnes is out.
Please find enclosed a pencil sketch of the café for the nieces to color in. Make sure they keep the door blue.
Love,
Henry
x
Henry,
Not a single word of your letter made sense.
But you sound happy.
Mariana
x
Islington didn’t know about “happy”.
But he knew contentment.
He knew the feeling of having a seat to call his own next to people he called friends. He knew the warmth of a cat at his feet and a cup in his hands. He knew the particular ache of being on his feet all day, knew the source of the tea-and-lemon scent well enough that it had become a part of him, equal parts maddening and familiar.
He knew the days when Emma could join them in her pink velvet chair were better ones.
He knew that if the laws of the universe did indeed need to be balanced, he was tipping dangerously close to something he couldn’t afford to name. Not if it came at the cost of everything he’d gained over these last restless, reckless weeks.
And for what? A lingering glance as they closed up together, Emma sweeping the same spot longer than necessary, Islington taking too long to count the day’s earnings. A brush of hands as she reached across him to plate a scone.
A near-miss in the corridor where she kept supplies. She was on a ladder counting bags of flour, he was putting away freshly laundered napkins. Her foot slipped on a rung as she climbed down and he dropped the basket to catch her, arms encircling her waist. She laughed, breathless, and he could feel it against his chest.
“At least it was linens this time.”
“I shudder to think how you would have made me work it off had it been anything else.”
His arms were, inexplicably, still around her.
“Double shifts,” she said with an unsteady breath. “Starting tomorrow.”
Islington stepped away.
“I won’t be here tomorrow.”
“Next week then.”
When she turned, she must have seen something in his face because her smile fell. “What?”
“I’ll be gone the rest of the month.”
“Oh.”
“I can put off my sister no longer,” he explained, though she did not ask. “My presence is requested in the country.”
“I cannot picture you in the country. Lounging in gardens, fishing.”
Islington turned away and busied himself with the jars of tea leaves.
“It is where I feel most at home.”
A hand on his arm.
“I did not mean to make light.”
He huffed a laugh.
“Yes you did.”
“Islington—“
“It’s not a rebuke, Lion.” He turned to face her again, finding her closer than before. “The day you cease to needle me, something has gone terribly wrong.”
That brow, arched and knowing.
“I’m pleased to hear that I am so predictable, Your Grace.”
“Henry.”
Emma stared at him, all humor gone.
“Your friends call you Islington.”
“Yes.” He stepped forward. “And you can call me ‘Henry’. If you wish.”
Emma opened her mouth, eyes falling to his.
The front door slammed open to a boisterous chant of “E of A!”
They sprang apart. Emma pressed her hands to her cheeks, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Of all times…”
Hawkes appeared in the corridor then. He looked to Islington, then Emma.
“I wonder if you might have room for a party of ten.”
She laughed, dusting her hands on her apron.
“Party indeed where you all are concerned. I’ll start the water.” She began to hurry away, then stopped at the door to look back at Islington.
“Will you write?”
All he could do was nod.
“Safe travels,” she said.
Then she was gone. Hawkes remained.
“Why did you bring me here?” Islington asked.
Hawkes regarded him a moment.
“Are you so certain I did?”
Then he too was gone.
x
Stonecrop was the same as it always was.
The rolling green hills he’d walked every acre of, the familiar walls of the estate, the warm welcome from the staff. A more reserved but no less affectionate greeting from his sister while his nieces affixed themselves to every available limb.
He played dragons and fairies with the children. Surveyed the grounds with his steward. Took up his cello in the mornings and played longer than usual.
None of it felt wrong.
And yet.
“You’re different,” Mariana said over breakfast on their fourth morning.
“Country air will do that.”
“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”
Islington looked down at his tea. Hot, strong, a hint of lemon and yet not at all the same.
“I have not been myself these past weeks,” he admitted.
“Might that have something to do with a café with a blue door? The children think it’s something out of a fairytale.”
They might be right.
x
Emma,
Greetings from Stonecrop. I was informed by my nieces that a dragon has moved in since we last visited, but I’ve yet to see evidence. You seem like the type that would know every genus and species; which would be most likely to frequent Derbyshire?
All is well here, though the tea is terrible. Perhaps I’ve simply grown accustomed to taking my tea with a side of cat hair?
Today I walked through the south field. The orpine is in full bloom, reaching as far as the lake; unusual for this time of year. You would like it.
You should see it.
x
When Islington returned, his café was closed.
Not his, not really. But he couldn’t deny the small sense of ownership he felt over it, and the not-so-small sense of…something where its actual owner was concerned.
Islington stared at the blue door, a “Closed” sign he’d never once seen hung on the doorknob. His first thought was why? Then, more urgently, what happened?
“I see you found your way back.”
Islington turned.
Emma stood on the street, an unreadable expression on her face.
“So it seems," he said.
They regarded each other. A month, apparently, had not been enough.
“Why are you closed?” he asked.
“We spent all day yesterday doing inventory.”
“Ah.”
“Don’t ‘ah’ me. You didn’t write.”
Islington opened his mouth to speak, but found nothing adequate to say.
I wanted to. I tried. I couldn’t.
She stood there, waiting for an explanation he didn’t have.
“Who is ‘we’?” he asked for want of anything better to say.
“What?”
“The ‘we’ that did inventory.”
“Agnes. Hawkes. Pierce.” She paused. “You were missed.”
Islington looked down the street.
“No one else can manage to break a twelve-piece set of china?”
“None quite so gracefully.”
He smiled, despite himself.
“I did write. Several times in fact.”
Her brows lifted.
“On invisible ink and paper?”
Islington ran a hand through his hair.
“I did not miss the needling.”
“What did you miss?”
It could hardly be called rain, what began to fall; just a light mist that wove between them. Islington took a breath.
“There is a view from my study. Every room has a view, really, but this one…it’s where I write. I think you would like it.”
“Would I?”
He nodded.
Emma regarded him.
“I should like to see it sometime.” She paused. “Henry.”
His relief unwound into a smile.
“Perhaps in the summer.”
“Perhaps.” Emma glanced at the door. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
“The sign says ‘closed’.”
“I know the owner. More importantly, so do you.”
Yes, he did.