Ophelia could have sworn they turned to look at her when she walked in, but all that really happened, was the drunkard in the corner hiccuping so wildly, his body flailed.

The ceiling of the tavern was low, but moving towards the back, the floor split into another level. On the bottom level, someone sang along to a hurdy-gurdy. Ophelia moved across the room to the banister where she could gaze below.

A keeper circled the tables and patrons, a tray balanced on the flat of their palm high in the air. They wove like an auroborus, forever chasing where they were.

Ophelia descended the stairs and found herself an empty seat at the end of a communal table. When the keeper curled to her, she ordered an ale and something to eat. They nodded, then Ophelia was alone again.

She turned her gaze to the performer and relaxed in the music. Her rose-coloured gaze drifted to her hands. The tips of her fingers plucked and preened her nails and ends of her woolen finger-less gloves. She exhaled a long and steady sigh, far longer than she realized she had pent up in her lungs.

After a moment, the cup of ale dropped before her and the sounds of the keepers moving away from her. She brought it to her lips, drank, and then drank more. When she finally pulled the ale away, half of it was gone. She put a hand to her chest and tempered the burst of air in her throat.

Ophelia turned away to the golden liquid--golden like curls of hair. Golden like marigolds. Golden like teeth. She placed the ale back down and turned to the performer.

“Hey--” someone slurred and fell into the bench next to her. It shoved her to the side and drug her hand across the wooden table. A splinter slithered in. She turned with a glare brewing in her gaze. The drunk patron chuckled, face red and speckled. “Oh, my ap-pologies,” he spat, and it sprayed over her.

Ophelia held her hand and massaged the sting of the splinter. She turned her head away to avoid what she could.

A companion of the drunk patron pulled them to their feet and nodded a sincere apology to her, but as she turned to look, someone slipped in front of her. A scruffy and suspicious looking man, with a worn leather Garrick and tricorne hat. He pulled it off and placed it on the table. Then he pulled Ophelia’s ale to his lips and took a long pull.

“Ahh,” he smacked his lips and smiled. “Always so refreshing.”

“What do you want?” She kept her voice low.

“I’m not here for business.” He turned grey eyes up to her. “Ah, did you not miss me?”

“I miss you like the smell of a chamber pot in the morning.”

He snorted, offended for a brief second before smiling wide again. His golden-brown hair was pulled back into a ribbon. His face in need of a shave. He smelled musty, like old water, like dirt and moss.

And in an instant, she knew where he had been. The smuggling caverns.

“I’m touched, truly.” He took another long pull of her ale.

With the back of his hand he wiped the excess from his face. Ophelia remained silent. She stared until he turned his gaze back to her. His face split again into a smile. His sharpened jaw and nose looked like the stalactites she had once lived around.

“You keep staring at me like that and I’m gonna have to charge you.” He winked.

Her face remained cold and frozen. “What do you want?”

“Really, it’s been weeks since I’ve seen you and this is the kind of response I get? You’re breaking my heart.”

“Gaspard,” she hissed.

“Ophelia?” He waited, but eventually rolled his eyes and leaned into her. “I spotted you, I wanted to say hello, like old friends do.”

“We are not friends,” she corrected as quick as a whip.

His eyes rolled up and down her. “Aren’t we?”

“Please leave.”

Gaspard leaned back. “All right, I lied, I am here on business.” He shoved a hand into the inner breast pocket of his Garrick. He pulled a cluster of folded papers out. He nodded to them with a grin before sliding them across the table to her.

“What’s this?”

“A job for you.”

“I work for Goldie.”

“And isn’t it time you break free?”

Ophelia pulled the papers to her gaze. “I don’t smuggle.”

Gaspard choked on his laugh. It took him a moment to regain himself. “You smuggle a different kind.”

She folded the papers down as the keeper circled again and dropped a plate of breads and slices of cooked meats. Before she could even have a moment to eat, Gaspard pulled food for himself.

“My terms are clear. They haven’t changed in years.” She abandoned the papers on the table.

With a single swipe, one hand tucked the papers back as the other plucked more food off Ophelia’s plate. “That didn’t stop you last time.”

“Last time, like all times with you, was a mistake. I have better judgement now.”

Gaspard nodded politely, though he didn’t believe her. He sucked the last of the crumbs off his fingers. It made Ophelia’s spine tense. “Sure, the jobs still yours if you ever want to break off that diamond-crusted leash.”

Her heart rate quickened.

Gaspard dove a hand into another pocket. From it he pulled a long chain of silver, a charm at the end. He dropped it on the table before her. “I found this in the cave.”

I stole this from someone I helped traffic, was what he meant.

“And?”

“Goldie still got a good fence?”

“Why do you think she would ever work with you? She’d have you roasted alive so she could gnaw on your tibia.”

Gaspard’s face hardened. “Fine.” He dropped it back in his pocket. “You attending that party at van Croix’s tomorrow?”

“Why?”

“Everyone’s in a roar about it.”

“I was invited, yes.”

He took another piece of her bread and brought it to his mouth. “Shame, I would have loved to see you in that dress.”

That dress.

Ophelia’s fist coiled, the splinter in her palm stoking the growing bit of her anger. “What?”

Gaspard took a bite. “What?

“You said ‘that’ dress.”

He rocked his head in bemusement. “What can I say, when asked for my opinion, I have good taste.” He took another bite, and Ophelia wished that it turned to rot in his mouth. “I did always think you looked great in white and red.”

She forced herself to stand, hands slamming onto the table. The suddenness of it shocked Gaspard, who stared up at her mouth agape. A half-chewed piece of bread tumbled off his lips and to his lap.

Ophelia huffed and huffed.

To hell with these people, to this fucking city. Everything is rotten.

Rotten. Rotten. Rotten.

She left out a final huff before she broke off from the table and ascended the stairs to the top-floor and exit. Gaspard’s gaze, and those of the room, followed her until the last flick of her woolen over-cloak was all they could see.

He turned back to the plate of food, hands reaching for it before his eyes, but he felt something off. He turned his gaze then jumped out of his chair. His ass on the floor, eyes widened.

The whole plate of food had molded and decayed.

Rotten.