Hello again!

This chapter is a bit shorter than the previous one, but I hope you'll enjoy it nonetheless.

Pocket hoops: A small hoop worn during the 18th century. Made out of linen and bone or cane and tied around the waist. Could have slits so the hoops could be used as pockets, or with separate pockets hidden inside (also tied about the waist). Easy way to secretly bring a chicken or a few bottles of wine anywhere one might go.

"If the need arises, I'll adopt both Alexander and the shop."

The soft smile on Mairead's face spoke of quiet surrender. Marta couldn't help but smile back, a soft laugh escaping her as she placed her hand on the door. Then winked at her as she opened it.

"I will keep that in mind Mistress Douglas. Good afternoon."

"Thank you, good afternoon as well Mistress Olsen."

Marta remained by the door as Mairead made her way out of the shop. Glancing at the clock once more, she shook her head and walked over to the cupboard where she kept the money and her personal items locked. Opening it, she retrieved her hat and gloves. Once laid out on the top of the cupboard, she turned to look at the two customers and forced a smile on her face.

"Please, do excuse me, ladies. There is a personal matter I need to attend to, so the shop will be temporarily closed soon. Is there anything that has caught your eyes?"

One of the ladies, the wife of a soldier she couldn't remember the rank of, turned towards her with a roll of pale blue ribbon and nodded. Closing and locking the cupboard, Marta took her scissors with her and smiled at the woman. A staggering eight ells of ribbon and one ell for lace in exchange for ten pennies and three farthings later, she locked the coins in the cupboard and drew the curtains.

Finally locking the shop behind her, she checked the door three times before turning towards the street that led her to A. Malcolm's print shop. She adjusted her fichu as she walked. Needing her to have something to do. Something other than thinking about what exactly she had done and especially what she was about to do. Taking a deep breath, she readjusted her hat, tilting it as she passed her reflection in a window.

A vase caught her eye for a moment. It was a poor attempt at recreating the style of Ming vases with its distinctly European flowers and style. Yet it was nonetheless beautiful. Such a beauty that she faltered, pausing for a brief moment to admire it. The porcelain too thick to be of Chinese make. The curves of the vase and its decoration was somehow wrong. Yet the urge to walk inside and purchase it was there. It was great really, the urge to buy it. Closing her eyes and shaking her head to rid herself of the thought, she turned her head and continued her walk.

It had always been her weakness. Even a vice of hers really. Her immense love for things. Items of no real practical purpose other than decoration. Growing up, little had been as enticing as the thought of owning a tin plate. One decorated with flowers on the edge and old enough to not really have a shine to it anymore. The way those plates had dimly reflected light had always captured her heart and imagination. Who had used it before? What kind of people were they? Where and how had they lived?

Smiling at the thought, she turned the corner and looked at the Canongate Kirk. Though she went there every Sunday, it still sparked the embers of her imagination. She was the first to admit she had an overactive one, always conjuring up thoughts and stories, transporting her to places she missed or had never even heard of. Walking down Wilson's, she squinted at the print shop. Then stopped just outside it.

Looking down at herself, she tucked the fichu tightly and prettily and adjusted both her hat and bodice. Rubbing her gloved hands together she licked her lips, then looked back up at the metal sign. While new, it was carefully kept clean. She had been right to dress well for the occasion. Walking up the stairs, she took a deep breath and opened it.

"Please wait a moment."

The voice was loud and heavily Scottish. Immediately fitting the image she had conjured up in her mind of the man. A true highlander if she had ever met one. Though she had only met a handful at most.

Resting her elbows against her modest pocket hoops, she looked around the room. The railing would probably look down at the actual printer on the ground floor on her left. A staircase directly in front of her, most likely leading down there. A wooden wall with examples of earlier prints to her right. Turning to look at the advertisements, poems and bible passages, she narrowed her eyes as she concentrated on reading them. Few were recognisable to her and the various fonts confusing to both her eyes and mind. The s's that looked like small f's were the most troublesome. Shaking her head as she read 'slopes' as 'flopef' for the second time, she turned as she finally heard footsteps in the staircase. Putting a smile on her face, she tilted her head slightly downwards as she waited. Still looking at the prints on the wall.

"What may I help ye with?"

Turning towards him, she dipped her head slightly. After removing her gloves she retrieved a copy of the note she had given Sander earlier in the day. Slowly making her way over to the man who was indeed a very tall and very broad redhead with glasses, she offered him the note with a smile.

"My son ordered prints of this advertisement this morning. I hope you did not find it rude to wait for the rest of the cost until now?"

His brows furrowed as she spoke and she forced the growing smile to remain still and polite. She stole a glance at him as she turned her head to retrieve her coin purse from her pocket. He was plainly yet finely dressed in dark garments and an almost surprisingly white and frilly shirt shift. It was clear he kept up the pretences and dressed for the role of a printer. Looking back at him as she opened her coin purse she tilted her head slightly. Waiting for an answer.

He regarded her silently for a few moments. His brows still lightly furrowed as he removed his glasses from his nose. Finished reading the handwritten advertisement and presumingly processing not only her words but also her actions. She lifted a brow at him, before dipping her head once more.

"How rude of me. I forgot to introduce myself. I am Marta Olsen, my mantua shop is on Cranston Street."

"Alexander Malcolm. A printer, as ye certainly ken."

Nodding her head, Marta couldn't help the smile that was growing on her face. Looking down at the wooden floor to compose herself, she removed her hat. Then looked back at him when the smile wouldn't shrink back to a polite smile.

"Alexander? My son bears that very name as well. I do hope he was not a bother this morning. I would have preferred to come myself, however..."

She let her words falter, shaking her head slightly as the words fell from her mouth. Though never having met the man before, nor anyone like him, his presence was still very much a familiar one. It was hard to place exactly where she had met such a presence before until she caught sight of his hands. Though he dressed the part, his hands betrayed a life of work. A life of working with his hands. She was almost tempted to reach for them and touch the callouses. They looked and probably felt, much like her fathers' had.

"How much do I owe you? I assure you I will pay, I was only hesitant to give my son too much while on his own."

"Aye, that will be four pennies."

"Not more? Seems I provided too many coins for Sander then."

A man of few words then. It was almost disturbing how curtly he was being. It only reminded her more of her father. Finding the four pennies he was owed, she reached her hand out and offered them to him. The brief moment his fingers touched the palm of her hand, it was confirmed. His hands felt like her fathers'. The ghost of a smile grew on her lips as the feeling lingered.

"Aye, well one has to be a bargain tae make a living as a printer."

Nodding her head, she wanted to sigh. The conversation was not going anywhere. She had provided much of the words, while his contributions were only answers to direct questions. Glancing around the building, she decided to go on the offence. Not having the energy to keep gathering information indirectly and worrying about how to approach this. Motioning for the staircase, she looked up to look directly into his eyes. A startingly pair of blue eyes that reminded her of far too many she once had known.

"May I see the first prints?"

Despite frowning once more, he nodded. Then motioned for her to follow him downstairs. Her eyes remained on the back of his head as they walked. Not even look down at the steps of the stairs. It felt like her insides were frozen, yet she ignored it.

Once down by the actual printer, her eyes betrayed her. The machine was somehow both smaller and bigger than she had imagined. It was almost entirely made out of wooden parts, making her mind immediately wonder how the pieces were cut and put together. She couldn't help but walk closer to it, her fingers never touching it despite lingering mere inches from it. It was remarkable. So sophisticated in a way she couldn't really describe.

"My assistant made three different prints as practice. The real ones will be better."

She turned towards the voice, her eyes the last to actually move before she took the offered pages. Narrowing her eyes slightly, she stumbled over the s's, even in her own name. All three of them were to her liking. One even featured a print of scissors to catch the reader's attention. Smiling down at the pages, she offered them back to him. The one with the printed scissors on top.

"All three are a remarkable improvement on earlier advertisements I have had made. Though I do prefer the one on top due to its uniqueness."

A smile finally graced his face, however small it was. He placed the other two pages on a table and walked over to the printer, laying the third there as to remind him that was the preferred print. Tearing her gaze from the machine, she looked around the room and the story above. No one. Walking closer to the man, she took a deep breath.

"Milord."

Her lips curled at the unknown voice until she looked up at the railing upstairs. The Frenchman. Though much younger than she had thought, more a teen boy than a man, the wooden hand resting on the railing confirmed his identity. It was an opportunity.

"Fergus, as ye can see I'm busy with a customer."

"Ah, that must be one of your assistants. The French one."

Though not seeing Malcolm staring at her, she felt it on the side of her skull. Lowering her head for a moment, she took a deep breath and looked back at Alexander Malcolm. He was frowning once more, this time deeply as his eyes were narrowed. Reassessing her entire presence in his shop. Her heart pummeled against her chest as she showed her palms and smiled.

"I must admit my motives for coming here were dual. I want to offer my aid if it is in some manner needed."

He walked closer to her, his eyes intense as he stared down at her. His nose slightly flared. Folding her hands, she met his eyes and tilted her head up. Cursing her small stature all the while. The footsteps in the stairs, though far from distant, barely registered in her ears as she stared back at Malcolm.

"What do ye ken?"

"Enough for me to know we are both on the same side. A side which is quite troublesome to be associated with nowadays."

Something akin to pain flared up at his sudden grip on her arm. Yet she forced herself not to look away or react. She was far from unprepared for this reaction. It was one she had expected, though in one similar scenario a knife or a dagger would already rest against her throat. A harsh grip on her arm was nothing compared to that, so she smiled at him.

"What do ye ken?"

Though far from appropriate, she laughed. It shocked her how much he reminded her of her father. Even the cold angry tone was the same. Running her tongue across her lips as she composed herself, she blinked away the thought. In return, she was met with a confused, yet still angry look. Just his brows showed enough anger to make one's blood cold.

"Printer by day, smuggler at night. Meets a man in the basement at World's End a few times a month. Aided by a young Frenchman, previous Ardsmuir prisoners and an Asian man. A former Jacobite said to have been by the Prince's side during the Rebellion. Alexander Malcolm, the newest printer in Edinburgh, it's a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I am Marta Olsen, also known as Maura while involved in the preparations for the unfortunately failed uprising in 1760."

Her tone had turned neutral in hope not to show any trace of the bruising pain of his grip. Indeed, only a working hand could have a grip such as that. Though she had thought his brows to be furrowed as deeply as possible, they only continued to draw closer. Then as suddenly as it had come, the grip vanished. His body turned, while his eyes remained on her.

"Why have ye come here?"

"As I said, to offer my aid if needed. Though looking around you are not in need of financial aid, the offer for information and connections still stands. If those are not desired, my aid also extends to when it might be needed."

By the look on his face, she didn't need to say in what situation it might be needed. Since her offer had now been made known, she dipped her head to both the men and made her way towards the staircase. Circling around the teen boy, she fumbled with the loose knot on the ribbons of her hat.

"Why should I trust ye?"

Pausing her steps, she looked over her shoulder as she put on her hat. Tying the ribbon at her neck, she smiled back at the two. Her eyes only looked into bright blue ones. She turned fully towards them as she held a glove in each hand.

"Isn't it an equal trade already? Aleksander even came to you this morning, did he not, Mister Malcolm?"

His eyes only narrowed at her and she offered him a smile. With a soft nod, she turned her back to them and walked up the stairs. The entire building was quiet. Each step echoed as the wood groaned under her heels. Placing a gloved hand on the door handle, she shook her head. After making her way over to the railing, she leaned down on it and she looked down at the still quiet men.

"When should I return for the advertisement, Mister Malcolm?"

The man looked up at her, his brows still deeply furrowed. His eyes narrowed at her words. She only smiled at him as she folded her hands. Her forearms rested on the thin wooden railing while she waited. A sound between a sigh and a click of the tongue escaped him before he shook his head. His hand motioned something she didn't quite understand.

"Two days, late afternoon."

"Thank you, Mister Malcolm. Do ponder on my offer 'til then."

She didn't give him time to answer. Before he had the time to do so, she closed the door behind her and made her way onto the street. It was still busy with men and women walking, selling everything from vegetables to cheap perfume. Careful not to glance behind her, she started to walk home. While not looking behind her, she was almost certain that a particular black-haired teen would follow her. If not him, someone else would. Though she did have the impression that he wouldn't involve anyone he hadn't known for years.

Something that would have benefited her to know before she met him, of course, yet it had gone better than she had feared.

Passing her shop, she looked up at the sky. It was far too late to open it again. At most, it would only be open an hour before it closed again. The meeting with the mysterious A. Malcolm had lasted far longer than she had thought it would. So she took a deep breath and continued on her way home.