My Only Sunshine does not own Daine or Numair. Yay for third person!
Lots of people thought that Daine's Ma and Grandda were killed by the bandits, and then they burned the house, but I didn't like the idea of such direct murder too much. So perhaps it will simply be that thing when people purposely set fire to something to get their point across. I don't think that will play a big part in the rest of the fic, though.
"Now, honey, there's three basic times in the Sunshine Café: Art, Busy, and Relax. Busy is black to Relax's white. Art is every Saturday night; it's when local poets and suchlike come in and read. And, a course, we've got some in-between times, when the Busy crowd starts to trickle in." A bell tinkled. "That'd be about now. On weekdays, like today, we usually only have the regulars, there's around seven of 'em. I'll introduce you to 'em."
A fist rapped on the counter.
"I'll be there in a second, hon!" Turning toward Daine, Felicia lowered her voice. "That'll be l'il Tacey. She doesn't talk, least, that I know of. But be friendly an' try to act normal. She's hurtin' inside." Felicia strolled through into the café. Daine, head whirling, followed.
An hour later, Daine stood behind the cash register. During its busiest, the café not nearly half full. But, as Felicia had said, on Saturday night the place was so crowded, she often worried about exceeding the limit.
"Daine, honey, could you come here when you have a moment?" Felicia called from the noisy kitchen.
"Sure thing," Daine finished ringing up an order to go; from someone Felicia assured Daine was not a regular.
Daine pushed her way into the steamy kitchen. The mixture of scents, sweet, spicy, savory, made her mouth water.
"Sweetie, I forgot to tell ya, if there's nothing for you to do, go be a waitress. And if that still gives you nothing to do, talk to some of them. Tacey, especially. She likes being talked to."
Daine remembered how the regulars all just went to their tables and sat, waiting to be waited on. She liked the idea of being a waitress better than standing behind a cash register all day.
"Hey, Felicia, you want help with those pies?"
"No thanks, baby doll, I'm good. Just run along an' check on my favorite customers, will ya?"
Daine returned to the café. She glanced out the windows at the deserted sidewalk. No customers in sight. She turned and looked around at the regulars. All we deeply engaged in conversation with each other, some form of reading material or writing. All except Tacey, who was looking into her cup. Daine walked over.
"Honey?" she asked, already adapting Felicia way of talking. "Would you like some more of that?"
Large brown eyes met stormy blue. Daine felt her mood waver just looking at Tacey. She had straight dark hair with bangs. Her swarthy face was so full of sadness; it was seeping out from the large scar above her right eyebrow. She shook her head 'no' and returned to gazing at her mug. Daine pulled up a chair as she sat down, landing neatly. She smiled
"Hey, I'm Daine."
Tacey tilted her head up, oh so slightly, listening.
"I just came from out of town. Felicia great, isn't she?"
A nod. Was that a faint flicker of a smile? Encouraged, Daine continued.
"I'm staying at this little motel, maybe one or two miles from here. Ole Solomon directed me to it. He was right about the rate and the decency of it . . . but he mentioned something about a '10-minute walk to downtown.' But now that I've been hired, Felicia says she'll rent me the apartment upstairs. I'll be moving in tonight.'"
Tacey leaned forward, her eyes filled with a question.
"Would you like to help me move in?"
Another nod, and there was no mistaking the smile, quivery as it was. From the front of the café, a bell tinkled. Daine apologetically smiled at Tacey, and headed to the counter.
After leaving the Laundromat, Numair hailed a taxi. He awkwardly stooped and slid into the back seat; the front seat was occupied by whom he assumed to be the jovial cabby's daughter.
"Whereabouts are you heading, sir?"
"Well . . . do you know of a little café, perhaps on the other side of town?"
"I sho' do." The cabby faced his daughter and said "People these days. If you want to be a cabdriver like me, and I doan' recommend this here job, you have to know the town like the back of your hand. People know where they want to be, but they don't know where, if you catch my meanin'."
Numair listened half-heartedly to the cabby's chatter. He shifted his feet from their initial cramped arrangement. His right foot bumped against something. Reaching down to grab it, he tried not to catch the attention of the cabby. His large hand closed on something rectangular and firm. Satisfied that it would not drop, he sat up quickly. The cabby's eyes flicked towards Numair in the review mirror then back to the road.
"Now, some people, they just can't sit still. Always bouncing around, making the driving hard on humble servants o' the public." The cabby continued in a long lecture to his daughter about etiquette when one is a passenger, admiration beaming from every one of her features.
I suppose I am also expected to listen, Numair thought with a smile. He leaned back in his seat, for all the world hanging on to every word of his temporary chauffeur. Inside, however, his mind was spinning with thoughts of how to subtly glance at the object hidden from the mirror's view with sending the cabby into a sermon about how people "jus' doan' listen."
Mercifully, just before Numair could send his plot into action, the taxi abruptly stopped outside a two-story building. The structure looked extremely out of place squished between two brick skyscrapers, separated from the hustle and bustle of life by a garden, similar to the way an island is surrounded by water. In fact, it looked more like a country cottage, or perhaps a French bistro, was swept up and dumped in the middle of the city.
Numair ducked and scooted off the musty cab seat, leaving behind more than enough to cover cab fare and a generous tip. He paused in the middle of the road, finally able to study the object in his hand. It was a title-less book, he noticed, and then proceeded to flip though the slightly-yellowed pages. Handwritten; it was probably a journal. The corners were burned. A truck horn blared and Numair quickly leapt onto the sidewalk.
I'm not one much for cliff-hangers, but I think I'll leave it at that. :D At the end of Daine's POV, that's Numair entering.
Devious Sorceress, you could not have paid me a higher compliment. Kudos for you! And I'm glad you like Felicia. I like her, too. I mean, like, if she was my employer, I'd be inspired to get up and do something!
Pinky: I think I'll give one to him. I mean, we can't let Daine have all the fun ((cough cough)) now, can we? And I do have something in mind for him.
Lady Knight 1512: I hope it doesn't bother you if Daine and Numair are OOC. But if it means you'll keep reading, I'll try to get them into character.
Eth: Thank you!
Tortall's Resident Wildchild, and Pinky: Thank you both for continuing to review!
GSCer: What exactly did you not like? I can try to eliminate that kind of thing in the future. Or did you simply "not like it?"
Right, so, I was in the shower (my inspiration sanctuary) and now I actually sorta have a plot! So this story may go somewhere in particular (not that going nowhere is not acceptable).
And I must thank you all soooooooooooooooooo much for the reviews. It's very encouraging!