A/N: Thank you everyone for your reviews! I'm sorry for the wait between updates; I'll try to update about once a week, but feel free to bug me about it

Chapter Four: The Visitor

Sophie didn't know how long she had been there when Uncle Londer found her. He must have come on tiptoe, for she didn't hear a thing until his heavy hand fell gently on her shoulder.

"Sophie?"

She jumped at the unexpected contact and surreptitiously wiped her eyes on her sleeve, praying that Londer would be either too distracted or too uncomfortable to comment.

"I'm fine, Uncle. I-I must have dozed off."

Londer furrowed his brows but didn't press. They had both enjoyed their share of sleepless night over the years, and it was easier to pretend that things were the same as always. Sophie sat up in the chair a little more, wincing at the sharp ache in her back. She felt drained and logy, and the thought of facing the rest of the day in the shop made her want to moan.

She wanted to hide, to go back to her attic room and curl up with hot tea and a book that took her far, far away. Sophie shook her head a little, impatient with herself. Just when she thought that she'd finally put the past where it belonged, a complete stranger brought it all rushing back. She'd just have to pray that the good townspeople of Ell had better things to do today than buy dreams.

Sophie rolled her neck left and right, working out the kinks, and took her Uncle's hand as he pulled her to her feet. Forcing herself to focus, she murmured,

"I finished the inventory. We're running low on some of the grail quests. Shall I start replacing them?"

Sophie waited, but Londer didn't answer.

"Uncle?"

"Ah-Sophie, would you mind very much if we closed early today?"

Sophie's head snapped up, surprised. Her uncle would keep the shop open through fire and flood—literally. Last Midsummer Eve, when a stray fireflower came bursting through a window, he'd stomped out a flaming trouser cuff and carried on haggling.

"You mean that we should close…now?"

Londer shrugged his shoulders, his baggy cloak nearly hiding the motion.

"You're tired, and I daresay that there'll be few enough customers today, especially with a fair in town."

"There's a fair?"

Sophie blinked, momentarily distracted. Ell was a tiny, and far enough from Town that it drew little notice. People considered it a wonderful stroke of fortune when the odd under-fed, atonal minstrel somehow stumbled into the village pub. To have an entire fair come settle was rare indeed. But her uncle merely waved his hand distractedly.

"Yes, it's quite a sight. Acrobats and magicians and fortune-tellers, and the smartest costumes I've ever seen." He shook his head, dismissing the entire idea. "The point is, no one's buying our dreams today, my dear, and we may as well have a rest."

It was certainly strange, but Sophie wasn't about to turn away a gift horse. She gave a grateful smile and nodded decisively.

"I believe that I'll go up to read, then. Be sure to call if you need me."

Londer gave her arm an affectionate squeeze, his gaze still was fixed on something far away.

"Enjoy, my dear."

He gave her a courtly bow and wandered off toward the storage room. Sophie stared hard at the retreating back. Londer was often absent-minded, caught up in his dream-weaving. But if she didn't know better, she's almost think that there was something truly the matter. Sophie's back gave another sudden pang, and she scrubbed a hand over her eyes. Whatever was wrong, if indeed something was, her head—and her heart—ached too much to deal with it now.

Slowly, Sophie climbed the curving stairs to the attic and slipped into her familiar room. She unlaced her boots and set them at the foot of the bed. Automatically, she reached up to pull the long pins from her unruly hair, but she froze halfway through the motion. Sometimes at night, after he'd had a bit too much to drink, her uncle would murmur that she had her mother's hair. He would stare at her with faraway eyes, and Sophie knew that he was seeing not his niece but his beloved sister, five years in her grave.

Against her will, Sophie's fingers strayed to the wooden box on her vanity. There were no pictures of her mother in the house now. Uncle had never said what he had done with them, and she had never asked. They had both gone a little mad after she died, Sophie supposed, and each had coped as best they could.

Sophie had worked, spinning dreams until her fingertips bled and her head hurt too much to think. Her uncle had brooded, staring into the fire as if it held the holy grail. But at night, after Sophie had gone to bed, she'd hear the muffled scrapes and bangs as Londer systematically banished all earthly traces of her mother.

The little cameo was now the only real memento left to her. It had been a gift from her father, Sophie remembered, taken not long after they moved to Ell. In profile her mother was delicate, with a tip-tilted nose and a riot of tumbling curls. Her eyes were soft, her gaze on the husband who had surely been standing at the artist's shoulder.

Sophie clenched her fist until the edges dug sharply into her palm. It did no good to think on these things. It didn't make the pain any less; rather the opposite. Decisively, Sophie put the engraving away and shut the box with a snap. After a moment's pause she scooped up her book from the dresser, hoping that the adventures of Ulric the Unwise would be enough to banish her bothersome melancholy.

Sophie woke when it was nearly dark. The light outside was bleeding orange and red, and the summer sunset filtered through thick, leaded glass to spill a wavy harlequin pattern across the coverlet. With bemusement, Sophie realized that Ulric must have put her to sleep. But the unexpected nap did seem to have accomplished what her book could not. With some relief, Sophie realized that the specter of her mother had retreated back to its usual hazy place in her memory. The crushing pain of the morning had lifted, and she felt almost embarrassingly relieved to free of it.

Rubbing her eyes, Sophie stumbled up from the well-worn leather chair and blinked at the little clock on her dresser. It was half past seven—well after suppertime. Why on earth hadn't uncle Londer woken her? On cue, her stomach gave an affronted rumble. The breakfast of tea and stale cakes had been less than satisfying eight hours before. Now, Sophie felt ravenous. Hoping that uncle had made enough for leftovers, she pulled on an old woolen shawl and set off to forage.

Sophie was half-way to the kitchen when she heard her uncle's voice. The study door was almost closed, but as she passed it she could clearly make out the familiar low baritone. Londer's voice was raised; was he arguing with someone? Knowing it was wrong but unable to contain her curiosity, Sophie edged closer and peeked through the door.

Her eyes landed first on the form of her uncle, hunched in his old wing chair before the fire. Londer's hands were raised in protest, and his beard swayed with the force of his gestures. Across from him on a low settee sat a short, nattily dressed man with a pinched face. Sophie looked closer and blinked in shock. She knew all Londer's friends, and this man was certainly not one of them. In fact, he was a complete stranger. What on earth was he doing here?

"You must understand that I too have bills to pay. I sympathize, my good sir, but I am afraid I cannot hold the debt any longer."

Londer leaned forward, and Sophie heard a rare note of pleading in his voice.

"I'll have the money, I tell you. I just have to sell a bit more, a few weeks at most…"

The stranger gave a long-suffering sigh.

"That is what you said the last time, as I recall. I haven't seen one silver penny. And if I forgave the debt of every gambling fool, sir, I would be a poor man indeed."

Londer opened his mouth but the other man cut him off. "It is very simple; I must have my payment in two week's time, at the very latest."

Sophie watched her Uncle's hands clench.

"What if I can't pay?"

Weasel-face gave an eloquent shrug. Though his tone was sympathetic, his face looked almost triumphant.

"Then I'll have to take the shop, I'm afraid. It would be a pity, but the business…".

Her uncle's voice was cold.

"I'll pay, damn you. I'll have it by Monday week." After a moment, he stood. "It's late; you must be tired. I'll show you out."

Sophie was so enwrapped by the conversation that it took her a moment to realize her danger. She scooted back from the study door and darted down the corridor, ducking into the kitchen just as the two men came out of the study. Heart pounding, she waited, listening as the heavy front door squeaked open and then slammed shut. There was a moment of silence. Then, her uncle's slow footsteps moved back toward the study. For a moment Sophie was terrified that he might be heading for the kitchen. But the footsteps retreated again, and she realized that Londer had gone up the stairs to the bedroom.

Sophie let out a deep breath and sagged a little against the kitchen wall. Thank goodness, she hadn't been caught. But the flood of relief was short-lived as she remembered the stranger's warning. What debt was he talking about? The shop was doing well; her uncle even planned on expanding in a year or two. And Londer certainly didn't gamble…did he?

Sophie told herself it was impossible, but she still couldn't escape the faint feeling of dread. After his sister's death, Londer hadn't drowned his sorrows in any conventional sense. He didn't drink, didn't gamble, didn't have affairs. Or at least, that's what she had thought. Sophie clenched her fists. Londer would have wanted to spare her the more unsightly expressions of grief. Had he been slipping out to the clubs without her even noticing?

The thought made Sophie feel guilty and faintly sick. She had to know. Whatever the worst was, it was better than ignorance; or so she told herself. With a determined step, she slipped out of the kitchen and walked back toward the study.