Floral Arrangements – Three

The most unbearable part of this entire ordeal was easily the waiting.

He was spending entire days on just that now, waiting for his future to be decided. Every now and then someone would show up with a question or eight, or a note for him to sign, and then it would be yet more waiting. Gregory had taken to mocking his so-called ‘twitchiness’ when he spent his waiting time in the house, so it was easier on both his nerves and temper to spend it elsewhere. The nearest alehouse had decent lighting, bad beer, and food available, so Maxim had taken to claiming a corner over morning tea and occupying it until the late hours of the evening, when he was certain that legal business would have closed for the day.

And if he found it more comfortable to be around people who weren’t of a higher class than him or actively engaged in service, then so be it. Gregory’s idea of good company made him tense and acutely aware of his own lack-lustre breeding.

Maxim approached the bar in the quiet lull after the usual lunch crowd had departed, giving his empty mug to the young man behind the bar. “Same again?” asked the barkeep, taking the mug from him and setting down the rag he was using to mop up spilled beer.

Maxim nodded, dipping into his pockets for his coin purse as the man turned to fill his mug. He looked strangely familiar, in a way Maxim couldn’t quite place. His dark hair was too long to be strictly fashionable, but he was working in an alehouse, so it was likely he didn’t care too much about how respectable soldiers or gentry found him. It did mean he hadn’t run into him either attending or serving at one of Gregory’s little affairs though; Maxim would have remembered someone with that long of a cut. There was something familiar in the shape of his eyes and the line of his jaw that was setting Maxim on edge, however.

“Have we met?” he asked as the young man turned back.

The barkeep’s lip twitched upwards as he handed Maxim his beer. “You’ve been in every day this week, but other than that I couldn’t really tell you one way or another,” he said with a careless shrug, skin flashing at his unbuttoned collar under a haphazardly half-knotted cloth. “Why do you ask?”

“You look familiar, that’s all,” said Maxim, handing him the few coins to pay for his drink. “Do you have a name?”

“Linden,” said the youth, picking up his rag again. Upon closer inspection he was probably more of an age with Maxim than he’d initially assumed—his face was just round and lively in the manner of younger men. “Yours, sir?”

“Maxim Bailey.”

The youth froze for a moment, glancing at him. “Ah,” he said delicately. “That would probably explain it.”

“I’m sorry?” said Maxim, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I should hope so, whatever the cause,” said a more familiar, and far more unexpected voice from behind him.

When Maxim turned it was Ozias Alix, the attorney who was the cause of so much of his current troubles, standing a little too close for comfort. He had a brow of his own raised to mirror Maxim’s, and his blue eyes were cool and clinical, dark hair cropped neatly and severely to frame his serious face. His hat and gloves were clasped in one hand, his crisp and sober daywear out of place in the alehouse.

Linden coughed slightly, fidgeting with his rag. “Good afternoon, father.”

Oh. That would explain it, actually.

Alix the elder’s jaw jutted a little as he stared down Maxim for a tense moment. “If you’ll excuse us,” he said eventually, tone sharp, gesturing at Linden behind the bar with his hat. “I’d like to speak to my son.”

“Of course,” said Maxim curtly.

As he returned to his seat he heard Alix say something in a sharp tone, Linden responding that he hadn’t known—

Maxim picked up his reading again as he sat down, rustling the papers and making sure it didn’t look at all like he intended on leaving. He could see the conversation at the bar from the corner of his eye, though he couldn’t hear what they were saying. Alix was as rigid as he ever was, and Linden seemed determined to clean every glass in front of him rather than meet his father’s eyes. Maxim could feel the terseness from across the room.

The conversation only lasted a few minutes, and it ended with Linden slapping his rag down and fixing his collar with a scowl. The two men nodded curtly at each other before Alix crossed the room to stand by Maxim’s table, staring down at him haughtily.

“What do you want?” said Maxim in his best bored tone, not doing him the dignity of meeting his eyes.

“To let you know that one way or another this mess will be resolved in the next week,” said Alix, just as curt. “Though I’m sure if you spend enough time here it will only pass faster for you. Good day, Mister Bailey.”

Maxim wasn’t especially attached to his official position, but it rankled to hear this ass of a lawyer ignore it as though it were already lost. He looked up to meet Alix’s icy stare with his own cool regard, refusing to do him the satisfaction of losing his temper. “Good day, sir.”

He swept from the building without a further word, door swinging shut behind him. Maxim watched him leave over his papers, feeling cold anger resting in the lines of his face. “Prick,” he muttered.

“Funny how often I hear that,” said Linden ruefully, making Maxim start in his seat.

“You walk very lightly,” he remarked, looking up at Linden, who looked marginally neater than he had before his father’s entrance. “Come to move me along?”

Linden’s nose wrinkled in distaste. “Hardly,” he said, offering him a plate with some bread and cheese. “You usually ask for food at this time, I wanted to pre-empt you. The owner of the house had been enjoying your steady custom this past week, he’d be rather irritated if my father ran you off.”

Maxim snorted, accepting the plate. “Does he make a habit of it?”

“No, he prefers not to come here,” said Linden, sounding a little strained. “We’re having a minor dispute over the terms of an arrangement, is all.”

“Something to do with his son squandering his time and prospects pouring ale for commoners?” said Maxim, probing a little.

“Something like that,” said Linden, shrugging carelessly with one shoulder. “Enjoy your food, sir.”

Maxim did as he was told, though he looked up several times over the course of the next hour, curious about Linden despite himself. He didn’t make terribly much headway in his reading, but that was fine. He’d likely have several more days to fill with busywork after all. Eventually he stood, bringing his empty plate over to the counter with some coin to pay for it.

Linden was sitting on a tall stool behind the bar, his attention on a bound sheath of papers in front of him. “One moment,” he said absentmindedly, tracing a careful line in ink before setting his pen down and standing up. “Thank you.”

As he dealt with Maxim’s plate and coin, Maxim’s attention was on the page of flowers Linden had been inking. It had initially been curiosity that drew his gaze, but after a moment he realised he recognised both the flowers and the style in which they were drawn. “You’ve a fine hand,” he said as Linden returned to the counter.

Linden stilled, eyes darting to the papers on the bench clearly in Maxim’s line of sight. His mouth twisted a little, expression unreadable. “Almost as fine as my handwriting, I’m told,” he said eventually, tugging a sheet of cramped figures over the ink drawings. “Was there anything else you needed?”

“I’m guessing your father also disapproves of your other form of employment?” said Maxim instead of answering the question.

“I’m sure he would, if he were aware,” said Linden, tone just as bland, though his—his? Her? —fingers were curling into fists on the countertop. “Were you planning on asking him about it?”

“And give him cause to come at me from an axis of moral indecency as well? Hardly,” said Maxim, inflecting his tone with a little wry humour.

Linden gave a startled laugh at that, and Maxim was gratified to find he enjoyed hearing it as much in the daylight hours. Almost as much as he enjoyed the sight of the dimples returning to Linden’s cheeks.

“Would it bother you if we continued this conversation?” asked Maxim, testing the waters.

“Well, as long as you don’t mind my staying behind here,” said Linden, gesturing at the bar, “then I think I’d enjoy that.”

Maxim smiled back and sat on one of the stools across the bar.

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