before meeting with Castillo at the Youth Consortium. Slipping on her sunglasses, she vowed to ask him for bus tickets and food vouchers. Maybe after that, she’d check the University branch of the public library for that book she’d been reading two days ago. And check the Internet for those words.
Whiskey opened the main compartment of her pack. The smell of detergent and bleach tickled her nose. Her clothes had been laundered while she’d slept, to include the ones she’d worn when she’d been attacked. Brow furrowed, Whiskey closely examined the rest of her things, not liking that someone had gone through them. From the looks of it, her worn sleeping bag had been replaced with a similar brand, and the thin blanket she kept inside it cleaned. The exterior compartments held the usual amount of clutter—hairbrush, toiletry items picked up from various shelters and services, her journal, lighters, a pocketknife, and other detritus she’d collected over the years. There were other things, too—a slim leather-bound book with strange writing, a fresh carton of cigarettes in her brand, an aluminum travel bottle filled with water, a four-inch sheathed knife, a silver flask that sloshed when she shook it, and an ivory envelope. Whiskey opened the flask and took a sniff, the smell of alcohol burning her nostrils. Of course, whiskey. Sealing it, she put it back, and took out the envelope.
The elegant handwriting on the front merely stated her name. An old-fashioned wax seal with a stylized F graced the back flap. Whiskey cracked the seal. She held it open only an instant, glimpsing the contents before shutting the envelope with a crackle of paper. Looking around, she verified no one stood within thirty feet of her, and peeked inside again. A stack of twenty-dollar bills, and a folded paper met her gaze.
“Holy shit.” She clumsily thumbed through the bills, not pulling them out of the envelope. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like four hundred dollars or more inside, more money than she’d ever had in her hands in her life. “Jesus!” Her mind immediately went to the things she could purchase without worry—cigarettes, lighter fluid for her empty Zippo, socks. She could get a good pair of boots, some more pens, a portable CD player, and still have money left over for a couple of days of food. Her fingers met with parchment, undermining her elation. This money came from Fiona. Another in the long list of favors she’d use to call Whiskey back to her.
Whiskey pulled the paper out, stuffing the envelope back into her pack. Unfolding the note, she braced herself for what it might contain.
Dearest Whiskey,
If you’re reading this, you’ve decided to go it alone rather than accept our hospitality. You’ll never know how much this saddens my heart.
Whiskey snorted. “Saddened, my ass.”
I hope this surprise finds you well. Considering your lack of a stable domicile, I took the liberty of doing what I could to assist you. You’re a proud and noble woman, little lamma, much like your predecessor. Please accept the gifts in the spirit they were given.
Again, I reiterate—you have a cellular phone with our numbers. Call for any reason, no matter how slight. At the very least, I urge you to contact your Baruñal, Reynhard Dorst, at the soonest opportunity. He can assist you with the Ñíri Kurám you are about to undergo.
With Heavy Heart,
Fiona
Whiskey reread the note. Who’s my predecessor? Who do these people think I am? She turned the paper over, as if expecting answers there. Folding it, she returned it to her pack. She glanced around her, seeing sunlight crawling down the trees across the bay. It was just a matter of time before it breached the cityscape behind her, filling the day with sunshine. More vendors had appeared on the sidewalk. A few hardy customers already dickered over vegetables just inside the covered market area. Her stomach reminded her that she’d been drinking, and a burger and fries
Whiskey opened the main compartment of her pack. The smell of detergent and bleach tickled her nose. Her clothes had been laundered while she’d slept, to include the ones she’d worn when she’d been attacked. Brow furrowed, Whiskey closely examined the rest of her things, not liking that someone had gone through them. From the looks of it, her worn sleeping bag had been replaced with a similar brand, and the thin blanket she kept inside it cleaned. The exterior compartments held the usual amount of clutter—hairbrush, toiletry items picked up from various shelters and services, her journal, lighters, a pocketknife, and other detritus she’d collected over the years. There were other things, too—a slim leather-bound book with strange writing, a fresh carton of cigarettes in her brand, an aluminum travel bottle filled with water, a four-inch sheathed knife, a silver flask that sloshed when she shook it, and an ivory envelope. Whiskey opened the flask and took a sniff, the smell of alcohol burning her nostrils. Of course, whiskey. Sealing it, she put it back, and took out the envelope.
The elegant handwriting on the front merely stated her name. An old-fashioned wax seal with a stylized F graced the back flap. Whiskey cracked the seal. She held it open only an instant, glimpsing the contents before shutting the envelope with a crackle of paper. Looking around, she verified no one stood within thirty feet of her, and peeked inside again. A stack of twenty-dollar bills, and a folded paper met her gaze.
“Holy shit.” She clumsily thumbed through the bills, not pulling them out of the envelope. She wasn’t sure, but it looked like four hundred dollars or more inside, more money than she’d ever had in her hands in her life. “Jesus!” Her mind immediately went to the things she could purchase without worry—cigarettes, lighter fluid for her empty Zippo, socks. She could get a good pair of boots, some more pens, a portable CD player, and still have money left over for a couple of days of food. Her fingers met with parchment, undermining her elation. This money came from Fiona. Another in the long list of favors she’d use to call Whiskey back to her.
Whiskey pulled the paper out, stuffing the envelope back into her pack. Unfolding the note, she braced herself for what it might contain.
Dearest Whiskey,
If you’re reading this, you’ve decided to go it alone rather than accept our hospitality. You’ll never know how much this saddens my heart.
Whiskey snorted. “Saddened, my ass.”
I hope this surprise finds you well. Considering your lack of a stable domicile, I took the liberty of doing what I could to assist you. You’re a proud and noble woman, little lamma, much like your predecessor. Please accept the gifts in the spirit they were given.
Again, I reiterate—you have a cellular phone with our numbers. Call for any reason, no matter how slight. At the very least, I urge you to contact your Baruñal, Reynhard Dorst, at the soonest opportunity. He can assist you with the Ñíri Kurám you are about to undergo.
With Heavy Heart,
Fiona
Whiskey reread the note. Who’s my predecessor? Who do these people think I am? She turned the paper over, as if expecting answers there. Folding it, she returned it to her pack. She glanced around her, seeing sunlight crawling down the trees across the bay. It was just a matter of time before it breached the cityscape behind her, filling the day with sunshine. More vendors had appeared on the sidewalk. A few hardy customers already dickered over vegetables just inside the covered market area. Her stomach reminded her that she’d been drinking, and a burger and fries
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