Page 81 of Alchemy of Souls

“Who are you, lass?” the cobbler asks me gruffly.

“Eloise Belrose, sir. I come from a servant family. Oh sorry, I mean Laborers,” I say as a joke, and it earns me a crooked smile. “This is my first time in a store like yours and I have to say—wow. My grandad would have loved it. He helped craft weapons for the Guardians, but pretty things like this were always his favorite. He used to whittle me little toy animals when I was a kid. I still have them on my windowsill at home.”

The cobbler considers me for a long moment. “Let me ask you something, lass, do you like the boy standing next to you? Notaskin’ if you’re impressed with his title, but do you like him as a person?”

“I, um…” I start and get stuck.

“That’s what I thought,” the cobbler says and looks back down at his bench.

My face flames, and there’s part of me that’s frustrated enough with Grayson that I want to leave it at that.

I sigh, looking up at the ceiling and back down. “He doesn’t suck,” I say flatly. “Well, sometimes he does. Grayson can be arrogant and bossy and thinks it’s okay to lie no matter the consequences.”

The cobbler looks up and my answer seems to please him.

“But,” I say holding up my hand. “He’s not all bad. I actually suspect he’s a good apple in a bad batch, where he has to continuously fend off the poison. He’s saved me more than once and paid a price for it every time.”

The cobbler eyes the pair of us. But Grayson doesn’t look at the man, he’s staring at me, wearing an expression I’ve never seen on him before—something soft and almost vulnerable.

“Don’t just stand there lookin’ daft, boy,” the old man says. “Flip the sign in the window toClosed. It spell-locks the door.”

I look at him, shocked.

The cobbler lifts his hand. “This is no special favor. It’s teatime anyhow. You have until I finish my biscuits to ask your questions before I kick you out.”

“Understood!” I say with too much gusto and he scowls at me.

We follow the cobbler up the staircase to a small apartment where everything is crowded and cozy. He gestures to the round table in his kitchen.

Grayson and I sit while he boils water. But when the old manjoins us, pouring the steaming teapot into our cups, Grayson doesn’t say anything. He looks at me instead.

I grip my hot teacup for courage. “We were wondering if you were related to Conri Brachan?”

The cobbler freezes. “It’s like that, is it? You came here to talk about poetry? I’m a cobbler. Don’t read the stuff.”

I clear my throat. “We were reading Brachan’s books and he had a dedication to the cobblers who came before and after him.”

“So?” the old man says.

“So, we thought you might be related to him,” I say.

He eyes me. “My family name is Conlon.”

I look at Grayson but he only nods likeyou’ve got this. For a second, I’m taken aback. I’ve gotten used to Grayson bulldozing his way through every interaction.

“Do you know if any of Brachan’s relatives live in town?” I ask.

“I’m the only cobbler in Mayo,” he replies.

Only this time I notice that while he’s giving me an answer, he actually isn’t. “But that’s not what I asked.”

The old man smirks. “No, it isn’t.”

I hesitate. If he’s anything like my gran, nothing short of blunt will work. “We think Brachan wrote a poem about calling the Archive Key and we want to know what it was.”

The cobbler coughs uncomfortably. “Brachan was a merchant’s son. Never went to University. Merchants don’t call Archive Keys.”

“Yeah well, I’m the daughter of a housekeeper and before I even set foot on campusIcalled the Key,” I say with my chin raised.