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On the eve of Idler's Day, the usual stillness of the Gilded Cloister—known for its coffee, gourmet specialties, and air of silence and solitude—was roused to a start. The Cloister's patrons, hearing a commotion outside the cafe's entrance, peeked over the sleek wooden walls of their private stalls to examine the source of the disturbance. The doors were ajar, revealing the unusual spectacle.
Jean Tannen, a man of already-few words, stood slack-jawed and speechless outside the Cloister as his most trusted friend, Locke Lamora, was getting his ass handed to him by a small young woman with no small amount of anger in her pounding fists. She was astoundingly beautiful and astoundingly violent as she soon whacked Locke's head left and right with the metallic bill tray in her hand.
Usually, the Gilded Cloister's waitstaff were the wordless kind, standing close by their customers to heed their requests, bring forth their orders and collect their bills and tips. But tonight, the young waitress abandoned every trace of the waitstaff's standard operating procedures, decorating the night air with the shrillest and most vivid of expletives.
"That'll teach you," the girl yelled, every word punctuated with a blow to Locke's throbbing temple, "to steal my wages!"
Jean sighed and wiped the fatigue from his expression with a tired hand. Their companion, Regal, ever observant, watched as Locke tried to stop the girl's blows in vain before the cat curled up into a ball of midnight fur by Jean's boots.
As for Locke, amidst the bright stars forming in his vision and taking form within the abused contents of his skull, he tried hard, tried so very hard, to console himself with the fact that he had never seen this coming in his scheme.
THE SCHEME
Jean was in love.
It was plain for Locke to see, and what was plainer was that it appeared utterly ridiculous.
Locke sat opposite Jean in their usual booth at the Gilded Cloister, petting Regal on his lap while a scowl rested on his face. He observed Jean being far from discreet as the bigger man stared at the lone waitress resting against the wall of a patron's booth. A thick bush of dark, curly hair flourished beneath her red waitress cap, and in her hands, she held an open copy of Lucarno's The Empire of Seven Days.
She was perfect for Jean, and that's what made her a thorn on the side of Camorr's Thorn.
"Jean," Locke started.
"Hm."
"Call it a guess or common sense, as the Thirteen have so sparingly blessed us in the past twenty-odd years," Locke said, not keeping his eyes off of his friend, "but I'm starting to think you have a crush on that waitress."
Jean was silent, but his reddening cheeks gave Locke enough of an answer.
"Am I that obvious?" Jean asked, finally turning to face Locke.
"No, no, no, not at all!" Locke shook off the notion with a flick of his wrist. "By all means, carry on with the obscurity of your actions. Regal here is just as competent a conversationalist as you are."
To Locke's astonishment, Jean merely resumed staring at the young woman with a deep, despondent sigh that barely suited a man of six feet. With some finality, Locke lifted Regal from his lap and set him aside.
"Alright, that's it," Locke said. "You forced my hand."
Jean started. "What are you talking about?"
"I hope that infatuation of yours hasn't yet clouded your judgment as it's already impaired your hearing," Locke said pointedly, as if lecturing a child. "I said you forced my hand. I'm willing to break the silence and make an immediate match of you both. The faster, the better."
Locke was about to stand up from his side of the booth when Jean, in a panic, grabbed the man's arm and pulled him back to his seat a little too forcefully. The result was that of Locke falling in a noisy heap under the table, atop which shook the remains of their dinner.
The waitress in question rushed to their booth, and her puzzled expression only served to magnify the bold, lively features of her face. Jean had to catch himself staring at her before thinking up a lame excuse for his mistake.
"It's nothing, miss," he said. "My friend's just had a bit of a drink tonight. Do carry on."
She left his side hesitantly, while Jean picked up his friend from under the table and lightly batted the dust off of Locke's expensive coat. Annoyed, Locke responded to the action by swatting away the large hands from his person.
"You really do have it bad, my friend," Locke said.
"And what am I supposed to do?" Jean hissed. "Just walk up to her, quote Lucarno, and hope she doesn't find me the least bit strange? Look at me, Locke. I'm not even using my real name, for Perelandro's sake."
"If there's any hope of us pulling off this grand heist of ours smoothly, I'll need you sober and sound of mind." Locke grinned, rubbing his hands. "Actually, helping you get over this distraction could serve as the perfect distraction for me. I do so love playing the matchmaker."
"She's not a distraction..." Jean scowled, but the gears of Locke's mind were already turning.
Regal hopped onto the table and licked the saucy remnants of Jean's fish.
"So simple," Locke suddenly said, his eyes bright with revelation and his hands slapping the table's surface, slightly startling Regal. "It's so, so simple. And gods, it's brilliant."
"Do tell me this simple, brilliant plan of yours," Jean said, sounding every bit as eager as Regal appeared, who was nonchalantly licking his unmentionables before his masters.
Locke leaned over the table and whispered the contents of his scheme. Jean's eyes widened with every syllable.
"You're insane," Jean said.
"Admit it." Locke's grin grew wider with each passing second. "You think this could work."
Jean opened his mouth to counter Locke, but nothing came out. It wasn't completely absurd, albeit it could cost them their respectable reputation at the Cloister.
"So what say you?" Locke asked. "Ready to give it a go?"
THE ACTION
Ezri was a little nervous.
A couple of feet away sat the object of her infatuation for the last few days, a rather large but good-mannered gentleman who indulged himself with a copy of Lucarno's Tragedy of the Ten Honest Turncoats. He was seated alone at his usual booth, unaccompanied by his much smaller friend, and this gave the young girl every bit of incentive to finally, finally ask him out. She was never the waiting type—in a manner of speaking—instead grasping every opportunity by the stones and taking action before she could think.
So why was she overthinking this? Why hadn't she been acting until now?
Love was not an alien sentiment for her. She had had an eye on many a gentleman in the past few years, and she was witness to Lucarno's every romance for much longer. This man, for some reason unknown to her, was different. He carried an air of enigma about him, and gods be damned if Ezri wasn't going to unravel every bit of it before the night was over.
It was Idler's Day, and for her hard work, Ezri had been given her month's wages earlier that afternoon. She was willing to spare any and every expense to make this work.
Without lifting his eyes from Lucarno, the man waved for a waitstaff member, and she sped forward with the bill tray. On it lay a hastily-written invitation to have some coffee after work hours. Her treat.
The man tucked his book into the inner pocket of his coat, and without reading the note, he noticed the bill tray.
"No, that won't be necessary," he said. "I just need—"
Their eyes met, and the moment stretched on rather uncomfortably. But to them, it was tinged with something...rather alchemical.
"Uh..." Jean stuttered.
Ezri's embarrassed smile reached her eyes. She waited for him to read the note, but his gaze was still on her, causing her cheeks to burn. After a few seconds, she had to tap the bill tray with a slender finger to make the invitation's existence known. Jean read the note and immediately understood. He was in utter disbelief, but he understood perfectly.
For his part, Jean only had half a second to process everything this encounter would entail. It would be no tryst; that, he knew. And if this grew into something more, it would make his and Locke's situation far more delicate than it already was.
It also seemed, however, that for all his rationality, Jean was all too eager to throw every bit of reason to the wind the moment he looked at the girl's smile again.
Fuck it, he thought. She would be worth it.
Jean was about to accept Ezri's invitation when a passerby bumped into the waitress, stumbling only slightly.
"Apologies," Locke muttered, holding the girl's coin pouch in his hand. He then sped for the Gilded Cloister's entrance, hoping she would get the idea in a few seconds' time.
This was Jean's cue to stand up and look very much aghast, as he had rehearsed in the last few days. He had come a little too close to forgetting the scheme.
"Hold that thought," he stuttered. "I think I saw that man steal your purse, miss."
Alarmed, Ezri felt for her pockets and confirmed her worst fears.
"Not to worry," Jean assured her. "I'll get—"
But she was already hurrying towards Locke, the bill tray in her hand.
As he began to exit the Cloister, Locke heard the sound of hasty footsteps that sounded a little lighter than he had expected. He looked over his shoulder and noticed, aghast, that it wasn't Jean chasing him.
"Oh, shit."
The last thing he saw before he hit the gravel was a rush of dark, curly hair. After that, he saw nothing but stars.
THE OUTCOME
An hour before midnight, the Gilded Cloister was empty save for four occupants in a single booth. Two gentlemen, one lady, and an apathetic cat.
"What a ridiculous plan that was," Ezri remarked, handing Locke a demi-silk ice bag to nurse his fresh bruises. "Stealing my purse to introduce me to your friend. You should've seen this coming, you know."
"Forgive me," Locke groaned, "for having overlooked your possible actions in all of this. How was I supposed to know you have the sprightly temper of an angered stiletto wasp?" To his chagrin, that remark seemed to make Ezri smile out of pride.
"I may have bruised your head, but I hope I didn't hurt your feelings, Master Kosta," Ezri teased.
"I think you already have," Jean remarked. He seemed to be enjoying Locke's misery as much as Ezri did.
"If you two are going to spend the rest of the evening prodding me instead of finally exchanging wedding vows, I may as well be leaving." Locke did indeed leave Jean and Ezri at their booth, Regal tailing him at his feet.
"Where is he going?" Ezri asked, fighting to ignore the rising heat in her cheeks upon being left alone with Jean.
"Probably just needs to cool off at a tavern," Jean sighed. "Or head back to the Villa Candessa. It's been a long day for the both of us."
"That's a shame." Ezri turned her gaze to Jean. "I was hoping to spend a long while here with you."
"Oh, I'm not—" Jean blushed. "I don't need to—"
A dainty finger was pressed to his lips, silencing the man.
"'Man! What a mouse he is made by conversation,'" Ezri quoted with a smile. "'Scorns gods, dares battle, and flinches from a maid's rebuke.'"
"Lucarno," Jean whispered when Ezri's finger drifted to his chin. "I would see you reading him from time to time, during the Cloister's calmer hours."
"As would I you." Ezri laughed. "We seem to share the same guilty pleasure, Master de Verra."
"Jerome, please," Jean said, his eyes soft. A fake name, but it was close to his true name, at least. "We've gone too long observing formalities. Now, I simply wish to open up and hope you do the same."
The request sounded so sincere, Ezri had absolutely no desire to deny it.
"'Merest laugh from merest girl is like a dagger felt and, like a dagger, makes a lodging of his breast,'" Jean recited, relishing the girl's cool fingers stroking the scruffy outline of his jaw. "'Turns blood to milkwater and courage to faint memory.'"
"Ezri Delmastro," she finally said. "Call me Ezri."
A heartbeat, and another. A brief moment of silence between them, filled with nothing and everything all at once.
"Ezri," Jean said, surprised at how naturally he had uttered her name for the first time. "I was wondering if that offer to share some coffee still stands."
With that, the girl smiled.
"It certainly does."
Locke stood outside the Gilded Cloister, enjoying the night air as Regal lounged across his shoulders. He thanked the Crooked Warden he was able to enjoy the sight of a clear night sky from a proper vantage point this time and not on his back atop the gravel.
"I'd say that's a job well done," Locke remarked, "wouldn't you agree, old friend?"
"Mrowwww," came the reply.