Chapter Text
Spring has come early to Petalum this year. The month of February hasn’t even come to an end yet and daffodils, crocuses and star magnolias are already blooming abundantly, giving the colours of life and new beginnings to the fields of Viola’s capital.
Albus huffs as he swings himself off his horse with practiced ease. The grey mare neighs quietly as he does so and the young man pats the side of the animal soothingly. Lapilli is a patient horse despite her youth, but even she was prone to fall victim to occasional irritation. Not like Albus would ever blame her, horses were anxious creatures after all and Petalum’s streets are especially busy today.
The sandy road crunches as he leads Lapilli through the streets, careful to keep to the side to avoid the bigger crowd. Still, a few locals spot him despite his cloak and careful maneuvering and greet him with polite enthusiasm. Albus smiles and waves, giving short and dismissive answers to the excited exclamations of “Lord Albus!”.
Not like he has anything against the town’s people greeting him or their chatter, quite the opposite, Albus is known for his energetic attitude and loud voice, and he had never been one to turn down a good conversation no matter his high status as the brother of the Marquis, but he has a goal to complete today. The idle chatter could come later, and so could Ms. Vitis’ wine and Caepa’s flatbread; if he indulged in all of these things now he knows the day would slip through his fingers like grains of sand and he would be no gift richer.
Come to think of it, perhaps brainstorming a few ideas about what Lady Kardia might like would have been a good idea in retrospect. At least he would have some sort of idea of what to go looking for. While they get along quite well, Albus hasn’t actually known his brother’s soon to be wife for long enough to know what kind of wedding gift she’d appreciate the most.
Perhaps some type of jewelry would please the lady? She is quite stylish, and despite how different fashions are from Amonlogia and Viola, Karida seems to be adapting quickly.
Albus still remembers his brother’s face when Kardia was introduced to them for the first time. She had been clad in a sweet and dusty shade of lilac, the lacy fabric and flexible boning of her bodice accentuating her figure in all the right places. Places which the gowns Violan women typically wore cover completely.
His brother’s eyes had partially popped out of his skull at the sight and his face had grown red enough to match his vibrant hair. Albus had teased him for it relentlessly until Kardia’s brother, Duke Dachtyla, noticed and had given them a glare so sharp that it promptly silenced them both. Not like Albus can particularly blame him, looking back they really had been acting like giggly school-boys.
Perhaps jewellery wouldn’t make the best wedding gift. She would already inherit some jewels from their mother upon the ceremony and perhaps she would like to pick something herself later on. Albus isn’t exactly known amongst nobles for having the best understanding on what is considered fashionable or proper. Quite frankly, he just never really cared about all of that and his unshaved face and often wrinkled clothes spoke for it. He stops in his tracks and sighs loudly. If only he was a little bit more of a materialistic person, it would make finding suitable gifts much easier.
He looks up at the sky. The sun has already reached its highest point, marking mid-day. He had left the estate shortly after breakfast which means he had been loitering around the city for three hours at least. His stomach agrees with that estimation, starting to ache slightly from growing hunger.
“Ey, this ain’t a stable you know?”
The rough voice shakes him from his flat-bread filled dreams and Albus looks from side to side frantically, trying to find the source of the voice.
He finds it in the shape of an irritated looking man. He is leaning out a window, one hand on the windowsill, the other still placed on its handle. He looks tired, his hair matted in a way that implies he’d just gotten out of bed, but the grease-like liquid coating his hands suggests otherwise. His face is aged from the sun, pronounced crow’s feet and frown lines accentuating his grumpy expression.
“Pardon?” Albus asks dumbly.
The man grumbles something under his breath, a curse or complaint Albus can’t quite tell, and then roughly gestures towards Lapilli.
“Get your damn horse off my front porch!” He demands. Next to him, Lapilli neighs as if taking offence. The man continues, “Unless you want to buy something,” he reaches forward and taps the sign next to the house’s –no, workshop’s– entrance and then crosses his arms over his chest, “then tie the beast down somewhere and quit daydreaming.”
“She’s not a beast,” Albus replies and pats Lapilli on the side of her neck once more. “She is the most patient little lady,” he coos at the mare.
“Oh please spare me from this display,” the man huffs. “You want to buy something or not? If the answer is the latter then please leave my property.”
Albus eyes the little workshop curiously. The walls of the house are old and cracked in some places, the paint which had once been a bright lemon-yellow now faded and washed out, making the entire building look a little bit sad. In short: the place was due for some renovation.
Same for the garden Albus had stumbled into; while it is lovely and spacious, at least compared to the size of the workshop, it’s overgrown and had obviously not been tended to in a while. His mother would take offence if she ever saw it. However, Albus wouldn’t be the man he is if he judged books by their cover, or if he wasn’t a creature mainly driven by curiosity.
Besides, he is looking for a present after all, and the most beautiful treasures are known to be found in the most unexpected places.
“Yes I do! I would love to come inside.”
“Well, stop blabbering and hurry up. The day isn’t getting any younger and neither am I.”
“Oh, but you can’t be all that old yet, sir !”
“Says the youngster with still working knees. Flattery won’t get you anywhere, young man. Come inside.”
Albus fumbles with Lapili’s reigns far too long for the shop owner’s liking, but eventually, he manages to find his way inside the workshop.
The place seems more spacious from the inside, the walls still look due for a re-paint but the colour is a little less faded. If it wasn’t for the various stains along the bottom one could almost call it passable. A long wooden table stands at the centre of the room, it’s made of a dark wood, which Albus can’t quite identify, but it’s sturdy and stands on legs with beautiful flowers and leaves carved into them. Despite the beautiful design on the bottom, the rough shape of the table top makes it easy to tell that the surface is meant to be worked on. Against the side of a table leans a cane from similar looking wood.
Objects ranging from hairpins to statuettes fill the entire place, made from materials like wood, alabaster and the occasional terracotta.
Albus’ eyes catch on a particularly finely crafted statuette. He can’t quite tell the subject’s gender, masculine and feminine features blending together seamlessly, creating the beautifully mysterious image of something else. The figure is clad in delicate drapery, the material looking light and soft like true fabric despite being crafted from stone. Their face is serene, eyes closed, head slightly inclined to the left; it looks as if they are dreaming standing up.
The image is beautiful in every sense and Albus, having always been soft of heart, feels the pressure of tears along his waterline.
“So, are you looking for anything specific?”
Albus blinks away the tears and clears his throat.
“A gift!”
“What kind of gift?”
The shop owner says in a way that resembles the sassy tone of a teenaged girl, only that he is a grown man with white streaked hair and wrinkles. If the very object of his amusement wasn't his audience, Albus would have laughed at the comparison his mind had conjured.
“Well,” Albus says nervously. “I’m afraid that is what I am struggling with. I haven’t known her for that long and I don’t know what would be appropriate.”
The man looks up from where he had been busy scratching beeswax off the table with a dull knife.
“Young man, if this is a present for a lady of your fancy you should know what she likes. I am an artisan, not a magic match maker.”
“Ah! No!” Albus interjects quickly. He rubs the back of his neck. “While this is an engagement gift it’s not for me. I am looking for a present suitable for my brother’s soon to be wife.”
The man looks him up and down, eyeing his clothes and hair. His eyes get stuck on his earring momentarily. Albus only wears one of them, having lost the other half of the pair while hunting a few weeks ago.
Something shifts in the shopowner’s expression, he bites his chapped lips and wipes his dirty hands on the apron slung around his waist.
“Apologies for my earlier rudeness. I didn’t realize who’s presence I was in, my Lord.”
His face twitches between embarrassment and annoyance and it makes him look a bit like a cat drinking vinegar; or like a child being made to apologize to a stranger who they didn’t think they owed an apology to. If a young Albus hadn't been taught to be respectful towards his elders he would have taken a jab at the man’s poor performance. Still, he can’t quite hide the mirth in this expression when he speaks.
“No matter! In fact, I was beginning to enjoy this dynamic.”
Truly, he is surprised that it had taken the shopowner so long to realize who Albus actually was. Not to sound conceited, of course, he has just gotten used to being greeted by joyful recognition from the townsfolk, so this was quite unusual for the young man. Refreshing though. Perhaps he really had come to the right place.
“Well, it’s difficult to miss even for someone like me when the very Marquis of Viola is to be married; and not everyone can afford amethyst,” the shopowner says, referring to Albus’ earring.
“Or bear a striking resemblance to a soup carrot,” Albus cuts in, attempting to lift the awkwardness off the older man’s shoulder with a healthy amount of self irony.
The man bites back confusion or amusement —it’s hard to tell on a face trapped in a perpetual frown-– and sighs. “Your words not mine, my Lord.”
“Please, do call me Albus,” he insists. “No need to attach the “Lord” to the name,” he adds quickly.
The shopowner raises an eyebrow. “Alright. Albus, then,” He mutters. “How generous of you.”
Albus ignores the tone in favour of basking in this unexpected victory. People rarely took him up on the offers of omitting the title from his name.
“Perfect!” He says with maybe a little too much enthusiasm and the irritated expression returns to the older man’s face. He really does poorly in concealing his true feelings. “And how may I refer to this skilled artisan?” Albus enquiries.
“It’s Smálto,” he replies dryly and with little care.
Albus pauses. “Oh, Smálto…” the name tastes foreign in his tongue. “That isn’t a Violan name,” he notes.
“Indeed,” Smálto replies dryly. “It’s Amonlogian,” he adds after a few seconds, sensing Albus’ curious gaze.
The young man immediately perks up.
“Oh, you’re Amonlogian!” He exclaims.
Smálto looks visibly taken aback by Albus’ sudden enthusiasm. Or, well, a sudden increase of enthusiasm.
“I was born there, yes.” He directs his attention back to oiling the surface of his table. “It’s been a little over 15 years since I’ve stepped foot into the country though, so I might have to snuff out your enthusiasm.”
“No, I must apologize. I didn’t mean to come across as strange. It’s just such a coincidence that I found my way into this shop.”
“...How so?”
Now it’s Albus’ turn to raise an eyebrow.
“Well, since Lady Kardia is the one to be my brother’s wife in two months time?”
Something Albus can’t quite place flashes across the older man’s face.
"Right. Of course.”
Albus hums. “I take it word hasn’t reached you yet?”
“I don’t make it my whole life’s substance to know which nobles are to be married to whom,” he grumbles. “I have my own life. And I am bound to find out through gossip sooner than later anyways.”
Albus would mention that Smálto should have heard enough details of his brother’s marriage whispered between the townsfolk, but the young Lord sees no use in trying to accuse the man of being a recluse.
“There is no shame in that. I simply assumed you might know, considering…”
Smálto shrugs. “I’ve heard of the late Duke dying a few months ago.” He pauses mid-motion and hums in consideration. “I suppose that does entail that it’s now on Lord Dachtlya to marry his sister off to some other aristocrat.”
“We certainly feel blessed by her presence.” Albus hums as he keeps looking around the shop. Aside from many unfinished projects, dried flowers and various pieces of faux sea-glass, he finds more and more damage to the shops' interior; not only more cracks and chipping equipment, but suspicious bits of empty space, as if furniture had once stood there, but had now been removed.
“Are you renovating?” He asks curiously.
Smálto sucks his next breath through his teeth. “That would be great, wouldn’t it?” He says in a tight voice. “Business hasn’t been good.”
By the way the older man turns around to loudly rummage in the box behind him tells Albus that Smálto is done with this particular branch of conversation. The air in the room suddenly feels a lot colder.
The thought of this shop being close to ruin makes him rather sad, despite the fact that he didn’t even know of its existence until about an hour ago.
It’s not like Smálto is a particularly charming person either, by general standards at least, but there is something poetic about the old man and his workshop. Lonely, but robust in its solitary nature. Like a hermit crab and its house. Or, well, something else, Albus has never been too good at metaphors.
“Do you take apprentices?”
“I work alone,” Smálto answers firmly. “I don’t want some youngster chopping their grubby little fingers off under my watch. Or waste material that would cost an arm and a leg. Besides,” he groans as he lifts a heavy looking crate onto the table, "I am a terrible teacher.”
“Well, even teaching has to be learned,” Albus comments. “You could secure another source of income if you took apprentices. If there is one thing parents like to invest in it’s the future of their child.”
Smálto scoffs. “You think yourself wise, don’t you?”
The red head shrugs. “Not particularly, no, but I have been told such before.”
“I bet it was with annoyance laced in their tone.”
Albus smirks. “It’s almost as if you’ve met my brother before.”
“If you weren’t blue blooded you’d make a marvelous jester.”
Albus makes an amused sound at the back of his throat. Smálto doesn’t say anything.
After a few seconds of silence Albus’s eyes begin to drift again, back to the cracks in the walls, the dirty windows and the beautiful day outside. While the garden may be a mess, the flowers bloom in it abundantly. Thick, green grass dotted with little flecks of blue, purple and red. Eventually, Albus’ gaze comes back to the serene beauty that had moved him to tears earlier. Its alabaster complexion stares back, cold yet steady in a way his own fiery demeanour could never be.
“Well, my good sir, I would like to place a commission,” the young Lord declares with new found determination.
Smálto stares at him for a few seconds, clearly caught off-guard, but also clearly not wanting to let this opportunity slip by.
He clears his throat. “What do you have in mind?”
Albus moves forward and gently plucks the statuette from the table next to him.
“I quite like this motive.” He sets it in front of Smálto gently. “I think Kardia would like it too.”
Smálto hums as he takes in his own work. “You have quite the eye.” Albus knows he really doesn’t, but there are some kinds of beauty that everyone is susceptible to.
“Have you been to Amonlogia before?” Smálto asks suddenly.
“No, never,” the young man shakes his head. “It’s a shame, really, I heard the port is quite beautiful.”
“I prefer the Violan fields,” Smálto says while shrugging. “In any way, I can do that for you. I never thought I would actually come to use this base, but I can easily polish up the design a bit.”
Albus smiles widely and practically flies across the table separating them to take the artisan’s hands in gratitude, shaking them vigorously. "Excellent! You’ve saved me from the embarrassment of being a bad gift giver.”
“Now, don’t pull a muscle,” Smálto says with a strained expression, looking at Albus’ hand with the same kind of fondness one would a nest of spiders.
Just as the red head is about to open his mouth to say something more, the loud sounds of chiming bells interrupt him. The sound rings through the workshop for a few moments, annoyingly familiar, before the young man’s body finally seems to react.
“Ah! Heaves!” He exclaims. “I have to get back,” he says while rummaging through his pockets hurriedly. He pulls out a pouch of coins and throws it in front of Smálto with little elegance. “Here is half of the payment for now. Don’t fret, I’ll return shortly!” He proclaims loudly while making his way towards the door.
Smálto inspects the pouch with a dumbfounded expression, its fabric is heavy and intricate, and its contents are well above what half of the payment for such a commission would be.
“Uh–”
Albus’ hand is already on the doorknob. “Think about taking on apprentices again. I really think you could benefit from it.” He sings before he is out the door, letting it fall shut behind him.
Smálto sees him practically sprinting towards his horse through the window and keeps staring even once both man and horse have left his garden.
Eventually, he lets his gaze fall onto the statuette still standing proudly in front of him.
“What a strange man,” he says to the stone figure, as if it has the ability to listen and respond.