Golden

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Five
Lysandra

        It has been two days and I have yet to find Quinn. The panic that had struck me in the beginning has settled into my stomach, driving me forward as I search for him and his kidnapper. I have no doubt that one of Norun’s rogues – or perhaps more – has taken him and is most likely questioning him at this very moment. I have faith that he will not crack, for he is Penella’s Agent – the only one who has not turned his back to the one who gave him a home.

         Now, Norun has destroyed that very home, and there is no uncertainty in my mind that he is not as furious about it as I am. In truth, I pity whoever has taken him.

         During these two days, I have been focusing not only on finding Quinn but also on learning the procratans’ language. The chances of one of the procratans having witnessed Quinn’s kidnapping is not slim, and so I hope to find a lead through breaking the language barrier.

         The drink shop I am sitting in is quite flowery as opposed to the bland darkness of the outside world. The interior is a splash of pale colour, with pastel blues for the walls and silky white tile floors. The string of lights that hang across the textured ceiling are surprisingly of different colours, flashing dim blues, reds, and greens over everyone’s faces. The tables are of different colours as well, except they are a much darker, richer colour than the walls. The use of colour in such a dark world is eye-catching; I wonder who the owner of this shop is.

        The drinks they serve vary widely, ranging from herbal teas to froth. Being more accustomed to froth, I order it spiced. The drink is entirely made out of a frothy substance that melts at the touch of my tongue; the spice that is laced throughout it sends bursts of citrus that press sharply against the insides of my cheeks.

        I am almost halfway done the froth when the chair across the orange table I sit at is pulled back. I look up from my cup to see a procratan taking a seat, his appearance blending perfectly with every other person in the shop. He flashes me a smile as he rests his hands on the table, “Lysandra, I presume?”

        I choke on the melted froth at his words. He can speak my language? My cheeks flush as I cough the liquid out of my lungs. Slowly, I set my cup on the table and clear my throat, unable to hide the red tint in my cheeks. “It’s quite unusual for a procratan to speak another language,” I say, hoping my calm words distract him from this embarrassing first encounter.

        A corner of his mouth is curved upward, “yes, I guess it is,” he murmurs. “It seems your arrival has caused a great stirring in this world.”

        I eye him warily. Why does he sound unhappy about this? Who is this man? “I apologize for the inconvenience, but we do have a reason for coming here so unexpectedly.” I pause, and then add “What is your name?”

        His chuckle draws a few strange looks. “We?” he asks, then cuts himself off. “Oh, your friend. We have no issue with his arrival, as he seems to be of procratan descent. You, however, have become a prominent subject for conversation.” I notice he does not tell me his name.

        I take a sip of my froth and examine his appearance. He slouches in his seat with both hands folded on the table and a relaxed smile on his face – the image of nonchalance. Yet there is something in his eyes that beg for attention, as if there is information in his mind that he needs to release.

        I give him a smile, “how about we speak in a less… public area?”

        My offer prompts a lopsided grin, “as you wish.”