Forget Me Not | James Herondale

01. No One

With a couple of long strides, Ulysses reached the door and opened it, the small ring of a bell, placed on top, echoing through the hall. "Welcome home," he said, gesturing at the tables and chairs filled to the brim, the warm glow illuminating the cozy haze.

A couple eyes grazed them both, though they were brief and wandered back to their business. However, Almas couldn't help but feel her heartbeat accelerate, though her confident stride didn't show any trace of her nerves inside. Ernie was probably here somewhere, although Almas wasn't sure whether she wanted to see him or if she wanted him to see her. Sure, she liked the old bartender, but he did have a tendency to be loud and Almas wasn't really in a position to be recognized in the Devil of all places.

She had arrived in London almost a week ago and gathered that the news of her arrival had reached the Consul and, therefore, the Institute long before. They'd be wondering why the news hadn't come directly from her. In full honestly, Almas didn't know why either. As soon as she had stepped foot into this cloudy, humid hole, an empire where the sun apparently never set (it most often never showed, never mind it setting), a cold fear had settled in her gut. Her feet had led her to Soho, the Shadow Market, the Hell Ruelle, bloody Cross Bones, anywhere but the London Institute. Logically, she had refused to go and sought refuge in other places. She'd have to apologize to Lucie and Mrs Herondale later.

Eyes scanning the tables, she wondered whether they were here. Not seeing a single familiar face, she took a seat in an empty chair, still glancing around, restless. Ulysses' chair scraped the floor loudly as he inched towards their table. "Rum? Beer? Beer." He slid the beer to her and took the rum for himself.

"So," Ulysses sang extending the last vowel. "Why haven't you retreated to your quarters at House Usher?"

"The Institute you mean?"

"Same thing. I'm pretty sure that place is haunted."

Almas gave small laugh. "If by haunted you mean by a ghost running around screaming about the ruffles of the dress she was wearing when she died, then yes."

Ulysses set down his glass with wide eyes. "She's still complaining?"

"She was day and night the last time I was there. And it's not just that" Almas' mouth stretched into a slight grin. "She sees everything, hears everything."

"Everything?" Ulysses gulped.

Almas watched the rum travel down his throat uneasily. "Everything," she repeated, leaning back, the chair below her creaking unstably. "Now," she said shockingly louder, making the boy across her jump, "do you have something to tell me, Ollie?" The boy opened his mouth to reply and— What was that on his face? Fear? Almas started, "Wait, did you actually do something because I was only joking and now you have me thinking you've done something—" Of course. It had been too easy, the avoidance. Of course her pillock of a friend had stirred something up. There was no way he hadn't, not with that dumb expression on his face. The question was, what had he done now?

He opened his mouth again, hesitantly almost, a slight hum escaping his lips. "I–"

"I, I what?"

"I like spending time with you," he stated curtly, earning only a glare from the girl. "And you're a great friend, and a wonderful flatmate. You can cook. Not that it is your only trait of value. I mean I can cook too," his words were blending together, pace quickening in growing panic. Almas slowly raised a brow. "I'd much rather prefer you do though but—"

"Ollie."

"The scandal of an unmarried lady staying with—"

"Ollie."