“someone like me?” incredulity creeps into her soft-spoken words, pitching her almost stage whisper half an octave higher. had it been anyone else, adelaide would’ve feigned offense and indignity. but she hears nothing but genuine confusion (and, perhaps, a flicker of paranoia) in his tone and leaves him be.
far be it for him to be honest and provide an plausible explanation for his previous outburst than for him to assume she was merely picking a fight for amusement’s sake. she supposed, shewas to blame for her unconventional greeting. after all, she is here as a customer. and those looking for favors (this beggar she is relegating herself into for the sake of a friend, however reluctant she was to call him) cannot be choosers.
“then you should be flattered as i am here to contribute to your fortune.” her words are borne out of a calculation, a means to determine whether he would bite the bait. no one ever said forming partnerships and making tentative allies (be it for pleasure or business) was going to be fun. it’s a pity, really, if this doesn’t turn out well.
“a little bird told me you have something of interest,” she begins, leaning her elbows on the counter as she shifts forward in a mockery of trading secrets through clandestine whispering. “something that hides one’s true nature.” a calculating pause. there’s a pitiful attempt at a smile that is more a baring of teeth than a show of friendliness. and then– “sound familiar?”
He cocks an eyebrow. She was a strange one. He wasn’t lying - he didn’t get many people like her in his shop. Customers? Certainly - he had an abundance of them, though the empty premises seemed to disprove that. But, then again, not much of the profit for the establishment came in through the front door, so to speak.
But customers like her? No. He was used to many people - the desperate, the downtrodden, the beggers squashed under the shoe of society and left to fester and rot in the boiling sun. She looked like none of these, which begged the question: what was a woman who looked like she had taken and gained everything in life - be it through fair or unfair means, Absolem didn’t truly care - doing in his shop of outcasts?
“Mm, well, I do have a collection of beauty potions--” he looks over at the shelves, plain and ornate bottles alike staring back at him. He turns his gaze back to the woman. “But something tells me you neither want nor need those--
“Perhaps, then--” he turns his eyes up, matching her stare. He does not fear anyone or anything -- it would be a waste to; why spend so much time and energy fearing something that doesn’t care either way? Certainly he’s cautious -- he’d be a fool not to be, and Absolem is many things, but a fool is not one of them -- and of all things to be cautious of, this woman sets sirens ringing in his head. But fear? Preposterous.
“-- you’re looking for something a little less... accessible?” he hums in thought. “And if that were the case -- and I do think it is -- then I would say you have come to the right place.”
