When she strode back inside, arming sweat from her forehead and hauling the whitewash bucket, she found him inspecting the flagstones, checking the sand between. Her eyes went to the resting place of the Scalvert’s Stone, and she had to keep herself from rushing forward to interrupt.
“Anything need doing there?” she asked, trying to sound brisk and natural about it. What if he found the Stone? Would he recognize it? And so what if he did? It was fair to say she trusted Cal.
And yet.
He looked up. “Hm. Maybe a little more sand. This one’s loose. Might should take it up and pack some underneath.” He stomped on the flag she’d buried the Stone under, and her heart leapt.
“I’ll take care of it,” she said, and her smile felt entirely false.
Cal didn’t seem to notice.
“Hm,” he said.
And that was that.
Later that evening—after glances up and down the street to reassure herself that the man with the hat wasn’t peering in at her—Viv did take up the flagstone. She removed the Scalvert’s Stone and held it in her hand. Warm to the touch, it almost seemed to have a lambent yellow glow, independent of the light of the lantern. Replacing it with care, she scooped fistfuls of dirt to re-level the flagstone and smoothed sand into the crevices again.
That night she dreamed of the Scalvert Queen, but when she drove her hand into its skull to remove the stone, its flesh drew tight around her wrist. As she tried to withdraw her fist, she couldn’t, and the flesh firmed, and the scalvert’s many eyes ignited one by one, like signal fires in the dark. Her efforts to free herself grew increasingly frantic, until she startled awake. The nerves in her right arm were alight, her hand tingling with pins and needles.
After lying awake for some time, she finally slept again, and by morning, she’d forgotten the dream.
* * *
Days passedin a haze of hot work, aching muscles, slivers, dust, and the smells of sweat and lime and fresh-cut wood.
At the end of two weeks, the place looked downright respectable. Viv found herself out in the street a few times a day, hands on her hips, surveying the shop with a rising, warm sense of accomplishment.
On one of these occasions, she was startled to find Laney suddenly beside her. The woman used her broom as a walking stick, leaning her weight on it. Viv had no idea how she’d arrived so silently.
“Well. Fanciest livery I’ve ever seen,” Laney said, then nodded, and went back to her porch.
Unsure why she hadn’t done it sooner, Viv set up the ladder and tore down the old Parkin’s Livery sign, tossing it into the rubbish pile with real satisfaction.
* * *
“Goin’to need a new sign,” said Cal, his thumbs hooked into the waist of his breeches, staring up at the vacant iron bracket.
“You know,” said Viv. “I took a lot of notes. Figured I’d covered most details. But I never really thought about a sign. Or a name.” She looked down at Cal. “Just never crossed my mind.”
It was quiet for a minute, then Cal cleared his throat, and in the most hesitant voice she’d ever heard from him, he ventured, “Viv’s Place?”
“Good as any, I suppose,” she replied. “I don’t have a better idea.”
He didn’t look satisfied.
“Hm. Maybe… maybe… Viv’s Coffee?”
“I’ll be honest, feels strange having my name on anything. Like putting your own face on the sign.”
A pause.
“Could just say Coffee I s’pose. Don’t ’spect there’ll be a lot of confusion.”
Viv squinted hard at him and thought he’d outlast her, but then his mouth quirked at the corner.
“I figure I’ll table it for now,” she said. “Who knows? Maybe I’ll name it after you. Calamity Coffee has a nice sound to it.”
Cal regarded her, sniffed, and then said solemnly, “Well. You’re not wrong.”
