• They got off the train onto the platform, and the orphan followed the young lawyer down the winding stairs and onto the street. He hailed a taxi carriage, which they got on and continued their journey. Once again, she sat across from him, and he stared at her in silence with his mad little smile. Well, Dormaline had had just about enough of that.
    She looked from the window and the depressing street scene, and said softly, “Excuse me for asking, but I was never told…exactly what sort of shop does my cousin Mr. Porter have?”
    Chester Smith’s smile grew from a thin smile back into his toothy grin. “Quite alright, Miss Little. I guess it is something you need to know.” His eyes half-closed and he continued, “Your cousin is the peddler whose wares are most held dear in the aristocratic class of this city, most sought for at the time past noon. His partner’s is the second dearest, a man who sells what blatantly screams the status and income of the wearer's to all eyes that rise to look above his or her head. The two work together separately, with your cousins as their only employees. I was told that there was a chance you’d be the next one.”
    Dormaline’s mouth opened, then quickly closed. His cryptic talk had left her baffled, answering her question yet at the same time sidestepping it and giving her information she hadn’t asked for. “Yes,” she said. “But what exactly is the business that I’d be employed in…that’s what I’m asking.”
    The man’s eyes narrowed in amusement. “I just told you. You should really clean your ears better, if you need an increase in the proficiency of your hearing.”
    The girl looked at him with frustration. “That wasn’t a clear answer you gave me, and my hearing’s just fine.”
    “What’s fine is fine, but what is clear may not always be what is brightest.” After saying this, he slumped a bit in his seat with a bored look under his smile, and then added, “Do you really care what it is you will be doing? The only reason you’re doing it is because your aunt thinks it’s best if you work to take your mind off of your tragedy.”
    Dormaline had known this all along, yet she was surprised to hear the truth come out of the mouth of a perfect stranger. And in such a careless tone too. “No, I don't put much care in what I'm to do,” she said, her hands gripped tightly in her lap. "It doesn't matter what it is to me, for I won't have much of a say at what task I'm put to. It’s...it's the knowledge of what field of work that I'll be put out in that I want.”
    “Ah!” said Mr. Smith, smiling. “So you see? If you don’t care what it is in the first place, then there really is no reason in knowing about it.” He then turned from her and looked out the window, ignoring her.
    Dormaline was now completely irritated at this man, who stared at her, was rude, and gave her no straightforward answers. His ignoring of her was the last straw. She was about to stiffly demand he give her a serious answer, when he suddenly said in a monotone voice, “Your curiosity is quelled. Look, we’ve arrived.”
    The orphan turned her head and looked through the dark of the night to the outside, upon the street corner their taxi had stopped at. She looked at the street sign and saw the words that stated they were between Harper and Grevus’s Street, a shopping strip for the well to-do of Waverton she’d later learn. The rosy red brick building they were situated in front of consisted of two-shops, as the pair of doors with two different pictograph signs stated. One sign over the door that led to the shop situated on the street corner, held the colored carving of a lavender tea set, with a rather large tea pot of soft blue in the center. ‘So a teahouse then,’ Dormaline thought to herself, looking through the window of the shop to see a couple of chairs inside near the glass, and some scattered chairs and tables outside. A soft golden light inside came from the tiny flame of a candle on the counter.
    The lawyer got out of the taxi first, and after paying the driver and grabbing the luggage, helped Miss Little out. She happened to glance at the other shop sign’s picture as she stepped onto the road and glanced right of the teahouse- it was of a large top hat, with the letters ‘R.H.’ carved in cursive into the wood below its brim.
    A hat shop? She tried to peer into the window of the shop, but it was completely dark inside. A wooden slab, with the word ‘CLOSED’ written on it, hung on the door knob with a piece of thin rope.
    She wondered which shop was her cousin's, but the lawyer quickly answered that for her. “This way, Miss Little,” he said, opening the door of the teahouse for her.
    She walked past him briskly to get out of the streets, and through the door to into the main room. The smell of cinnamon instantly hit her like a sudden punch to the senses. She looked about the room, a little dazed. Yet she didn’t have much time to notice every piece of furniture or detail in the decorations, as the lawyer was already leading her past the shop and into where her cousin’s living quarters began.
    They walked up a flight of stairs to the second story of the house, and stepped onto a hallway lined with doors. The staircase was between the two shops, and Dormaline guessed that if the left side of the building was her cousin's, then the dark right side of the hallway must belong to Mr. Porter's mysterious partner.
    Mr. Smith stepped ahead of Dormaline to a door closest to the stairs. He made a sign for her to wait, and opened it. A flood of warm fire light suddenly cascaded across the floor and the wall from the room Mr. Smith went into.
    "Ah!" cried a voice, a male one. "Chester, you devil. You're finally here- whatever took you so long, you crafty-looking demon?" The sound of someone getting up was heard, and Chester left the doorway with his arm outstretched to an unseen person, as if to shake their hand. The door closed behind him, and Dormaline was left in the dark.
    "Hello Patrick Porter," Mr. Smith said warmly.
    "Chester?" Another male voice said, this one lower than the other obviously surprised. "What the duece is he doing here?" There was a pause, then a chuckle from the same voice. "You're a little far away from your desk at the bank, old boy. Here, sit and have some tea- I haven't seen you in ages, and you've come such a long way to civilized company."
    "Indeed I have," Dormaline heard Chester say as she listened outside the closed door. "But I can't stay long- I have business to take care of first-"
    "Hell's Bells!" cried the low voice loudly, with a bang on some piece of furniture. Apparently the man had had a bit too much to drink, for his speech was slightly slurred. "To be damned with your business, Chester. Just...SIT DOWN and have a drink with old friends, for god's sakes. If you don't like tea, we can always slip you some brandy..."
    “Come on, Chess,” said two voices in near exact unison. “We haven’t seen you in months.”
    Yet Chester was steadfast. "No, I must decline. I'm just here to drop off a package, and then I'm off on the next train back to Thortire-"
    "Package?" the low, drunk voice interrupted. There was a short pause, before he inquired, "What package? Pat, do you have any idea what this devil's talking about?"
    "I haven't the slightest idea," Dormaline's cousin answered. Yet it was obvious in his quick reply that he did know, and was trying to hide it.
    The girl could imagine the lawyer's grin at her cousin's answer, from the way he said, "Really, Patrick...? That's odd since you did agree for me to send her to you..."
    "SHE?" the low voice said a little too loudly.
    "Yes, a she," Mr. Smith said matter of factly.
    "But Pat, you...you said you...but she's a...By God, Patty, you didn't!"
    With that stuttered speech going on, the lawyer opened the door a crack and motioned Dormaline to come in. She frowned at him and obeyed, suddenly feeling that this was all a trick on some man she didn't know. It was all too ridiculous.
    The room was a parlour that looked from 4 large windows onto the street corner outside. The furniture consisted of a couple of tasteful couches, two large bookcases filled with books, a lit fireplace (instinctually, Dormaline edge as far as she could from the orange, licking flames), and a small table in the corner. Seated at this table, drinking brandy and tea, were four gentlemen who held Dormaline in instant attention.
    The first man, about seven years older than her, held so much physical resemblance to her- round face, large black eyes, honey-colored hair (though his was short and darker than her long curls)- that she instantly knew him to be her cousin Patrick Porter, whom she had only met thrice in her life.
    The youngest boys there, who sat next to Patrick, she took to be his brothers, the twins Will and Wallace. They were closet to Dormaline’s age, and, unlike their brother, she had never seen them outside of pictures in her house. Though they had the same short, wispy style of thin hair, the same look of boredom on their heart-shaped faces, the same height, and the same posture of putting their elbows on the table and holding their chins in their thin hands, there were some obvious differences. Will, Dormaline later learned, was the one with the hair as blond as polished gold, and had the solemn brown eyes of a stag’s. His brother Wallace was the one who gave the girl a crooked smile when she entered the door and looked at her with his shrewd black eyes. He pushed his black bangs out of his face to better look at her, while his brother just frowned with his eyes half-closed.
    And the man to the left of the brothers was obviously the hatter- Dormaline was surprised to see such a deep voice belonged to someone who looked so young. He looked the same age as Patrick, perhaps younger. A frown was etched into his face at her appearance, and his deep blue eyes glared at her with contempt above the freckles on his sharp nose. He wore an oversized top hat, one that was a deep red and sprigs of owl feathers coming out of it-Dormaline nearly gawked at such a gaudy thing. Under its brim was a slighty short mop of messy red hair, which was desperately trying to escape from the tie he had pulled it back with. He wore a swallowtail jacket and a pair of trousers the same shade as the top hat, but also a plum shirt under a teal vest with gold buttons, and horrible lime bowtie. He leaned dangerously back in his chair, with his spat boots sitting on the table, and his arms were crossed as one of his gloved hands held a glass of brandy. On the whole, he looked absolutely mad.
    The hatter's furious blue eyes stayed on Dormaline for a minute. Then they flicked to Patrick. "Pat," he said softly, dangerously. "....you got some 'splaining to do..."