"Maybe I shouldn't worry about the City of the Dead," she said to Volponia. "After all, Leaplow is probably right, the dead don't bother Carvers."
"Especially if Leaplow restrains himself from punching them in the face," chuckled her ancient relative. The tale of Leaplow's misdeeds last spring had risen quickly to the old woman's chamber.
"But if someone is stirring up trouble, shouldn't I find out who?" Sophraea continued to twist the ring on her finger, but she kept looking out of the closest window, wondering if the light would reappear in the City of the Dead that night.
"Well, if you do make up your mind any day soon," Volponia said with a shrewd glance at Sophraea's wrinkled and rather worried forehead, "do let me know. It will give me something to fret over. I have so very few distractions at my age. It may be some time before Leaplow creates another scandal."
Sophraea smiled and slid from the bed. "I'll let you know if I decide to investigate, I promise. Do you want me to bring you anything?"
"No need," said Volponia, reaching for her crystal bell. "I'll ring up whatever I want later. And your grandmother will be along once her supper is done for a little chatter."
"Don't tell too many good stories without me," said Sophraea on her way out the door.
Volponia called her back. "Weren't you going to talk to Lord Adarbrent? About that letter of recommendation?"
Sophraea sighed. "He hasn't been back in almost a full month."
"He will be. He's just as obsessed with his final rest as that Rampage Stunk. So you're going to do it? You're going to take that job with the dressmaker?"
"It's an apprenticeship," said Sophraea for the umpteenth time. "And she won't take just anyone. You have to show that you have a noble sponsor."
"Sounds like a snob," Volponia had expressed this opinion many times too.
"She's considered the very best in the Castle Ward. And what am I to do? Stay here and sew shrouds?"
"Your aunts Catletrho and Tanbornen seem to enjoy it. As do a couple of their sons."
"Not me. I want to work with fine materials." "Some of the nobility like silk shrouds as much as silk shirts or sheets."
"I want to see my creations on the living!"
"That's harder for a Carver, I'll admit. Although, if your fancy dressmaker puts you to embroidering camisoles and petticoats, you won't see much of those either after they leave the shop. I doubt she'll have you dressing her best customers from the start."
"No, of course not, the apprenticeship is seven years. But her apprentices have established their own shops."
"Still seems a long time to tie yourself to someone who isn't family. And she wants her girls to live in the shop, I hear."
"I'll have a half-day free twice a month. I'll visit."
"Won't be the same," grumbled Volponia, pulling her blankets closer around her thin old body.
"Ah, don't," said Sophraea, dropping to her knees by the bed. She clasped one of Volponia's long, thin hands in her own equally slender fingers. "Everyone has been arguing against this. But you don't know what that shop is like. It's so beautiful, all those piles of velvet, silk, ribbons, lace, and embroidery. And little delicate chairs with gilded legs. None of the ladies ever talk in anything but the most genteel tones. There's no shouting or banging or kicking a stupid ball against the wall of the house at all hours! And nobody who works there smells of anything stronger than soap!"
"Can't say that about the Carver boys." Volponia patted Sophraea's dusky curls. "But we'll all miss you. That's why we fuss so."
"I know," Sophraea said, springing up and hugging Volponia one last time. Every time she thought about leaving Dead End House, Sophraea couldn't help the stupid tears clogging up her eyes and making her sniff. She loved her family but she really could not see spending the rest of her life sewing shrouds. And she certainly wasn't big enough or strong enough to carve monuments or build coffins like some of her sisters-in-law.
Besides, if she lived in Castle Ward, there would be some distance between her and her overly protective relatives. She might even get to flirt with the same man more than once!
Much to Sophraea's surprise, Lord Adarbrent arrived at Dead End House early the next morning. Since they had first crossed paths in the City of the Dead, the elderly nobleman never failed to greet her courteously. More than once, she had heard him refer to her as "a good girl" to her father.
Of course, Sophraea was not sure that Lord Adarbrent actually realized that she was seventeen and fully grown. He still tended to offer her sweetmeats and pat her on the head, just as he had when she was five.
But she had a letter of recommendation all written. out for him in her very best hand and only one or two very tiny smudges from being carried around in her apron pocket for days on end. If he would only sign and seal it, she could apply for the dressmaker's apprenticeship in the Castle Ward.
Despite her best efforts, Sophraea could not attract Lord Adarbrent's attention. The old man had hurried across the courtyard with only the barest of bows in her direction to knock on the door of her father's workshop.
"Lord Adarbrent," said Astute Carver with genuine pleasure at the interruption. The two shared a passion for the history of the tombs contained within the walls of the City of the Dead.
Usually during a visit, the conversation would turn from Lord Adarbrent's current plans to the history of the City of the Dead. Lord Adarbrent greatly admired the Carvers' family ledger, which recorded all the details of their work and had often called it an "incomparable history" of the cemetery.
Once the old gentleman had found the design for a curl of seaweed carved by a Carver ancestor on a mausoleum's door. He told Astute and Sophraea where that emblem could be found etched in a certain family's crest. Lord Adarbrent then related how that twist of seaweed was linked to the long forgotten tale of a blue-skinned wife who came from Naramyr and vanished back into the Sea of Fallen Stars after her noble husband's death.
"They were a restless family after that," finished Lord Adarbrent one rainy afternoon as a much younger Sophraea perched wide-eyed and wondering on an overturned urn, listening to his story of the elf wife. "None of them could ever bear to see a ship making ready to leave the harbor, for fear that the lure of the wind and water would be too great for them."
Lord Adarbrent, Astute Carver often declared, was the only man in Waterdeep who knew the great City of the Dead better than the family. And Lord Adarbrent would hem and haw in his usual manner, murmuring "You are too kind. I have learned a great deal since I began my visits here."
That day, however, the elderly nobleman was almost curt in his exchange with Astute.
"I need to look over your ledger," he said far more abruptly than usual.
"Certainly, my lord," said Astute, pulling down the big book bound in black leather and setting it on his worktabie. "Can I fetch you a chair?"
"No need," said Lord Adarbrent as he waved him away. The old man leaned heavily on his gold-headed cane, carefully turning the crackling pages of the family's ledger. "He's gone too far… that upstart… this is a matter of honor."
Astute winked at Sophraea. In Waterdeep, old Lord Adarbrent was often called the Angry Lord for his mutterings as he stalked through the streets. Less kind souls also referred to him as the
Walking Corpse for his dour physique. The Carvers rarely saw that side of his character, but obviously something had touched off the nobleman's well-known fiery temper.
Finally, with a hiss of rage, the old man turned away from the ledger. "Venal cur." He glared out the workshop door as if he could see the person who annoyed him so through the walls and buildings of Waterdeep. "Well, that is what I needed to know."