The Green Café was merely a few steps down from the grocery selling tinned foods and various other items. The café itself looked more like a dark shop stained with years of heavy smoke. Squat pots filled with dying mums sat on the ground next to the building, right under the window. The wood framing the windows and doors were a muted dark brown color looking like old, chipping accents on the building façade. There was a sign leaning against the door, the chains that had been used to hang it over the door, broken. Only the word “café” was carved onto it—the sign itself, which must have been green at some point in its history—had now oxidized to black.
“I’m sure this isn’t anything that you’re used to back home,” said Davenport. “But other than the tavern at the inn, which no doubt is busy with all the vacationers that had arrived the other day, this is pretty much the only café that Mont Saint Filan has.”
Haidée discretely sniffed the air. There was a filmy quality to it, as if the smoke and the beer from the previous night hadn’t completely aired out. “I suppose I will survive, Monsieur Davenport. I do not expect much in the way of choice outside of the city.”
Inside, the main room was equally as dark. The observatory librarian chose the table closest to the window. But even with the overcast light illuminating their seats, the sole maid of the establishment brought over a candle to be placed on the table top. She looked around noticing that they were the only ones in the café and the maid appeared to have no interest in them as she retreated back into the kitchen to bring out some hot cider.
“Not very many people come here during the day,” said Davenport, noticing her observations. “It gets more crowded during dinner time. I have to tell you, though, most of the locals prefer this place to The Cormorant. There are too many outsiders there at the inn, you understand.”
“With the exception of myself?”
“I think you might be more than you appear, Mademoiselle Avenall.”
“Monsieur Davenport, you are talking to an actress. I can make myself appear as if there is more to myself when there is nothing behind my face.”
“Ha!” His eyes were shrewd. “If that is what you want to tell me, then I will say no more about the subject. What do you want to know about ink? Have you run out?”
At that moment, the maid returned with two wooden mugs filled with steaming cider on a tray. She placed them on the table with a somewhat careless air and then sauntered off. It was then that Haidée noticed that an enormous white cat had followed at the maid’s heels and then climbed onto a chair next to the observatory librarian. The cat’s fur looked particularly long and luxurious—unusually clean for an animal that appeared to have no rich and pampering owner looking after it. The animal peered at the two people seated with one yellow eye and one blue eye and then yawned, revealing sharp teeth and a tiny pink tongue.
Haidée had the strangest sensation that the cat was a spy. But it was no more than a simple animal, surely. She wished for her tonic, but since she didn’t have any, she tried a sip of the cider instead. It tasted bitter and reflexively, she put her hand to her mouth and coughed. The cat didn’t even blink.
Davenport downed his own drink with seemingly little effect. “It’s an acquired taste,” he said. He put a hand on top of the cat’s head and scratched. The cat’s eyes slitted in pleasure. “This is Neige.”
“Your cat?”
“He follows me around. Sometimes.”
She nodded and then turned back to Davenport with her hands folded on her lap. The cider may be an acquired taste, but she had no inclination to actually acquiring that taste while she was here. “I noticed some ink at the observatory,” she said, carefully to modulate her voice towards a somewhat bored curiosity. “It isn’t the same as the kind that I’ve been using. It doesn’t look like the kind in Mademoiselle Beauchamp’s shop either.”
“What do you mean it isn’t the same kind?” said Davenport. “Black ink looks all the same.”
“The bottle,” she explained. “The body of it was round, like that of a summer gourd and it had a long thin neck—too thin for a pen but it was enough for a quill. It was somewhat old fashioned although I have no idea what sort of stopper it had—as I saw no small glass caps or pieces of cork in the vicinity.”
“That is odd. Everard and his fellow astronomers prefer to have their supply of ink shipped in separately from the mainland. You must have seen the carts of supplies that came to the observatory in the morning when the tide was out.”
She shook her head. “I’m afraid I arrived quite late.”
“Well, no matter. This happens every month. The astronomers prefer to use an English ink that holds quite fast to the paper and is slow to run if the paper is accidentally put in water. It comes in a bottle about the size of my palm.” Davenport held out a large hand and curled his thick fingers inward to demonstrate. “It looks more like a jar than a vial as you had described. The lid is a flat, copper-plated disc that can be screwed on.”
“No, that definitely does not sound like what I had observed.”
“If that is the case, then I do not know what to tell you. I have no particular preference for which ink to use and I do not pay much attention to those things. If it were a book, I could be much more helpful. Otherwise, I can only think of one possibility—someone had decided to try another brand.”