Angelique's Quillville

Cover art by @Bernade99148377

 
​Welcome to Quillville, an entire city created by writers, for writers.

If you are new to the City of Quillville, you can swing over and check out the introductory post HERE

This week's story is by @AngeliqueJots
It looks like Quillville has yet another mystery brewing in the dark.

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Angelique's Quillville
by Angelique Migliore @AngeliqueJots

​Welcome to a day in the life of my Quillville. It’s a big town or a small city. You decide.
Either way, it’s full of imagination, innovation, and creativity. That’s the thing about small cities:
everyone thinks they know each other, but I’m here to tell you, they don’t.

Yet I do.

I’m Angelique. I’m the town’s mediator. I offer suggestions to help the people of
Quillville settle their disputes. Person to person, business to business, I handle it all. The legal
way, with a warm smile on my face. Not like that vigilante Red Quill. I actually believe people
deserve a second chance, or a third. On the fourth try, I just might call in Red Quill myself
though. Even mediators have their limits of redemption.

I smile to myself as I walk carefully down the streets of our little city—historic
cobblestones and the new heels of my knee-high, navy blue boots don’t mix well. Neither do the
people of this city. But what would you expect from a town full of writers? They all lie for a
profession.

Lucky for me, the walk from the Romance Sector to my office isn’t far, although the
scenery drastically changes from flowers and herbs to sticky sidewalks strewn with cigarette
butts and old, unread dueling rags within just a few blocks.

The bright sun and gentle cool breeze of this early morning also belie the happenings of
the past few weeks: animal viruses, sabotaged exhibits, and stolen manuscripts, just to name a
few. These citizens behave like there are no consequences tied to their actions, as if all mysteries
aren’t solved in the end. The full moon really brought out the crazy in everyone this month. Or
like we say around here, just another Tuesday. I like to walk to work early and give our fair
citizens time to wake up and get angry.

I stop at the Tempest Tea Room on my stroll in and pick up my usual drink: a matcha
green tea latte with coconut milk and just a hint of Mexican vanilla. Creamy and spicy, just like
me. AJL always sprinkles something extra on top that sparkles, but I don’t ask what. It’s just
better that way around here, but I tip her well, and she winks at me as I leave.

Three more blocks and I reach my office. I set up shop in the oldest worship house in
town. It had been abandoned for about twenty-five years before I moved in and restored it. I kept
the buttresses of the building, the floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows, and the double wooden
doors. I wanted the same feel of the old hallowed house, even if people were abandoning their
religions by the hour these days; they’ve seen their faiths used as weapons for far too long, I
guess.

When residents got to the point that they needed my help, they were angry. Really angry.
But when most walk into a house of worship, even if it’s been repurposed, they calm down.
Their voices drop a decibel or two in the acoustics. They switch from talking to listening. They
become reverent and pensive. Old habits die hard, I guess, so I use it to my advantage. Because
let’s face it: no one likes to compromise. Everybody loses in a compromise because no one gets
their way.

I don’t even make it up three steps to my double-wooden doors when I notice it: a note.
Someone has nailed a scroll-sized notice to my business doors in a Luther-esque sort of style.

I freeze and call Leumas right away.

My mind races while I wait on his car to screech to a halt right beside me.

He slams his car door shut and makes his way over to me. His voice is low, but
threatening. “I know you think I’m a joke, but let me assure you I’m not at your beck and call—”

My gloved finger on his lips halts his words, and before his nostrils can flare completely,
I point to the note with the same finger.

His line of sight follows my finger. “What is that? What does it say?”

I shrug my shoulders. “I’ve no idea, but it looks ominous, so I called you. Because I don’t
think you are a joke. I know what you’re capable of. I’m not behind on any of my bills, and
that’s no way to send a girl a love letter, therefore, it must be a threat of some sort.”

“You called me with an emergency before you even bothered to read it? What if it’s
nothing more than a grocery list from your lover?”

I blink at him several times hoping he would hear the ridiculousness of his own question.
“If I had a lover, do you think I would be walking to work at 0700? I would be busy right now.
And you know very well why I can’t call the Constable.”

Leumas hangs his head because he does know.

​In addition to being the town’s mediator, I run a smaller, let’s say boutique, business on
the side. I’m the town’s match-maker. It’s a one-off, but it uses my same range of talents. My
clients require [pay for] the highest form of discretion, and I wouldn’t dare expose any of them.
Including Leumas. “I got close enough to that letter to tell you two things: it’s written in bright-
red ink, and it reeks of coffee and last night’s whisky. Like you.”