The Curio Vault had a rhythm of its own—one that Elliot was beginning to understand. The mornings were slow, the air thick with the scent of aged wood and dust, while the afternoons saw a trickle of customers, some wandering in out of idle curiosity, others drawn by some nameless pull toward the oddities on display.
Marlowe occasionally tested his knowledge, quizzing him on the supposed origins of various fakes. He would point to an odd trinket, a curious artifact, and ask, "Where do you think this came from, lad? Who made it, and why?"
Elliot would pause, studying the object in question—the cracked porcelain doll, the tarnished silver mirror, the intricately carved dagger—and then offer an answer, sometimes based on what he had read through his [Observation] skill, other times entirely made up on the spot.
"It's about weaving a narrative," Marlowe would say with a knowing look, as though everything had a hidden meaning. "It's not just about selling objects, lad. It's about selling stories. The customers don't just want the thing—they want to believe in its history, its power, its allure."
Elliot quickly realized that the most valuable item in the shop was never the most expensive or the most rare—it was the one with the best story. The backstory gave it weight, made it worth more than it appeared at face value.
"Take this," Marlowe said one day, handing Elliot a tarnished silver locket. "What's the story you'd tell?"
Elliot examined the locket. It was dull, weathered, and slightly chipped at the edge. Nothing particularly special about it at first glance. But then he began to think about the customers, the people who frequented the shop and their desires.
"A locket," he said slowly, "once owned by a woman who fell in love with a man cursed to never age. She wore it to remember him as time moved on, until the day she passed away, still in love but left with nothing but a ghost."
Marlowe's eyes twinkled, the ghost of a smile on his lips. "Good. That's the sort of tale that'll make someone bite."
Elliot began to understand. It wasn't enough to just know the objects; he had to understand the stories that surrounded them. There was magic in the narrative, a quiet power in the telling.
Elliot found himself slipping into the role of shop assistant with surprising ease. The act of greeting customers, watching them peruse the shelves, and ringing up small purchases became second nature. He quickly learned to differentiate between the casual browsers—mostly bored aristocrats or scholars looking for aesthetic decorations—and the peculiar ones, those who lingered too long in front of certain cabinets, their fingers hesitating over objects they shouldn't have known about.
A man in a tweed coat with a twitchy gaze ran his fingers along a row of pocket watches, murmuring numbers under his breath. An older woman, draped in a shawl, stood before a case of carved animal figurines, whispering something to each one before moving on. There was even a gentleman in a bowler hat who returned every few days, never buying anything, only standing near the bookshelf, reading titles he had surely seen a dozen times before.
Elliot learned their habits, their subtle tells. Marlowe had been right—it wasn't just about selling objects. It was about selling stories.
"You're getting the hang of it, lad," Marlowe remarked one evening as he counted the day's earnings. His fingers moved deftly over the coins, sorting them with a speed that spoke of years behind the counter. "A shop like this, it ain't about the merchandise. It's about knowing who's buying and why."
Elliot, wiping down the glass counter, smirked. "And here I thought we were just running a business."
Marlowe chuckled, shaking his head. "Business is just the surface. What really matters is beneath. Always beneath."
___________________________
As the days passed, Elliot and Marlowe fell into an easy rhythm. The old man remained gruff and tight-lipped about his past, but over time, he began to let small details slip.
One evening, after closing the shop, Marlowe poured himself a glass of whiskey and, surprisingly, poured one for Elliot as well. The amber liquid gleamed under the flickering gaslight.
"Figured you've earned it," Marlowe said, handing over the glass.
Elliot took a tentative sip, the burn warming his throat. "Do you do this often? Share drinks with your apprentices?"
Marlowe snorted. "You're the first apprentice I've had in a long time. Most don't last a week."
That piqued Elliot's interest. "What happened to the last one?"
Marlowe swirled his drink, watching the liquid shift. "Got too curious."
Elliot waited for him to elaborate, but the conversation drifted into safer waters—stories about past customers, some ordinary, others anything but.
"There was a man once," Marlowe began, staring at his drink. "Came in asking for a mirror. Not just any mirror, mind you. Said he needed one that didn't show him his reflection."
Elliot frowned. "That sounds… ominous."
"Aye. And that's why I turned him away. You don't sell things to people when you don't know what they intend to do with them. That's a mistake merchants don't get to make twice."
Elliot let that sink in. It was another lesson, tucked neatly between casual words.
"You've seen a lot, haven't you?" Elliot asked.
Marlowe gave him a long, considering look before taking another sip of whiskey. "Aye, lad. More than most."
Something about the way he said it made Elliot wonder just how deep the old man's past truly ran.
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Elliot's quarters above the shop were simple but functional—a modest bed, a writing desk near the window, and a wardrobe. The walls were bare, and the space felt more like a temporary resting place than a home.
That needed to change.
On his second day off, Elliot set out to make the room feel less like a temporary lodging and more like a home. He bought a few books—some on natural philosophy, others on folklore and myths. A well-worn rug from a street vendor added warmth to the wooden floor, and he rearranged the furniture to make the space more comfortable. He also picked up a few clothes to replace his worn-out ones, making sure he had something more fitting for both work and leisure.
The final touch came from the shop itself. While dusting the shelves one evening, he found a small enchanted lamp—one of the few real objects among the fakes. It wasn't anything powerful, just a simple item that cast a soft, warm glow without the need for oil or fire.
Marlowe didn't object when Elliot asked if he could take it. "Better than letting it sit around gathering dust," he had muttered.
That night, Elliot sat by his window, looking out over the city. For the first time in a long while, he felt something close to peace.
He had a place now. A job. A life.
For the first time since arriving in this world, he felt like he belonged.
___________________________
Early the next morning, the bell above the door chimed softly, signaling a new arrival. Elliot, who had been organizing a set of decorative masks near the counter, turned to greet the customer—only to stop mid-motion.
The woman who stepped inside was unlike anyone he had seen before.
She moved with effortless grace, her dark velvet cloak flowing behind her as though it had a will of its own. Beneath the hood, a glimpse of golden hair spilled over her shoulders, framing a face that was both striking and unreadable. Her eyes—sharp, calculating—scanned the room with quiet intensity, as if she could see through the layers of deception that made up the shop.
Elliot straightened instinctively. "Welcome to The Curio Vault. Can I help you with something?"
The woman's lips curved into the barest hint of a smile. She stepped closer, the air shifting subtly around her, carrying the faintest scent of something floral—jasmine, perhaps, or something rarer.
She rested a gloved hand on the counter and, in a voice smooth as silk, said, "I'd like to see the real goods."
Elliot's breath caught for half a second.
She knew.
Marlowe's words echoed in his mind—Only those who ask for them can buy the real mystical items.
The air in the shop seemed to change, the familiar comfort of the space tilting into something else entirely.
Elliot met the woman's gaze, his mind already shifting gears.
This was no ordinary customer.
This was something else entirely.
And whatever came next… he had to be ready.