Because It Is My Blood (Birthright #2)(90)

“That’s right in the middle of town,” I said.

“I know,” he replied. “That’s the idea. I’ll meet you outside.”

Other than its capaciousness, the most notable feature of the exterior was the pair of graffiti-covered statues of reclining lions. “Oh, I know this place,” I said to him. “It used to be that nightclub the Lion’s Den. None of us ever liked to go there because it was awful and Little Egypt was closer.”

Charles Delacroix said that apparently it was awful enough that it had just closed for good.

We walked up a grand flight of steps, then through a set of columns. A Realtor met us inside. She was wearing a red suit and had a sickly-looking carnation tucked into her lapel. The Realtor looked at me dubiously. “This, the client? She looks like a kid.”

“Yes,” Charles Delacroix said. “This is Anya Balanchine.”

The Realtor started at my name. After a beat, she offered me her hand. “So, we can’t lease out the whole place on your budget, but we have this one room that might meet your needs.”

She led us up to the third floor. The room was about eighty feet wide and three hundred feet long and probably fifty feet high. Arched windows lined both sides of the space, so that the overall feeling was one of openness. The ceiling was vaulted, with dark wooden moldings. The part I liked best were the murals that had been painted on the ceiling: they were of blue skies and clouds. The effect of the room was such that it was like being outside while you were inside. I loved it immediately because it was private enough to accommodate my business, but it also said Chocolate can and should be sold in the open. It felt sacred to me, like being in church.

Much was in disrepair—broken panes of glass, holes in the plaster—but none of it seemed impossible to fix.

The Realtor said, “The old tenant had a kitchen just outside. And there’re bathrooms somewhere around here, too.”

I nodded. “What used to be here?”

“Lion’s Den. Some kind of club.” The Realtor made a face.

“Before that,” I specified. “What was the original purpose?”

The Realtor turned on her slate. “Um, let me see. It was a library, maybe? You know, paper books, something like that.” She wrinkled her nose as she said “paper books.” “So, what do you think?”

I wasn’t necessarily a believer in signs but the lion statues outside made me think of Leo, and paper books of Imogen, of course. I knew this was the place for me, but I wanted to get a good deal so I kept my face blank. “I’m going to sleep on it,” I said.

“Don’t wait too long. Someone might snap it up,” the Realtor warned.

“I doubt that,” Charles Delacroix said. “You can’t give these old ruins away. I used to be in government, you know.”

Charles Delacroix and I walked out into the sticky New York June.

“So?” he said.

“I like it,” I said.

“The location is good, and it has some kind of historical significance, for what that’s worth. But the main thing is the gesture of it—if you take a space, it becomes real to people, more than just an idea. I doubt you’ll have much competition for the lease.”

“I’m going to speak to Mr. Kipling,” I said. Mr. Kipling was managing my finances until August 12, when I turned eighteen. As yet, I had not felt any need to run my business plans past him.

Upon returning home, I slate-messaged Mr. Kipling that I needed to talk to him at his office. I had not seen him since Simon Green’s return.

When I arrived at his office, he greeted me warmly, and then he embraced me. “How are you? I was about to call. Look what came yesterday.”

He passed an envelope across the desk. It was my GED. I must have used my business address. “I didn’t know it would be paper,” I said.

“Important things still are,” Mr. Kipling said. “Congratulations, my dear!”

I took the envelope and slipped it into my pocket.

“Perhaps we could talk about your post-graduation plans?” Mr. Kipling cautiously suggested.

I told him that that had been exactly why I had come and then I described the business I planned to open and the space I wanted to rent in Midtown. “I’ll need you to arrange two payments for me. The first is a retainer for the business lawyer I’ve hired”—I purposely didn’t mention who the business lawyer was—“and the second as a deposit on the space I’d like to rent.”

Mr. Kipling listened carefully and then he said exactly what I’d feared he would say: “I’m not sure about any of this, Anya.” Although I didn’t ask him to, he began listing his objections: mainly that the idea could potentially anger the semya and that a business of any type was a financially risky venture. “A restaurant is a money pit, Anya.”

I told him it was a club, not a restaurant.

“Can you really say you know what you’re getting into?” he asked.

“Can anyone?” I paused. “You honestly don’t think this is a good idea?”

“Possibly. I don’t know. What I think is a really good idea is you going to college.”

I shook my head. “Mr. Kipling, you once told me that I would never escape chocolate so there was no point in hating it. That’s what I’m trying to do. I believe in this idea.”