She ran on, slowing only when she saw the sign.
That sign, stamped in metal instead of wood, so it shone, even now in the middle of the storm. ON IR ALES, it announced in glinting gold. One of a Kind.
Their housemaid, Esna, was standing on the steps, her face blooming red with anger, and she caught Tesali’s arm and hauled her past the entrance to her father’s shop and through the second door, the one that led up into the house above.
“Of all the foolish things…” she muttered, and Tesali knew from experience that it was better to just let the woman fume like a kettle until she ran out of steam.
She was forced to strip right there, at the top of the stairs, leaving her soiled clothes beyond the entry to the house, and then Esna carried her through, past glass cases and dark wood cabinets and closed doors.
“Four daughters,” ranted Esna, “and each with less sense.”
And with that, she dumped her unceremoniously into the bath.
* * *
Her fork scraped softly against the dinner plate.
Tesali fought the urge to fidget. Esna had put her in a stiff dress, which felt like a punishment, and her curls had been wrestled back into a plait, the braid so tight she was getting a headache. She’d caught her reflection in the hall glass. She looked like a doll.
“Like your mother,” Esna sometimes said. Which was supposed to be a compliment, she knew. Her mother was pretty, in a fine-boned way. Refined. The picture of an ostra, a noblewoman of Arnes.
Her father, on the other hand, had a face like a crow. A pointed nose and small, sharp eyes, and a head that swiveled, neckless, on his shoulders. When her sisters were still at home, Mirin would do an uncanny impression, and Rosana would dissolve into laughter, and only Serival, who resembled him the most, would scowl and say it wasn’t funny.
Tesali missed her older sisters.
She hadn’t always gotten along with them, but the house felt hollow without them in it. Funny, how a place could feel empty when it was so full of things. Her father’s collection grew up out of the shop below, climbed like weeds into every corner of their house, which wouldn’t be so bad, except she wasn’t allowed to touch any of it.
Not because the things he owned were fragile—half were already broken in some way—but because they were valuable. And according to her father, valuable things had to be protected, kept behind glass, so their worth could grow.
Not that any of it was forbidden.
Everyone knew Forten Ranek didn’t deal in forbidden magic. He was too proud. He had no interest in the dangerous and the obscene.
“Leave that to Sasenroche,” he’d say. No. He was a curator, one who specialized in the precious and the rare.
Now and then, Tesali’s father would give her an appraising look, the same one he leveled at a piece brought in to be sold. She knew he was waiting to see what she was worth.
To find her value, and make use of it, as he had done for his other daughters.
Her sisters.
There was Mirin, made rare by her beauty. The Diamond of Hanas, they called her. Eighteen, and so striking, men came from all three empires to bid for her hand. Carried off by an Arnesian old enough to have grey hair, and installed in a manor up north.
Then Rosana, made rare by her powers. By ten, she could wield not only fire, but ice. By fourteen, she was gone, the star of a performing troupe, though Tesali knew she dreamed of winning the Essen Tasch.
And Serival, the oldest, made rare by her cunning. Not sold off, but sent away, all the same, to be her father’s eyes out in the world, and find new things for his collection.
Three sisters gone.
Three chairs sitting empty at the table.
Her parents talked as if there were already four, and Tesali thought she might die of boredom. Her plate was clean, but she couldn’t leave, not until she was excused. A taper burned in front of her, and as her parents spoke, she let her vision slip, gaze sliding in and out of focus until the little flame seemed to peel itself apart, dividing into strands as thin as hairs.
She was certain that if she reached out, she could catch one. So she did, forgetting that it was a trick of the eye, that the light only looked like threads, that it was in fact still fire. Her hand went into the flame, and a searing heat tore through her fingers. Tesali yelped, and pulled back, and for the first time that night, she had her parents’ attention.
“I didn’t mean to,” she said quickly, clutching her burned fingers. “I was reaching for the salt.” Her father shook his head, but her mother only stared, an odd expression on her face. She’d seen Tesali do it, knew she hadn’t reached past the taper, but straight into it.