Her knees bobbed anxiously as Rosana went first, holding out an envelope, sealed with dark wax. Their father reached for it, but before he could, she conjured a delicate flame that burned away the envelope in a flash of red sparks, and melted the wax, revealing the contents.
An invitation.
“To a performance,” she said, “in your honor.”
Their father smiled, lips pressed tight as he took the slip. It was a fine gift, but he clearly expected more. Rosana saw it, too, and looked down, her face reddening. If only the Essen Tasch hadn’t been canceled, thought Tesali. Rosana would have to find another way to shine.
Mirin stepped into the silence, a cat’s smirk on her lovely face.
“My gift,” she said, holding no obvious present—until her delicate fingers dropped to the front of her dress. “Though you will have to wait to hold it.”
Their mother gave a cry of delight, and their father’s smile split open, showing teeth, and as Mirin rambled on about birth dates and names, happiness turning her cheeks pink, Rosana and Tesali shared an exasperated look, knowing that neither could compete with a grandchild.
For it was, as always, a competition.
Only Serival seemed untroubled, clearly confident in her own gift, and that made Tesali nervous—and bold—enough to throw herself in front of her oldest sister, not wanting to be in her wake.
“Father,” she said, offering the bundle, “my gift, to you.”
Tesali held her breath as he took the parcel, peeled apart the makeshift wrapping to reveal the summer-glass. When the surface of the orb met his skin, it came to life, a small tree in the fullness of bloom at its center.
Tesali smiled, knowing she hadn’t just fixed the summer-glass.
She’d made it better.
When she was mending the broken threads, she saw a way to twist them, change their path, so that when her father held the glass, he not only saw the taste of summer trapped within, but felt it. Felt the warmth of the sun on his skin as if he were standing beneath that tree. Her father, who was always complaining of the chill that autumn brought. Whose hands ached with the encroaching cold.
Something crossed her father’s face then, an expression she’d so rarely seen, shadowing him in the shop. Surprise. And with it, an almost childish delight.
“Marvelous,” he murmured, and Tesali felt like she was standing beside him in the glass, soaking up the summer sun. Mirin and Rosana chirped their approval.
But Serival’s expression had gone shrewd.
“Where did you get that?” she asked, and the question drew their father out of his reverie, his attention narrowing, too.
Tesali knew when to lie, and when to shield herself in truth.
“From the dock market,” she said.
“How did you pay for it?” demanded her sister.
“It was damaged,” she said, “so the sailor sold it cheap. But I am rather good at fixing things.” She registered the weight of her mother’s gaze, but she looked only at her father as she said it. “I have learned from watching you.”
It was the right thing to say. She watched as the flattery smoothed her father’s feathers. Serival’s gaze lingered, but it was her turn now.
“Father,” she said, producing a small wooden box, and sliding it toward him. Her hands, as always, were hidden beneath a pair of black gloves. An affect, Mirin called it. To make her seem imposing.
The table went quiet as Forten Ranek set the summer-glass aside, the sunlit tree vanishing with his touch, and lifted the lid of the box, withdrawing a narrow vial, not glass, but gold.
His brow furrowed.
“What is this?” he asked. And that itself should have been a warning, for their father was a collector, and knew most treasures by sight, his keen eyes registering worth the way hers did magic. But Tesali saw what he could not. She saw the tendril of light that twisted not around the narrow vial, but inside it, coiled like a small snake. Pitch black, and yet glowing. It made her shiver.
“What do you give the man who has everything?” asked Serival, as if it were a riddle. And then, when no one answered, she did. “Time.”
She pointed to the vial. “That is five years.”
“Five years?” he echoed, a question in his voice.
Serival smiled then. “Of life.”
If a wind had blown through and doused every candle, the room would not have felt darker.
“What have you done?” demanded their father.
Serival actually laughed. It had all the warmth of hail on glass.
“I have not killed anyone, if that’s what you’re asking.” She took up her goblet, gloved fingers pinching the stem. “I have yet to board the Ferase Stras,” she said, “but I have heard the captain deals in years instead of coin. Time is such a treasured currency.” She quirked a brow. “Are you not happy with your gift?”