Not that it mattered.
When people wanted to make trouble, all they needed was a good excuse. For months, she’d been able to taste the trouble brewing. It was like smoke, or bitter tea, and every day it seemed a little stronger.
“Do you know what Faro and Vesk do to those without power?” one was saying as she held her breath and tried to reach the water bead.
“They sure as saints don’t hand them a crown.”
“Exactly. Makes us look weak. The way I see it, a mistake was made. The Hand is going to fix it.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“Well, then, what’s one less pampered royal in the world?”
At last, Tes’s fingers closed around the lost bead. She scrambled back, and rose, dropping her quarry in the cloth pouch and hurrying away from the stall before the men stepped through the curtain and realized someone had heard them discussing treason.
She didn’t look back, didn’t slow, even when Vares pecked her through her shirt, as if the dead owl was nudging her to do something. And there was something she could do. Every citizen had seen the gold writing on the city’s scrying boards, the orders that sounded more like pleas, instructing the people of London to report any signs of rebellion.
There was a scrying board at the market’s edge. She knew if she pressed her palm to the mark, soldiers would come.
But she didn’t.
Tes had nothing against the king.
She’d been only eight years old, and a hundred miles north, when the Tide hit London, and Rhy Maresh was forced onto the throne. She hadn’t been there, to see the city fall, or rise again, to witness the rakish young prince suddenly orphaned and just as suddenly crowned king. But she remembered her first winter in the city, three years ago. The dazzling parade that filled the grand avenue with icy light on Sel Fera Noche, the royal family floating on a gilded platform, as if the road were a frozen lake. For a moment—only a moment—Tes had been close enough to see the king’s face, his proud chin, his dazzling smile, the crown nestled in his glossy black curls, but she’d been drawn to his gold eyes, which, despite their molten brightness, struck her as sad.
No, she had nothing against Rhy Maresh. He seemed a good enough king. But Tes had enough problems on her own, so she made a point of staying clear of other people’s trouble.
Besides, everyone thought the king powerless, but that day, during the parade, she’d seen the silver light that bloomed from his chest, spreading less threads than flames, burning the air around his crown.
Rhy Maresh wasn’t nearly as helpless as he seemed.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite apprentice!”
She’d reached the last stall, where Lorn, a wiry old man with glasses perched on his nose, was waiting for her. He had a face like a weathered stump, lines cracking at the corners of his eyes and mouth whenever he spoke. “How is Master Haskin this week?”
She pushed the king from her mind, and managed a smile. “Busy,” she said. “Believe it or not, things keep breaking.”
Lorn shot her a shrewd look. “Hard to believe there are any clocks and locks and household trinkets left in London that need fixing.”
Tes shrugged. “People must be clumsy.”
Lorn had a bald spot on the crown of his head. Tes saw it every time she paid the stall a visit, because mirrors lined the back of his shop. They filled the small space, a dozen different shapes and sizes, some hung at odd angles so they reflected the world back in mismatched fragments. Spellwork wove in glowing lines around the frames, promising the future, the past, a memory, a wish.
As Lorn bent to fetch something from beneath the table, Tes caught sight of herself—her wild curls wrested into a plume at the base of her neck, instead of piled on her head, the bulge of Vares in her coat pocket, her own magic, which didn’t curl in threads, like everyone else’s, but frizzed into an aura, like light behind a fogged-up glass. She had tried to reach into that cloud so many times, but the light bent around her fingers, the only power she couldn’t seem to catch.
“Let’s see, let’s see … ah.”
The merchant straightened, and held out a small bag. They had an agreement, he and Haskin （at least, so Lorn assumed）， that the former would collect any scraps a fixer might find useful, and in exchange, he could bring anything that might need fixing to the shop, free of charge.
Tes pulled the cord on the bag and peered down into the medley of parts. To anyone else, the contents might have looked like nothing but debris, but as she took in the glint of metal and the glow of magic, her mind was already whirring, racing ahead of her, back to the shop and the waiting worktable. She looked up to thank Lorn, but as she did, she caught the reflection of a woman in the mirrors, slipping between stalls.