“I should really mend those,” she remarked to Vares, tucked in his usual pocket. The dead owl made no reply. She didn’t blame him. They both knew she wasn’t nearly as good with needle and string as she was with a thread of magic. Her mother always—But there Tes caught herself, and drew her thoughts another way. Perhaps it was time to buy new clothes, instead.
Fifteen was such a disconcerting age. Her body insisted on growing in fits and starts so that nothing seemed to fit, not even her skin.
She resolved to start looking for a new coat. Nothing magical, though. Most of the coats had something woven through them—a spell to keep the water off, a spell to make them warm in winter or cool in summer. All she wanted was good sturdy wool.
Her stomach growled, and she opened the sack and popped a dumpling in her mouth, savoring the scented steam that filled her senses as she bit down, the fine-diced onion, the spiced meat. She smiled.
“Worth it,” she said, mouth full.
From her coat pocket, Vares clicked his beak as if he wanted a bite.
“You don’t have a stomach,” she pointed out. “You’ll just make a mess.”
The dead owl seemed to sigh. Tes swallowed, resisting the urge to reach for another until she was back in her shop with a cup of tea.
Tes sagged with relief as she reached the shal, her eyes welcoming the shadows that fell over the narrower streets, the river’s light breaking like a surf against the buildings. She slowed only when she passed a shuttered store, and saw something drawn on the wall. The white paint was still wet against the stone.
Up close, it looked like massive strokes, but when she took a few steps back, she saw what it was meant to be.
A hand.
She hurried on, quickening her pace until she reached the shop, the gold H welcoming her back. She ran her fingers over the words on the sign—once broken, soon repaired—tugging on the threads she’d woven through them in protection, and loosening the spell that kept the place locked up.
But as Tes let herself in, she saw, too late, that the shop wasn’t empty.
Someone stood at the counter, rummaging around, their back to the door. Fear prickled through Tes, her fingers reaching for the nearest weapon （which was unfortunately a small metal lantern, designed to magnify light） as she cleared her throat and said, in her most intimidating voice, “What do you think you are you doing?”
“Looking for sugar,” said a familiar voice, and then the reed-thin body straightened, revealing black hair, and long limbs in a fraying grey coat. “Honestly, Tes, how can you drink it like this?” He turned his cheek as he said this, and his face caught the light, exposing a fox-sharp jaw and a playful grin.
Nero.
Tes felt her fear uncoil, her limbs relaxing until she saw that he had poured himself a cup of her finest tea.
“You know,” she said, “people put locks on doors for a reason.”
Nero leaned his elbows back on the counter and blew a lock of hair out of his eyes. “To make things more interesting?”
She set down the satchel of dumplings and fished the dead owl from her coat, returning him to his perch on the counter.
“Who’s a good dead bird?” cooed Nero, digging a few fried seeds from his pocket.
“Don’t do that,” she said as he fed them to the owl. “You know he can’t eat.”
Sure enough, the seeds clacked and clattered through Vares’s bones, and landed in a pile between his feet.
“Aw,” said Nero, patting the bird’s skull. “But look at how happy it makes him.”
Vares clicked his beak in delight and ruffled his featherless wings.
Tes rolled her eyes. Even the damn bird was charmed. That was the trouble with Nero. He was charming. His black hair had a life of its own, from the widow’s peak it made over his brow to the tendrils that curled against his cheeks, and the rest rose like a cloud over his head. As if that weren’t enough, he had eyes that were gold at the edges and green at the center, and the kind of smile that made Tes blush, even though she didn’t fancy him.
Charming wasn’t the only word that came to mind, not by a long shot, but it was usually the first, followed by criminal, con artist, and ne’er-do-well, though those words conjured images of scowling brutes, and he was always surprisingly cheerful.
And then, there was friend. That one was a warm stone in her hand, and she was torn between the urge to hold it close, and cast it away. Friends were dangerous, and she’d never planned on making one, certainly not with someone like him.
Nero pushed off the counter and looked around. “How is Master Haskin today?” he asked, knowing there was no such person, and never had been.