Page 11 of Spellwright

“I don’t think I’ll be eating either one.”

The two went back and forth, debating mushrooms with as much enthusiasm as they would have hunting antiques, and it was the perfect distraction. With both hands curled around her mug, Fia settled back in her chair, letting their chatter overpower that niggling sense she had of being watched.

The musicians played on, and one promised song turned into another. And another. Because Fia found she wanted to stay. It just had been so hard—was still hard—without her mother. But really, she should have let Grace and Montrose draw her out much sooner.

It was hours later that the three friends finally parted, Grace heading back to her family’s apartment above Miscellany, Montrose striking out to his place in the Harrow District, and Fia returning to Sable Spells.

Alone yet again.

Humming a tune for which she’d already forgotten the lyrics, she pushed into the darkness of the spellshop, hopeful she might hold off the quiet that always found her at night. However, a sense of melancholy filled her, and she grew wistful, for the scent of rose perfume that once meant her mother was home. For the sound of footsteps in the kitchen—Sable returning from her own mysterious night out—and the soft clinking of dishes as she prepared a pot of lavender sleep-well tea, a second cup already placed on the tray for Fia.

Still humming, even though it sounded a little eerie now, she locked the door behind her, only to catch a whisper of movement beyond the glass when she lifted her head. Freezing, Fia fell silent as she peered out at the lamplit street.

Anyone might be out there—customers leaving the unnamed café at the corner, or a wandering couple just then falling in love beneath the wide span of stars, so focused on each other they didn’t notice the cold.

Or someone who didn’t want to be seen.

The hairs on the back of her neck rose, and Fia’s fears proved true as three cloaked figures peeled away from the shadows across the street and slipped off into the night.

CHAPTER 5

Everything is always better in the morning—that was what Fia’s mother had often said, and then she’d let out a dry laugh. Not for any other reason than there’s coffee.

Fia preferred tea, but she understood the point. Troubles did not disappear overnight, no matter how much you wished them to.

Worrying her lip, all she could think of on this too-bright morning were those three shadowy figures who’d lurked outside her shop the night before. And the ones who’d stolen into the archives. She had a terrible feeling they were one and the same, which meant the thieves knew who she was and where she lived.

And that she was a witness to their theft.

Their presence had felt, if not immediately dangerous—they’d dashed off, after all—then at the very least imminently dangerous. Fia didn’t want to think about what they might do to ensure her continued silence.

The floorboards creaked, and she jumped, nerves frayed, but it was only Finnick coming into the kitchen. He leapt up onto the sunlit counter even though he wasn’t allowed and emitted a plaintive cry that indicated his absolute hunger.

“You menace.” Fia laughed shakily, and it helped. She shooed the orange fluff ball down, then filled his bowls with kibble and fresh water. Pretended that everything was fine as she made herself a cup of raspberry tea. She let her hand drift over the mug, golden dust falling like sugar into her drink, reciting a simple spell for calm.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” she murmured, the way her father might have done had he been there, a bit perfunctorily.

He would always offer those easy-to-give, almost weightless encouragements on his brief and inconsistent visits to Trivoris, whenever he was granted shore leave from the Belladonna. He was so much different from her mother, with his casual nature and her straightforward practicality. It was no wonder they had preferred spending most of their time apart—especially in the last few years, when they didn’t see each other at all.

Fia didn’t miss him exactly, as he’d never been around much in the first place. But right then she would have appreciated his assurances, as false as they might have been. The last time she’d seen him had been a few weeks after her mother died. If he had grieved, he didn’t show it, only staying long enough for them to share a meal and place daisies on her mother’s plain headstone in Fortune’s End. He’d slipped her a few coins in parting too, right over the grave, something he seemed to think made up for his long-standing absence.

“I don’t like to leave again so soon.” His eyes had shone with something she pretended was regret and was more likely restlessness. He was ready to be on his way.

“I’ll be fine,” she’d promised, not wanting him to go and feeling that same aching need she’d had when she was younger and didn’t really understand his home was a merchant ship, not the spellshop. “Anyway, Finnick will keep an eye on me.”

“Good, good,” he’d said, not because Finnick would actually watch out for her—after all, he was a cat and looked after no one but himself—but because her father respected the untroubled way she accepted his departure. He could tell himself she didn’t need him, and maybe he’d almost believe it.

So Bruin Ives had disappeared as he always did, back to the salted waters of the Fateful Sea he knew better than the land, leaving Fia to mind Sable Spells like the responsible daughter he assumed her to be.

And then she’d gone off and broken into Thistledown!

“Ha! If only he knew,” Fia crowed, sloshing tea over the side of her cup.

Finnick, seeming to sense her agitation in the thin spiral of her voice, hauled his mouth from the depths of his dish and threaded through her ankles, crumbs falling from his whiskers.

“Maybe you do watch out for me after all.” She scritched under his chin.

It was a small comfort, though, as Finnick spooked at the slightest things. Those thieves would only need to overturn a brick to find her hidden key, and then they’d slip through the back door as easily as Grace had done the day before. A lot of good Finnick would do then—not that she’d ever put him in the way of danger.