Page 27 of Spellwright

LIMITED ENGAGEMENT

It didn’t take long for Fia to fill the Madbury’s appointment slots for the next few days, and soon she was turning customers away in disappointment. (She really hoped he’d return from the hotel soon.) But she found that once in the spellshop, visitors often lingered, making small purchases or inquiring about her spellwork, like the man before her now.

He was heads taller than Fia, thin and gangly and never-seen-the-sun pale, and Penbrook probably would have hated his fashion sense. He wore a rather loose-fitting jacket—the sleeves too short—with three silver buttons and the last of bronze, as if one had fallen off and he couldn’t be bothered to match its replacement. “How long have you been spellwriting?” he asked with interest.

“For as long as I could hold a pen,” she said, thinking back to those long-ago days when she’d trailed so eagerly after her mother, watching her craft spell after spell, wanting so badly to be able to do it herself. “My mother taught me everything I know. How magic must flow from head to heart to hand, braiding intent into words.”

“Intent.” The man tapped his chin, a sharp glint in his eye. “I wonder about that too. I wonder about your intent.”

His words carried some insinuation and pressed uncomfortably against Fia. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“You’re dust-fingered, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I—”

“So.” The man’s eyebrows pinched together. “You are the spellwright who stole the grimoire from Thistledown.”

Fia recoiled, so taken aback she couldn’t find her voice. Elsewhere maybe she’d expected the stares and the whispers because of those articles, but inside her shop, she’d felt insulated and safe. So quickly was that illusion shattered.

Any pretense of kindness drained from the man’s voice. “And now you’re releasing curses.”

“Curses? No,” she whispered in confusion—but really, she didn’t want him to say anything more. Didn’t want her customers overhearing this horrible conversation filled with lies. “You… You need to go.”

Instead, he drew closer, forcing her back a step. “I ought to summon the Cloaks right now. They must take care of this. Of you.”

“Please,” she said as calmly as she could, though she wanted to scream. “Please leave.”

“I don’t think so—” he began.

“Excuse me.” A voice, subtle and sweet, cut over the man’s words, and the most striking girl Fia had ever seen floated over like she walked on clouds.

Her golden hair was simply done, clipped up on one side with a silver pin while the rest fell wavy and long over her shoulders. And oh, her violet dress stood out with what could only be Fantillian lace sewn so delicately around the bodice. At her neck she wore a thin ribbon dripping with sparkling rings that clinked against one another like bells when she moved.

It wasn’t her pleasant face, though, but maybe something in her manner—Fia couldn’t determine exactly what it was—that brought every eye in the room to attention. The way the young woman smiled and touched her collarbone, her movements a beckoning, it seemed like she was made of secrets you desperately wanted to know.

“Yes?” the man said, sounding a little dazed and seeming to forget the accusations he’d meant for Fia at the sight of this star-fall of a girl. His lips spread in an ugly smile he must have thought handsome.

“She asked you to leave, and yet you’re still standing here.” The girl tipped her head, flaxen hair sweeping against her pale cheek, words falling like slowly grown thorns. “The door’s over there. You found your way in; now why don’t you find your way out.”

“I…”

“And I’d be enormously pleased if you never came back.”

The man gulped down his humiliation, and then, to Fia’s surprise, he scuttled away under the glare of the girl’s hazel eyes.

“I can’t believe… thank you,” Fia said, relief flooding through her as she considered her rescuer. “I didn’t think he was going to listen to me.”

“My pleasure.” The girl waved her hand like it was nothing. “I would have hauled him out by his ear if he’d refused to go. Might have been more satisfying.”

Fia grinned, looking at this girl who wasn’t much taller than her—or any older, she guessed—who thought she could wrestle a man out the door. “You wouldn’t have.”

“Trust me, I would have.” She looked around the store. “Anyone else need booting?”

“No, I don’t think so.” Fia laughed in the full-bodied way she usually only did with Grace.

“Too bad. That was fun.” She took a few steps away, touching one of the rose-tinted bottles of Dahl’s Love Drops resting on the table. “What a lovely display.”

Fia skirted around the counter. “Can I offer you one in thanks?”