Chapter 7

Julian

Wasting an entire day popping in and out of one jewelry store after another is exactly the break I need from yesterday's endless walking. The weather is cooler, the sky is clear, and the quaint town of Ember Crest is aflutter with activity.

Too bad Cricket took off so early. Would be nice to have a shopping companion, even if he's a cranky thief and too stubborn to hand over the coin I need, even in exchange for the most excellent magical tutelage money can buy.

Pity.

We could have oohed and aahed over the various baubles and shining gems together. Maybe he'd have nicked one. Maybe not. Depends on whether his morals qualify the shop owners as wealthy or common.

The thought brings a chuckle to my lips. He's a funny thing, Cricket. I can't wait to see his face when I gate to wherever he camps tonight. All the fuss of getting up early, stealing a horse, and rushing out of town for nothing.

He didn't believe me when I told him I could sense the coin's whereabouts. It's why I was in Lemossin. Why I planned to infiltrate the palace, but then Cricket went and did it for me.

The coin beckons like a potential lover, with a lingering pull, a whispered word against the shell of my ear, a long glance from a pair of come-hither eyes. I won't be denied.

"Care to try one on for size?" The shopkeep stirs me from my thoughts. He's fae, with lemon-lime coloring on his wings and hair and bright yellow eyes to match. He motions to the case of rings I've been gawking at.

I place both mangled hands squarely onto the glass counter. "Afraid not. Wouldn't want to draw unnecessary attention to these." I wiggle what remains of my fingers, and he squirms in discomfort.

Honestly, I don't know why I enjoy such things. Bad habit, I suppose.

"Oh, erm, well." He gestures farther into the brightly lit display room. Faerie lights twinkle like stars. The whole shop is seeped in vanilla perfume, cloying and dense. "We have a fine selection of necklaces and pendants as well, sir. Over here. Come and see."

No, I don't believe I will. "It's just that I've always loved rings."

He stares, which is quite unpleasant, then clears his throat. "Perhaps with gloves so no one will be the wiser?"

As if I hadn't thought of that.

Gloves make the ugly nubs slightly less noticeable, yes, but either the unfilled fabric flops around with every movement, or I stuff the empty columns, and the digits are oddly stiff and weird looking. There's no disguising my deformity. "You think I should hide them?"

"Erm, uh, I didn't say that."

"You practically did, though." Picking a fight is fun. I like the chaos. The pleasure of keeping someone on their back foot. This fae makes it too easy.

"Apologies. That's not what I meant. If you love rings, you should have them." A false smile slashes across his sly face. "Let's open the case and have a closer look, hmm?"

"If you insist."

"May I ask, are you the artist?"

"Oh, me? No. Not so talented myself."

"Then who is?" I know the answer. In the past, most of the gems from these southerly mining towns were dug up and fashioned into jewelry by humans working for little more than slaves' wages.

It must be changing, or it will be soon, with the revolution won and new laws in place to ensure equality. The guilds must be pissing themselves with anger. I wouldn't be surprised if they're scheming to skirt around the law behind the scenes.

"Different people," he says, dodging the real question. "Not one artist but many."

We spend roughly an hour hemming and hawing over each piece. I enjoy whiling away the minutes studying pretties while the shopkeep dances from foot to foot, desperate for the sale.

It's fun, but I grow bored. And I'd never buy something that might be lining the pockets of the guild.

"Never mind. I shall have to go without," I declare after trying on about a hundred baubles, ranging from quite beautiful to extremely tacky.

Cricket would definitely have stolen something from this pushy snob of a salesman. We could have done it together with me as the distraction. A team effort.

What would he have chosen? Something cream or brown to match his lovely coloring? Or perhaps something viridian or black to match mine?

Too bad I'll never know.

The rest of the day, I spend eating, drinking, and generally lying around to regain my strength. My calves are sore. As are the bottoms of my feet. It's nice to pass the time without a sense of urgency, knowing I'll see Cricket once more come sundown.

Perhaps he'll realize he can't escape, and he'll bargain with me for the coin at last.

Perhaps he won't.

In that case, I'll have to dedicate some time to a plan. Steal it? Weasel my way into his affections? Fight him for it?

All of the above?

When dusk settles over Ember Crest, I close my eyes and listen for the sweet song of the coin to lure me in. The melody comes at once, floating on the wind like moonlion mane seeds and just as delicate as those lovely silver strands.

But it brings something else too.

A surprise.

A sense of Cricket, frustrated. He's tired, mind and body. Longing for something. The sensation is so strong I nearly lose my balance. I whip my eyes open and glance around, almost expecting to see him, but no, he's sunstrides away. Farther south. I haven't gated yet.

That's new.

My magic has never worked that way before. I don't sense people. Not their thoughts or feelings.

Nature, I can feel. Energy, I can channel to do my bidding. But people? I use sight, sound, touch, just like everyone else.

Not magic.

Reeling, I close my eyes and lock on to the coin's position. To Cricket's. Space bends and folds to my will, and I step through, straight from one point to another, as simple as crossing a threshold.

"Snail's slime!" Cricket startles, dropping a handful of sticks. He's camped next to a swiftly flowing stream, sitting on a rock and looking every bit as annoyed as I expected. "You scared me."

"Couldn't be helped, I'm afraid." I wipe nonexistent dust from my coat to settle my nerves. The sense I had of him is gone, relieving me of a strange intimacy, neither wanted nor earned. "You're such a jumpy creature. What were you doing?"

"Where did you come from?"

"Ember Crest, right where you left me. Have a nice day?"

"Without you? Of course."

"Didn't believe I could follow the coin like I said?"

"I don't believe anything anyone says on principle. Now I know for sure that you can." He shrugs. "Wish you wouldn't."

"Wishes are for children and the na?ve, of which you're neither."

He's made up a cozy camp. Bedroll laid out next to the rock he's sitting on, bag splayed open with half its contents scattered on the old wool. A book, a map, the heel of a loaf of bread, and some knickknacks, likely stolen. They don't look particularly valuable. A wooden carving of a cat, back arched, tail held straight up, a toy slingshot, some skipping stones.

Why bother stealing toys?

Not far away, a small horse munches on a patch of tall grass, completely unbothered except for a slow glance in my direction.

No, not a horse. A pony, really. And what's wrong with her eye?

"You stole a blind pony?"

"Half-blind." Cricket's stare intensifies. "What's it to you?"

What had the stable mistress said? Stole my best mount. Worth a pretty penny. Curse him for me when you find him, will ya? But surely she wasn't speaking of this old nag.

Cricket must have told her to lie. But why?

I nod toward the old creature. "You paid for that pathetic excuse for a horse, didn't you?"

Cricket narrows his gaze and glares. "Don't talk about Slinger that way. We have an understanding. Besides, none of us are perfect, are we?" He glances pointedly at my missing fingers.

Touché.

If only he knew how much more imperfect I really am. I roll my shoulders, and the scar tissue where my wings should be loosens a fraction. "Never claimed to be perfect. Not even close."

He huffs and flops onto his sleep roll, then shoves his belongings back into his bag. "I was hoping you'd take my leaving as a cue not to follow this time."

"Alas, until the coin is mine, I cannot." I sit in the spot he abandoned, leaving us face-to-face and me the taller. "What were you doing before I arrived?"

"Failing."

"At what?"

"Magic."

"Ah." This could be an opportunity to earn a fraction of goodwill. Cricket is hard to read, and I'm unsure which method will procure his cooperation the quickest. "Perhaps I could be of assistance."

"I'm not giving you the?—"

"Coin, I know." I place my palm over my chest. "Out of the goodness of my heart this time, promise."

He blows an irritated breath from his nose. "Why would you do that?"

"Boredom. Do you have a better idea to pass the time?"

The slow once-over caressing me from head to toe suggests he does.

Only my iron willpower keeps the warmth from my cheeks, but he's not serious. Probably just getting me back for the pillow talk at the pub.

He relents. "Fine. I was trying to conjure flame, but it's pointless. I've never been able to, so I don't know why I tried now."

"With sticks?"

"What else? Wood burns."

If he was honest about how much magic he possesses, then teaching him flame shouldn't be too difficult. It's the first elemental magic most fae learn as children. Fire loves to be conjured. The problem lies more in snuffing it out than calling it forth.

"You won't need sticks. Just your hand."

"Won't it burn me?"

No one's ever taught him the most basic rules, then. What a shame. "Fire you call won't hurt you, only others."

"Oh."

I reach out. "Give me your hand. I'll conjure a flame so you can see what it feels like."

"But if you conjure it, then it can burn me."

"Not if I don't want it to."

"So, I'm supposed to trust you?"

"In this, yes."

Stalemate. I drop my hand. An eery hum rises from Cricket's chest, monotone and the same note witches use in their protection chants. Not his chest. His inner vest pocket.

The coin.

We lock eyes.

"It's warning me," he says. "I shouldn't trust you."

The tone rises in pitch, vibrating as if it disagrees.

"Maybe it's saying the opposite." Promptly, the hum softens. My jaw hangs open stupidly. I didn't expect to be right about that. "Does it often communicate with you?"

"Once in a while."

A thousand questions spring to mind, but Cricket's expression tells me he's open to none of them. "Let me see it."

"No."

The sound is gone. And as much as I'd prefer to discuss the coin over the basics of elemental magic, now isn't the time. He's shutting down.

"Lessons, then." I hold out my hand again, palm up. "Cricket, I can conjure a flame with or without your hand. There's no point in questioning my motives. If I want to try and hurt you, I will. If the coin seeks to protect you, so be it. But this is no trick. My offer is genuine."

The only sound is the steady trickle of the nearby stream as water carves her path ever deeper into the earth. The coin stays silent.

Begrudgingly, he puts his hand in mine and holds his breath.

"Relax. This won't hurt." I call the fire to us, a mere taste, no more, and a delicate flame appears in Cricket's palm. So the coin doesn't mind my magic so long as I'm working with Cricket and not against him.

Interesting.

With no further instruction, the flame's natural curiosity leads it to nip and curl around our fingers as if in a dance.

Cricket's pupils dilate, leaving only slender circles of honey brown shining around them. "It's not even hot." Awe looks good on him. "Feels more like water than fire. Flowing."

"Yes, you're feeling movement, not temperature."

"Wow." His gaze tracks the flickering fire with pure glee. "But how do you create the flame in the first place?"

"Wrong line of thinking," I correct gently. "Creation isn't involved. Fire already exists. You're simply inviting it to come forth."

Cricket rolls his eyes. "Right, so I just say, ‘Hello, fire. Are you busy? No? I'm having a little get-together. Light brunch. Tea and cakes. Would you like to join me?' and fire will say, ‘Why yes, thank you. I'm feeling a bit peckish. Cakes would be lovely.' And bam, I've conjured fire?"

"Your sarcasm is astounding, but yes, I imagine that would work."

He opens and closes his mouth like a goldfish. "You're serious?"

"Go on. Try it." I blow out our little flame so he can call one for himself.

"No way." He jerks his hand from mine. "You're just trying to make me look stupid."

"I'm not. You do a fine job of that all on your own." I wink. He doesn't smile. "Your suggestion, though tongue in cheek, should work."

We stare at each other once more. I'm coming to know each freckle on his nose, the crescent fans of his long lashes, and the would-rather-trust-a-hungry-pogglewump-than-you-anyday glower he reserves just for me.

Makes me feel special.

"I won't force you."

"You couldn't if you tried." He taps his hand over the coin's resting place.

"Why are you always so difficult?"

"Why are you always so annoying?"

I suppose I deserve that. I'd be annoyed too if someone were following me against my will. "I'm actually trying to help. Do yourself a favor and believe me."

He purses his lips but, in the end, extends his hand.

I take it, flip it over, and place mine underneath. "You shouldn't need my help this time. Just think of fire. Call the image to your mind. Then invite it to your charming party and see what happens."

His hesitation gives way at last. In a small voice, he mutters, "Fire, I invite you to come."

Nothing happens.

"Again, but mean it this time. Believe your words."

He heaves a breath. "I invite you, fire." His voice is stronger, more confident. "Come and let me admire your dancing flames. Please."

A little flame springs to life, yellow and orange, swirling in his palm.

Cricket gasps. "I did it."

"Hmm, very good. You've proven you do possess manners and know how to deploy them when you want to."

As I watch Cricket while he watches the flame, my first time conjuring fire comes to me as if it were yesterday.

A dark room, smelling damp and musty. Fear in my heart. Hunger pains in my belly. Much like Cricket, I was surprised a flame came to me at all.

Surprised and grateful.

"What are you thinking so hard about?" he asks.

I glance up. That memory is old, no longer relevant, and I don't wish to share it.

But I'm willing to share another.

"Fire is often the first element a child learns to call, though that wasn't the case with me."

"What element did you summon?"

"Water came first, albeit in the form of ice. I made spheres to play with, rolling them around with a stray cat I'd befriended. She seemed to like them as much as I, but she was the only one impressed with my newfound skill."

"Your parents didn't care?"

"No parents, only an uncle. And he cared, all right, just not in the way I'd hoped." Everyone down to the palace staff was horrified I'd conjured ice so young, so easily, and without the guidance of a tutor.

Hide this skill, he'd whispered harshly. I won't have you growing up to be like me. Make toys of wood and cloth like other children and leave the ice to melt.

I didn't understand then. In a way, I still don't, and yet I do. A shiver tremors through me, though it's not an overly chilly evening.

"He sounds rotten," says Cricket.

The flame circles from his hand to mine and back.

"For a long time, I thought he was." I don't know what to think now in light of current events. But I'd rather Cricket be the one talking than me. "And what of your family? Are you eager to be reunited with them?"

His gaze shifts to the fire. "Don't want to talk about it."

There goes that idea. An uncomfortable sadness settles in. For Cricket. For myself. I don't relish the sensation.

With a thought, I coax his flame to me and grow it. The color changes to a beautiful burnt orange. It crackles and pops with new energy. "You won't always need to speak to it aloud. Settle your mind, direct your thoughts, and take it back from me."

"Settle my mind, eh?" He chuckles. "Just like that."

So we have something in common after all. "Try it. If you can't, we can practice again another time."

"All right." He closes his eyes and takes three slow breaths. When he opens them, determination shines in both irises. He whispers, "So big now. So strong. Look at you. Come and let me see for myself."

The swirling fireball moves from my hand to his, frolicking as though it enjoys the praise. Perhaps it does. We know very little about fire when you think about it. Though a flame may come when called, though it may do a mage's bidding, fire roars with its own life.

Its own secrets. Beauty, heat, and destruction, all-consuming, leaving only ash and cinder in its wake.

"Continue to show respect as you do, and fire will always be there when you need it."

"Oh, yeah?" says Cricket. "Then it will have been the first."

I take his hand in both of mine and show off a bit. Can't help myself. And he's such a good audience, enthralled as I coax the fire into feats of acrobatics even street tumblers would be hard-pressed to mimic.

"You're quite skilled at that." He indulges me with a crooked smile.

"Lot of practice. In time, you can learn this too. But for now, one more lesson."

"What's that?"

"We must put the fire out. Specifically, you should put the fire out."

"Dunk it in the creek?"

"And if you've conjured fire somewhere you don't have access to a creek?"

"Blow it out."

"Go on and try if you like."

"Well, now that you've said it like that, I'm thinking blowing it out won't work."

I chuckle. "You're right. It won't."

"So, what do I do?"

"Ask it. Out loud, that may be the only way for now, but eventually, you'll be able to use your mind."

He blinks. "More focusing, great," he grumbles, but he gets right to it, gathering control of his breath and narrowing his gaze onto the flame. "Thank you for the visit. Go on home. We'll see you next time."

To my astonishment, this works. Fire is generally quite stubborn, particularly with a new mage when it somehow knows it can get away with more trickery.

"Well done, Cricket. That was excellent."

He blushes. "Thank you. For the lesson. I never thought I'd be able to do that."

We're still holding hands, his skin warm against mine. I'm reluctant to let go, but much longer and things will grow awkward. We're not friends, as he's mentioned, and I'm not wanted here, which I should be used to, but at the moment, I can't help but want him. Clever Cricket. Grumpy, lonely, questionable morals Cricket.

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he's staring at my damaged hands.

"Jules." His voice has gone soft. "What happened to you?"

Between one breath and the next, a crazy thing happens.

I consider telling him the truth.

My chest tightens. I come to my senses and pull my hands from his grasp. "Farming incident. Very gruesome. I'll spare you the details."

Cricket drops his hand to his lap. "Why do you need the coin?"

He means it. He genuinely wants to know.

But my reasons are none of his business. "To add to my collection. I have a silver coin and a bronze coin, just need that gold one. Imagine how great it'll look on my shelf next to my octopus tentacle collection."

"You're such an ass." He turns his back to me and curls up in his bedroll. "I'm never giving you the coin."

Whoops.