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“But you—you put a price on the chasing of a dream. You’ve convinced this entire city that your seal of approval is necessary for the right to even pursue that dream and you’ve institutionalized the taxing of it. It’s despicable.”
“Do you expect me to respond to this, you foolish child?” She laughed. “Did you imagine you could come in here with borrowed airs and an idealistic notion of fairness, and make me see the errors of my ways?”
Clare shook her head, displaying none of the anger or embarrassment Madame Aria had no doubt intended to make her feel. “No. I had no expectations you would make even the slightest concession. I came here for one reason, and one reason only.”
“And what is that?”
“For you to know my face, as I came here to know yours. For you to know my name. It’s Clare Brighton. Remember it.”
Madame Aria snorted. “I’ll remember you, girl. If only so when my carriage drives by the sewer ditches, I’ll have a name to put to your face. Now get out, before I have you thrown out.”
Clare smiled and stood, reaching for her guitar case. “If you look for me in the sewer ditches, you’ll be disappointed. I’m going to take something from you. Something as important to you as what you steal every day from the artists in this city. So when you’re standing there, wondering how it all went wrong, remember me. Remember me just as I am now, and know that I am to blame.”
She swept from the room, Madame Aria’s laughter following her out. She didn’t mind it, mocking though it was. She would remember that laughter. She would remember the disdain. But most importantly, she would remember the promise she’d made.
Chapter Eight
A Staring Problem
Having made her declaration, Clare wasted no time in setting it into motion. She’d been bereft of a concrete purpose ever since she’d discovered the difficulty of being hired outside the blessing of the Musicians Guild, and having now given herself a new one, the entirety of her being had settled.
She spent the next two hours wandering Hightown, asking casual questions to gain information and locate what she wanted. What she wanted turned out to be Rosalita’s. A cafe in the music district known for exotic teas and a lively atmosphere, it catered to Veralna’s elite musical patrons. At the mid-afternoon bell she found it still doing a brisk business, though the lunch hour had surely gone and the evening rush was yet to come. She supposed that was what came from visiting a part of the city in which money bought one’s schedule, rather than the work most people did to earn that money.
A quick inquiry about entrees had her foregoing food entirely and opting for a cup of tea, even though her stomach was growling from the walk here. The money she had wasn’t going to get her far. She certainly couldn’t afford to sleep in Hightown tonight, and would have to walk back to Midtown or Lowtown before curfew to afford lodging.
She took the tea—which cost four times what it would have in Midtown—in its ridiculously delicate porcelain cup, to a table outside. The day’s chill was kept at bay by the warming spells on the chair seats and the fires that burned in small pits in the centers of the tables.
Clare sat in the chair, her entire body warmed, the chair conducting warmth through her skin, her fingers wrapped around the hot cup so not even they went stiff or numb.
She wanted to laugh. Or cry. Or scream. She wanted to shove her chair back and demand to know how every happy, oblivious person here could stand it. The easiness, the lack of fear or need or urgency. No one here had anywhere to be, and the absence of a purpose stemmed from an abundance of wealth rather than a lack of it.
It was everything she’d ever aspired to—and she hated everyone here for having it, including herself. Even if she was only an imposter for the hour.
Two men dressed in severe black stood on opposite sides of the outdoor seating area; both of them took in her guitar case and her single cup of tea and watched her carefully, as if she might disturb the affluent atmosphere merely by existing in it. Their entire purpose was likely to keep people like her from approaching the cafe’s other patrons, the ones who could actually afford to be here. She doubted she was the first aspiring musician to think that coming to this district of Hightown could be beneficial to her career.
But she wasn’t here to do anything as foolish as approach someone in an attempt to gain their patronage. For one, that was guaranteed to end in failure, and for another, everyone here likely paid homage to the Musicians Guild. So no, she wasn’t here to socialize. She was here to listen to the chatter around her and verify that it confirmed everything she’d already learned wandering the music district.
She’d been sitting for half an hour, cataloging the people around her, catching snippets of conversations, and plotting, when she noticed him watching her. She wouldn’t have—he sat at a table behind and to the right of her—had a server not placed a silver pitcher on the table in front of hers. Its shining surface reflected his face, and if the image was too distorted to give her any idea of who he might be, the intensity with which he watched her was undeniable.
She didn’t give any outward sign that she’d noticed the attention until she’d made up her mind to confront him rather than walk away. This was hardly the place anyone would cause a scene, and after the event in the marketplace a few days ago, when she’d been so certain she was being followed and then not so certain—well, better to confront this man here, where the public eye of Veralna’s elite gave her a reason to control herself.
She lifted her cup in one hand, guitar case in the other, strode to his table and sat down across from him.
He didn’t look much older than her, perhaps in his mid-twenties, with straight brown hair that fell to his shoulders and an exceptionally pale complexion. She wanted to say there was something off about the skin color, but there wasn’t a centimeter of skin exposed anywhere else on him for her to compare it to. His shirt was high-necked and fashionable, as were the thin white gloves that covered his hands.
“You seem to have a staring problem,” she told him.
His mouth split in a slow grin, a flash of amusement dancing in his eyes. “Indeed I do.” Something about his voice didn’t match him, in the same way his skin tone and his hair didn’t quite match him. There was nothing she could point to that was wrong with them, and they all fit together, even the pale blue eyes, except…there was a faint sheen of magic over those eyes, so thin she almost missed it. But she didn’t and, as always happened for her, once she noticed a glamour she was underneath it. His eyes weren’t blue, but so deep a brown they might as well be black.
A shadow loomed over their table as one of the black-clad men who’d been stationed at the perimeter of the cafe asked, “Is she bothering you, sir?”
Clare stiffened, but it wasn’t at the question, or the knowledge that she would be escorted off the premises if the man wished it. No, she stiffened because she’d recognized the deep, almost-black eyes beneath the man’s glamour. She’d seen them reflected in a mirror inside a hotel room, and now she understood why nothing about him seemed quite right.
His disguise was as perfect as the first one had been, but now that she’d seen what lay underneath, she couldn’t make the face he wore today fit him. Only those eyes, that hadn’t yet broken from her gaze, belonged to him.
The cafe attendant cleared his throat, and the man across from Clare waved a dismissive hand. “She’s not bothering me. Quite the opposite, in fact.”
The attendant dipped his head in acknowledgment and retreated, shooting Clare a warning glance as he did. She bared her teeth at him as he left, and the man across from her laughed.
