She was four minutes late. A negligible delay, really, to most mortals, but Archfey were particular. Historically, immortals were misers with time, inexplicably gripping every moment tightly in their fists while mortals eagerly shared the sands fast depleting in their hourglasses.
The clockface, while plain, ticked on as if it were judging her. Avery stared at it, her expression stony, while she proceeded to slowly and defiantly pour the remaining tea into her cup.
The council had stolen nearly two hundred years of her life. They could spare her reclaiming a few minutes.
Milk. Sugar. Drink.
Five minutes late.
If this Saga lived directly below her, it would be worth noting her work schedule and living habits. Who did she bring home? When was she out? What sort of magic, beyond perfect cups of tea, did she practice, and would it interfere with Avery’s own work? What sort of potential dangers did she bring past the threshold of the building, and how many of them would know who was being housed in the apartment upstairs?
Six minutes late.
Avery languidly drank the dregs of the tea, savoring every last sip.
DidSagaknow who Avery was? Truly know? This was worth investigating—who knew what? She didn’t care for the notion that she might be surrounded by those who knew far more about her than she did about them.
Seven minutes.
Thatseemed satisfactory.
Satisfactory enough that it felt deliberate but not so much that it could considered the kind of insubordination that got one thrown back into Blackthorn. She stood, a feat which was not easy but that was made simpler with the invigorating elixir of an entire warm pot of tea running through her veins. Then she stopped. She hadn’t paid for her meal.
Out of habit, her hands dipped into her coat pockets, fingers brushing over a notebook in one and nothing in the other. A small thrill of anxiety twinged in her chest and she checked the inside pockets. A few small vials, a handkerchief, a wand…
Coin. She needed to leavecoin. How much? Her search proved this question rather moot as she didn’t appear to have any. It also stood to reason that in the event she did have coin, it might no longer be of worth having been two hundred years out of circulation. Did they even still use coin? Had they adapted to something more resourceful?
She craned her neck around the room, but this provided no answers. She could catch no sight of the waitress who had been circulating before, nor the pretty pink-haired fey who had served her.
No one.
Logically, she knew Saga would likely understand. If the council had made her living arrangements, then she’d be well aware of the situation and so this would have to be on credit to be paid later.
Yet, it didn’t sit well with her.
An item given without exchange left the sort of empty creeping unease in one’s chest and stomach that kept them up at night.
Avery didn’t need another thing keeping her up at night.
The clock on the wall ticked another second, two, three—eight minutes late now.
She clicked her tongue distastefully and wrapped the sweet-smelling pink confection in a paper napkin before pocketing it into one of the empty compartments hidden about her coat. She took another napkin in hand and dipped her index finger into the residual sediment of her teacup to spell out a crude but legible “I O U £.”
She debated the £ in particular. Would Saga know she meant more than just one pound if the bill was larger than that? Would she think she was trying to stiff her? It felt safer than putting merely “s,” as suggesting she owed simply shillings might have been taken as an insult. She took a deep breath. She couldn’t worry about that now. The important part was it was an acknowledgment of an unfinished deal, and it was binding. She would not be haunted by the consequence that came with an ignored debt.
Nine minutes late.
She would have to ask Gideon for coin.
Her lip curled, repulsed. She was loath to request anything from Gideon, much less a favor. Yet, if her services were worthy enough to end a five-hundred-year sentence prematurely, then surely they were worth a small weekly stipend for meals and luxuries like tea.
Not even the council was monstrous enough to board her above a café yet deny her tea. The sleeping curse paled in comparison to such torture.
The rain was still pouring past the awning, but with a small gesture of her hand, the air stirred and the droplets fell away from her as she took a few steps toward the awaiting car, safe and dry. In what native Londoners dared call “sunlight,” she could see it was black, and despite the novelty of its design to Avery, was rather nondescript. The windows were dark and prevented anyone from seeing inside—rather dramatic in Avery’s opinion, but very characteristic of the Winter Council. The door opened, and she slid within.
Over the years she’d kept mental notes on everyone she encountered, much like an explorer cataloging a new species. These notes contained valuable information carefully outlined on a cerebral card and could be accessed quickly, filed near the front of the meticulously curated library of her mind.
The important facts she kept at front of mind for Gideon Blackthorn were these:
