“To answer your question, no, I didn’t send them. But they found me. I simply… requisitioned them.” He pressed his hand against his arm, as though to slow a hemorrhage. Yet there was no trace of pain on his face. “Consider it free labor.”
Labor? A few steps away, the two Cursed were already fighting over a brush. All I wanted was my routine back. “I don’t want help. Leave.”
He had that look, somewhere between frozen horizon and storm-violet, where sparks of gold glimmered like fireflies trapped in glass. He studied me as though I were some foolish creature he hadn’t yet decided whether to destroy or tolerate.
“What admirable stubbornness. Given the state of your shop, I’d dare say you’re in no position to refuse.”
My jaw tightened. “I’ve always managed on my own.”
“Yes, I see the overwhelming success of your methods.”
My fists clenched, but he had already moved on, brushing aside my objection with condescending ease.
“I need some sucre d'or. Quickly,” he said, his calm voice leaving no room for negotiation.
I blinked. The audacity of this one. “You can’t just walk in and demand?—”
“Of course I can,” he cut in. “Don’t make me force you.”
I crossed my arms. “I have nothing to sell. Not a single pastry. And in this mess, it will take me hours to get the shop back in order.”
He inclined his head slightly, a thin smile touching his lips. But nothing was reassuring in it. He was as sharp as a weapon. Cruel, even. “Then give it to me raw.”
I stepped back, outraged. “Raw? Are you mad? The sucre d'or can’t be eaten like that! It’s unstable and dangerous.”
“I’ve survived worse,” he replied dryly. “Flirting with death is something of a pastime.”
I stared at him, words caught in my throat. This sorcerer—this man—was nothing like anything I had ever known before, and he seemed far too at ease amid the wreckage of my life.
“If you’re going to pity me, at least make it useful. Bring. Me. The. Sugar,” he ordered, as a bitter mist began to rise around him.
“I can’t.”
“How unfortunate, then,” he cut me off. “I suppose I’ll just collapse here and spill my blood all over your floor.”
“What? But?—”
Before I could finish, the sorcerer collapsed heavily to the ground.
I certainly hadn’t expected to end my day with—not only an unconscious, blood-covered sorcerer sprawled across my floor—but also two other Cursed busily cleaning.
I had closed the shop’s shutters and locked the door twice over, afraid someone might accuse me of foul sorcery. I paced in circles around the sorcerer. What was I supposed to do? I had never treated anyone before, and certainly not a sorcerer who was giving off a strange, icy mist. His magic seemed unstable, leaking out of him as if searching for an escape, or else trying to shield him, but far too chaotic to be controlled.
“Nyla would know what to do,” I murmured, more to myself than to Aignan, who came back, keeping a cautious distance from the two Cursed.
He sniffed the air in disgust, wrinkling his muzzle as though the sorcerer reeked of something pestilent.
“He’s unconscious, he won’t hurt you,” I assured him.
“He’s a sorcerer! No one’s safe,” Aignan groaned, flattening his ears tight against his head.
“I can’t just leave him here, can I?” I set my hands on my hips with a sigh. A sticky, rebellious strand of hair slid across my forehead.
“Put him outside,” Aignan suggested offhandedly, as though we were discussing a dead branch.
I bit my lip, painfully aware that I had neither the strength nor the courage to drag his body into the street and toss him out like an old sack of grain.
“Don’t you think it’s strange? Mr. Yeun turning into a will-o’-the-wisp, then this sorcerer showing up with the Cursed who attacked us? He must be his master. Yeun must have warned him, and this sorcerer fought them. That’s why he’s bleeding,” I said, tapping my foot, brows furrowed.
