We don’t waste oil or candles unless absolutely necessary, so it’s pitch black in my room until I feel for the window beside my bed, pulling the tattered curtain away from it and allowing a bit of moonlight to filter in. Even then, it’s too dark to make out much—not that there’s much to make out. Nothing beyond my lumpy mattress, the battered dresser missing most of its knobs, and the shelf where I keep some of the trinkets I’ve made from scrap materials over the years.
I don’t really need to see, though; I’ve memorized the number of steps between all the corners and edges in this room so that I can move quickly, more easily through this space, even with limited depth perception.
Making my way into the center room of our shack—into a space that serves as a kitchen, a workspace, and whatever else we need it to be—I find Marta sitting at the smaller of two worn tables, mending the sleeve of a coat. The roomsmells like the hot lemon water she’s always drinking, and there’s a stack of unfinished clothing piled in the corner, as usual; she moves too slowly these days to get everything done at the shop.
“Welcome back to the land of the living,” she says without looking up from her work.
I mumble something incoherent in response, searching the cabinet for a clean cup and our small, sacred canister of tea leaves. We’re running low on these leaves, along with everything else. I’ve been trying to stretch them out as long as I can, but tonight I decide to indulge; I don’t think I’ll be able to keep myself awake if I don’t.
The fire is already lit, the kettle sitting beside it. I manage to fill that kettle without any spills, but hooking it over the open flame proves tricky. After a few failed attempts, Marta rises with a grunt and comes over, bumping me aside.
“Let me do that before you burn yourself,” she grumbles.
I usually hate letting people help me. She and Briar are the only exceptions—only because I know they don’t think I’m incapable because of my injury; they’re just impatient.
While she finishes fixing my tea, I do her a favor in return, organizing the pile of garments along with her scattered spools of thread and needles. As I’m sorting through the messy box where she keeps her supplies, my hand falls on one of the many trinkets I’ve made over the past few years: a small sun fashioned out of bent wire and a flattened coin.
It’s the closest thing I have to a hobby these days, I guess; collecting scraps and repurposing them into something resembling art. Marta often calls meLittle Crow—usually while rolling her eyes at this compulsion I have to scavenge shiny things that most would consider trash.
This tiny, lopsided sun was one of the first things I made. I smile a bit, realizing she’s kept it all this time.
A few minutes later, she plops my cup onto the table and eases back into her seat with a sigh.
“This came for you, by the way,” she says, fishing a crumpled envelope from her pocket.
I take it, settling down into the rickety chair opposite of her and running my fingers over its wax seal, which features a serpent coiled around a tower.
“That’s the crooked Baron of Grenmire’s seal, ain’t it?”
“Mm.” I slice the seal with my nail. “Crooked andrich.”
“Those two go hand in hand far too often for my liking.” She leans back, folding her burly arms across her chest. The chair creaks and groans under her substantial weight. “You be careful who you’re mixing yourself up with, you hear?”
“I’ll be fine,” I insist, pulling out and unfolding the letter, which turns out to be a job offer, as I’d hoped it would be. I skim it quickly to get to the bottom, where the proposed payment is usually listed.
I have to read this part several times before it registers.
Three hundred gold marks.
That would feed our entire village for weeks—several times over.
Marta taps the table to get my attention. “What’s with that shocked face, eh?”
I can’t seem to form words, my mind already racing with all the possible things I could do with that much money. I slide the letter over to Marta and silently sip my tea while she reads it.
She seems less impressed by it than I am. Not surprising; she’s usually the least-impressed person in any given room. “Something seems fishy about this, don’t it?”
I can’t disagree. It’s one of the tenets those of my profession live by, after all: If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
And yet…
“It’s an interesting proposition.” I try to sound casual.
Marta doesn’t buy it. “You’re gonna get yourself killed one of these days, taking on every questionable job that comes your way. And then what good will you be doing anybody, hm?”
I continue to sip my tea without replying. Marta goes back to her mending work, muttering occasionally to herself. The letter lays on the table between us like a glittering ember, full of both temptation and threat. A spark that could ultimately comfort or consume.
Three hundred gold marks.
