I put the rest of my coins on the counter.
She does not touch them at once. “You understand that some cures are only traps with better manners.”
“I understand my brother is dying.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is to me.”
She looks at me for a long moment, then sweeps the coins into her palm. “There is a man who is not a man near the docks. He wears a hood stitched with red thread. He brokers introductions where temples fear to breathe.”
“Infernal?”
“Do not say that word loudly in my shop.”
“Where?”
“Warehouse Nine, beyond the fishmongers’ lane. Look for ward-burns on the doorframe. If the marks are cold, leave. If they smoke, knock twice and put blood on the wood.”
My stomach turns. “My blood?”
She gives me a dry smile. “No, dear, the neighbor’s cat.”
I leave before fear can grow legs.
At home, Corin sleeps with one hand curled near his chest. The room is dim, curtains drawn, the air heavy with bloodroot, damp linen, and the bitter smoke of the charm Tovan left burning in a saucer. I stand beside the bed and listen to him breathe. Every inhale catches. Every exhale sounds borrowed.
I pack coin into the lining of my cloak.
His eyes open.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
He sees my cloak. He sees the knife at my belt. He sees the little purse of coins I cannot quite hide quickly enough.
“Sable,” he says, and the word is not a plea now. It is grief.
I tie the purse shut. “Go back to sleep.”
“You lied.”
“Yes.”
His mouth trembles, but he does not waste strength pretending surprise. “Please.”
I come to the bed because I cannot leave from across the room. I bend and kiss his forehead. His skin is too hot.
“I am older than you,” I whisper.
“By eleven minutes.”
“Best eleven minutes of my life. Very formative.”
He tries to laugh and winces instead.
I press my cheek to his hair. “You don’t get to ask me to watch you die politely.”
“I am asking you to live.”
