Her voice was quiet. “Perhaps it’s time for something new.”
“Perhaps.” He shrugged. “But in this town, I reckon you’d find more success selling something that’s actually useful.”
“Useful?” Her eyes narrowed. “Flowers bring people happiness. Isn’t that useful? Especially now?”
“Hardly. Herbs, maybe, or vegetables. Many of us barely made it through last winter, after Shadowfade’s pet witch destroyed Silbourne and the surrounding trade routes.” Nathaniel watched her wince, and he wondered if she’d been affected by the Thornwitch too. Maybe that was how she’d gotten that scar. “Believe me. A bouquet that sits on a windowsill for a few days before wilting and dying is only going to remind people in this town that they should have spent their money on something that will help them survive.”
“Well,” she said stiffly. “I suppose we’ll see.”
And then she ushered him to the door and shut it in his face. Anxiety pulsed through Nathaniel as he stared at the shop windows. He had an uncanny ability for saying the exact wrong thing in a situation. He knew that the memory of it would haunt him for days, the moment repeating with perfect clarity in an endless cycle that would, in turn, probably affect every other interaction he had until a worse one took its place. He had a potion for times like this, but he was nearly out, and the unfinished next batch he was working on had faced an untimely death at the hands—or leaves—of a troublesome clematis last night. Two weeks’ work down the drain. Nathaniel felt frustrated all over again.
He marched back over to the apothecary, where Pru was measuring dried vervain for a customer. The jar was almost empty—he made a mental note to add it to the order list for the next time their supplier came through town. Perhaps with Shadowfade gone, and word spreading that Dragon’s Rest was no longer an undesirable place to be, he’d have more options. And more customers.
Hopefully it would happen sooner rather than later—preferably sometime in the next two and a half months. He still hadn’t told Pru about the letter yet.Maybe, said the little voice in his head that dared to be hopeful,it will all go away and she’ll never have to know.
He stood behind the counter scowling until the customer left and Pru rounded on him.
“Smile,” she hissed. “You’re going to scare everyone away.”
Nathaniel did not smile, but he did make an effort to relax his face.
“Marginally less disturbing,” said Pru, pinching his arm. “Has anyone ever told you that customer service is not your calling?”
“Neither is running an apothecary,” he snapped, immediately regretting that he let his sister needle him so. “And yet here we are.”
“Oh, whose fault is that?” Pru’s tone was teasing, but the moment the words were out of her mouth, she snapped her lips shut. “I didn’t mean…”
“It’s fine.”
It wasn’t, but Pru knew that already. Belaboring the point would do nothing but make them both feel worse. Nathaniel much preferred his emotions like his workspace: tidy, uncomplicated, all the messy edges swept neatly out of sight.
Pru looked like she wanted to say more, but Nathaniel was grateful when all she asked was, “You gave Violet the keys?”
“Yes.”
“How was she?” In perfect Pru fashion, she seemed content to change the subject. Fine by Nathaniel. “Poor thing must be exhausted after all that magic she used at the park yesterday. I should have had you bring over some pixie dust to ease the magic burn. I know we still have some left around here somewhere…”
But Nathaniel had stopped listening after “magic she used at the park yesterday.”
Any average mage who had managed to dispel a slide of rock goblins with the ease Pru had described would have exhausted herself. And yet Nathaniel had seen before his very eyes the garden Violet created from thin air barely an hour after she saved Pru in the park. He could practically still smell the scent of her magic—tart blackberry and nutty almond—as the garden burst to life.
He’d seen the effects of magic burn before, the way it brought a person to their knees, sometimes causing fever, chills, or even a magically induced sleep that could last for days. People who overextended their magic looked exhausted if they managed to stay conscious, with dark circles under their eyes and a pallid tone to their skin. He’d even heard of extreme cases where their magic became permanently diminished. It was one of the risks of using innate magic rather than drawing upon an external source as in alchemy, because there was no known way to prevent magic burn and no way to speed the recovery. Magic was above all else a balance, a give-and-take—and this was part of the cost.
But Violet had been bright-eyed and alert when he’d seen her just moments ago, as if yesterday had never happened. Could she have some sort of amulet? A device that allowed her to draw on some other source of power?
Or could it be that his new tenant was much more powerful than any small-town florist had the right to be?
First Sale
Violet was an early riser, but not so early as her new landlord. Each morning, she found him already in the greenhouse when she came downstairs from the little suite of rooms above what would become her shop, frowning over a cauldron or measuring pots of dried herbs on the brass scales that winked in the glare of the sunrise.
After the third or fourth time his eyes skittered away from hers when she looked up, she realized he was watching her. Did he think she was going to steal something? Knock over more of his belongings, which he’d now stacked carefully in the farthest corner of his half of the greenhouse? Did he think to scare her off?
She supposed in a way she understood. She didn’t know the particulars of the Marsh twins’ situation, but it was clear that Violet renting the shop had been more Pru’s decision than Nathaniel’s. Having choices thrust upon her was something Violet could relate to, and she knew it wasn’t always comfortable. It made sense that he would chafe at the restriction.
But she wasn’t used to being looked at this way—not with fearor envy but with such blank indifference that she could not read it. He looked at her like she was nobody, and she hated the way it nettled her.
Don’t you know who I am?she wanted to ask in a seething hiss.Don’t you know who you’re dealing with?
