Chapter 1
Mrs. Harwicke's portrait is glaring at me.
I know paintings can't actually glare, but this one manages it anyway. Probably because my magic painted what she is instead of what she wanted—which was apparently someone else's face entirely.
"Your nose is exactly as requested." The lie burns coming out. Her nose could shelter small villages, but that seems rude to mention. Unfortunately, my magic has no concept of rude. The canvas shows every pore in loving, terrible detail.
"I specifically requested flattering adjustments." She waves at the painting like it might attack. Given how the yellow streaks turned out—all sharp edges and judgment—maybe she's right to keep her distance. "This makes me look severe."
Well. Yes. Also like someone who alphabetizes their spice rack and judges people who don't, but I keep that to myself.
"Would different lighting help? Sometimes afternoon sun can be—"
"Different lighting won't fix incompetence."
Right then.
She's digging through her purse now. I know where this goes. Same place it always goes when people realize I can't paint them prettier than they are.
"Half payment, as we discussed if I wasn't satisfied."
We didn't discuss that. We discussed full payment. We discussed the deposit she's pretending doesn't exist. But arguingabout money makes my stomach hurt worse than lying about noses.
"Would you like the painting?"
"Why would I want that monstrosity?"
The door slams hard enough to knock my landscape off its easel—the one where the clouds accidentally formed screaming faces. Should probably fix that. The screaming, not the falling. The falling already happened.
I pick it up, dust it off, prop it against the wall with the other paintings too honest to sell.
My stomach growls. Half payment means creative meal planning. Which means day-old bread if I'm lucky, and vegetables that believe in themselves enough to last another day.
Mrs. Harwicke's portrait watches me count coins that won't stretch far enough. The bread crust from yesterday could work as a weapon at this point.
"Right. Market."
The smart thing would be cleaning my brushes first. The paint's already getting tacky. Tomorrow-me will hate today-me for this. But hunger makes compelling arguments about priorities, and painting while dizzy never goes well.
The Drowned Quarter market at dusk almost looks pretty if you squint. Mist rolls off the canals, softening everything into watercolor blurs. Vendors pack up fast—nobody stays here after dark without good reason or bad judgment.
"Olivia!" Emil waves from his vegetable stand. "Saved you some carrots!"
"Are they still technically carrots?" I sort through the survivors.
"They're carrot-adjacent. Distant cousins maybe." He wraps them in yesterday's newspaper. "Two coppers."
I hand over the coins, trying not to think about how that's a quarter of what's left.
"You should paint somewhere with better clients," he says, not for the first time. "Uptown. Where they pay."
"Uptown wants pretty lies. I paint truth."
"Truth doesn't buy food."
"It does. Just... less food."
He shakes his head but throws in an extra potato that's only slightly green. Emil's good people, even if he thinks I'm an idiot. Which. Fair.
