"Well, that does explain the dramatic entrances." I go back to packing supplies. "And why they're so pale. Shadow magic's terrible for vitamin D production."
"You're still packing."
"The mold doesn't care who they work for, Matthias. It'll kill them just as dead as anyone else." I find rope to tie everything together. My basket's already full of bread and vegetables. "Besides, they need vegetables. Have you seen them? All sharp angles and malnutrition."
He makes a sound. A dying teakettle sound. "I enjoy having fingers, Olivia. All of them. Attached. To my hands."
"Nobody's going to take your fingers." Probably. "Look, just give me instructions then. What kills black mold? How do I fix the ventilation? Is there something for the coughing?"
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, with the resignation of someone who's given up on sensible outcomes, he starts pulling things off shelves.
"Dilute this in hot water. Scrub everything—walls, floors, ceiling if you can reach." He sets bottle after bottle on the counter. "This opens airways. Two drops in steaming water, make them breathe it. This prevents the spores from settling in lungs. Mix it with their food."
"You're wonderful." I'm taking notes on the back of yesterday's shopping list. "What about the mushrooms?"
"Fire. Controlled fire. Or just burn the whole building down and start over." He pauses. "Actually, that's probably safer than what you're planning."
"Don't be silly. They need that building. Where else would they lurk professionally?"
He gives me enough supplies to treat a small plague, plus detailed instructions that I mostly understand. I pay, count my remaining coins—these are from my painting sales, getting thin now—and head out before he can restart the finger-attachment lecture.
The market's busy for a Tuesday. Perfect. I need bulk supplies and a cart.
"Emil!" I wave at the vegetable seller. "I need all your carrots. The ugly ones are fine."
"All of them?" He looks at his display. "That's... fifty pounds of carrots, Olivia."
"Perfect. And onions. Celery. Potatoes—the kind that keep. Do you have cabbage?"
"Having a party?"
"Something like that. More of a... nutritional intervention."
By the time I've hit four vendors, I have a cart that requires actual effort to push. Sacks of flour and oats. Enough vegetables to feed a small army. Or one medium-sized guild of malnourished shadow workers. Salt, oil, dried beans that'll keep forever. My arms already ache and I haven't even reached the compound yet.
The leather pouch Night Manager left on my kitchen table is empty now. Every last coin spent on vegetables and grains and things that'll keep people alive through winter. He probably meant it for a week's groceries, not one aggressive shopping expedition. But when you're feeding forty-some people who think tavern scraps count as meals, you need to buy in bulk. I'll explain that when I see him next. He'll understand. Probably. Maybe I should have saved the receipt.
"Bit much for one person," the grain seller observes, helping me balance a bag of barley.
"Oh, it's not for me. I'm teaching some friends to cook." I test the cart's weight. "They've been living on tavern food. Never learned properly."
The streets to the compound are narrower than I remembered. The cart catches on every corner, wheels stuttering over broken cobblestones. By the time I reach the familiar alley, I'm sweating despite the cold and my lower back has opinions about cart-pushing posture.
The compound door is closed.
Not just closed. Barred. Locked. Possibly welded shut from the inside.
"Oh, come on." I knock. Nothing. Knock harder. Still nothing. "I know you're in there! I can see boots under that shadow, Gray Streak!"
The boots don't move. Neither does the shadow. Very professional.
I try the side entrance I used yesterday. Locked. The back way Ridge showed me? Blocked by an overturned barrel that definitely wasn't there before. Even the window someone always leaves cracked is sealed tight.
"This is ridiculous." I tell the nearest shadow. It ripples but doesn't respond. "I have supplies! Vegetables! That medicine for Ridge's lingering cough!"
Nothing.
Fine. I leave the cart by the main door—it's too heavy to drag around anymore—and start circling the building. There must be another way in. These people are professionals at sneaking. Surely they haven't sealed every—
