Gray Streak's pretending to shop for pottery two stalls over. He's been holding the same bowl for twenty minutes. His partner—young woman with sensible boots—at least moves between stalls occasionally. She bought an apple earlier. Good. Vitamins.
I squeeze past a customer to reach my paint display, my hip catching the table corner. Same bruise as yesterday. Really need to remember that table's narrower than my old one. My corset's digging in from sitting too long—the blue one that used to fit properly before I started baking at odd hours.
"Olivia!" Emil waves from his vegetable stand. "Your new customers are back."
"They're browsing." I reorganize my paintings for the fourth time. The original portrait's wrapped in canvas under my counter. "Very thorough browsers."
"Browsing." He grins. "That what we're calling it?"
I sell two small pieces before noon—a landscape where the hills look resigned and a still life of fruit that somehow seems disappointed. Together they'll cover most of my rent. Probably. If I don't buy more paint. Or vegetables. Or that nice cheese.
Plus one jar of cerulean to a young artist who actually understands my mixing process. She even bought four brushes, impressed by the lamb's wool softness. "Store brushes are too stiff," she'd said, and I'd nearly hugged her.
The afternoon crowd's thinning when Gray Streak finally approaches. He's still carrying that bowl.
"You could just buy it," I tell him. "Mrs. Prewitt makes lovely pottery. Very durable. Perfect for soup."
He sets the bowl down carefully. "Time to go."
"But I haven't—" The sun. Oh. Later than I thought. "Right. Yes. Let me pack."
I load vegetables into my basket, brushes and paint into another bag, carefully wrapping the glass jars so they don't clink. My finished brushes go in their leather roll. The wrapped portrait under my arm. Too many things. My hip bumps the counter—same bruise saying hello.
"We can carry—" Sensible Boots reaches for a bag.
"No, I've got it. Well, mostly. That turnip might escape but—"
"We're traveling by shadow," Gray Streak says.
"Oh." I clutch my bags tighter. "Right. Like yesterday. With the cold and the stomach dropping."
"You've done this before?"
"Once. Your boss was very dramatic about showing me the roof." I eye the nearest shadow. "Do vegetables travel well? Last time I didn't have vegetables. Or paint. Or anything breakable."
They exchange glances.
"You'll be fine," Sensible Boots says. "Just don't let go."
"Of the vegetables?"
"Of us."
Gray Streak takes my elbow. His grip's firm but careful.
"Deep breath," he says.
I breathe. "It's the landing that gets me. The part where everything reassembles and your stomach remembers which way is up."
The world disappears.
Still cold. That between-spaces cold that makes your bones ache. My stomach drops—at least I expected it this time. Everything's pressing and pulling and my vegetables are definitely not happy. But I keep my eyes closed this time. Don't fight it. Just let the shadows do whatever shadows do while I protect my turnips.
We stumble out behind the compound and I immediately drop a bag. Paintbrushes scatter across cobblestones. At least two roll toward a drain.
"That was—" I bend to collect brushes, world still tilting. "Do you do that often? How do you know where you're going? What if you end up in someone's closet? Or a wall?"
"Practice," Gray Streak says, steadying me when I wobble.
