I go back to my landscape. Try to paint happy trees. They come out looking worried, which seems appropriate. One of them definitely looks like it needs a nap.
Outside, the city sleeps. Inside, I paint concerned forests and plan nutritional interventions for someone who came to kill me.
Just another Tuesday.
The cheese is half gone. My hands have stopped shaking. Somewhere in the shadows, a dangerous man is probably regretting his life choices while suffering from sleep deprivation and malnutrition.
Good.
He should eat something first though. And maybe try that chamomile tea. With honey.
Chapter 4
I'm up at four-thirty wondering if the man who walked through my walls ate dinner last night.
This seems like the wrong priority after almost being murdered, but the bags under his eyes were terrible. When's the last time someone made him breakfast? Does he even eat breakfast? He seems like the type to forget about food entirely until his body starts shutting down.
"Banana bread," I tell my mixing bowl. "Everyone likes banana bread. Even people who dissolve into shadows. Especially people who dissolve into shadows. All that dissolving probably burns calories."
My kitchen smells like cinnamon and overripe bananas I've been meaning to use for days. They're more brown than yellow now, which is perfect for baking.
I should be terrified. Should be packing. Should be doing literally anything other than creaming butter and sugar while debating whether assassins have food allergies.
"No nuts," I decide. "Definitely no nuts. Imagine surviving the guild wars just to die from anaphylaxis. That would be embarrassing."
The butter's still too cold and hard under my hands. I lean into it, putting my weight behind the wooden spoon. My soft arms already ache from painting until two in the morning, and my back protests as I hunch over the bowl. The kitchen table hits right at my hips, making this angle awkward, but thisfeels necessary. Vital, even. He looked so tired. The kind of tired that lives in your bones and makes everything hurt.
My magic stirs, warm under my skin like sunshine through glass. The mixing bowl starts glowing faintly.
"Stop that." I cover it with a dish towel. "We're being subtle. Stealthy. Like ninjas who bake."
The glow gets brighter, leaking through the fabric. Of course. My magic has never met subtlety it didn't want to personally offend.
By the time the bread's in the oven, dawn's creeping through my windows. The kitchen's warm now, almost too warm, and I can feel sweat gathering under my breasts where my corset sits. I've made two loaves because... well, because. He probably has minions. Henchmen? What do you call people who work for shadow assassins? Employees? Whatever they are, they probably need feeding too.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm carefully wrapping still-warm slices in clean cloth. The heat seeps through the fabric, almost burning my fingers. Not my good cloth - that seems presumptuous. Just the everyday cloth that's only a little paint-stained with a suspicious blue streak across one corner. I've written a note, crossed it out, written another one, given up, and settled for a simple drawing of a smiling sun. He'll either find it charming or have me killed for my artistic choices.
"For the cats," I tell myself, heading to the window. "This is for the stray cats. The large, person-shaped cats who lurk in shadows and probably report my every movement to their terrifying boss."
The alley below looks empty, but shadows don't always advertise their contents. I arrange the wrapped bread on my windowsill with the kind of care usually reserved for religious offerings. Which this might be. Do shadow guilds have dietaryrestrictions? Religious observances? I should have researched this.
"There's also some apple butter." I say it to the empty air, feeling ridiculous. "In the little jar. It's homemade. Well, home-purchased. From Emmerson's. But I put it in a different jar, so that's almost like making it."
Movement across the street. Just a flicker, but enough to make my magic prickle. Someone's definitely there, trying to look like they're not there. They're doing a good job of it too. Very lurky. Very professional. Probably skipped breakfast to achieve peak lurking.
I wave.
The shadow freezes. Actually freezes, like I've broken some fundamental rule of surveillance etiquette. Which I probably have. There's likely a whole manual about proper stalking protocol, and 'don't wave at your marks' is probably chapter one.
"The bread's still warm," I call down, because apparently I've decided to abandon all pretense. "Better eat it before it gets cold. Cold banana bread is just sad bread."
The shadow shifts. I catch a glimpse of someone in dark clothing doing their best to pretend they don't exist. Young, maybe twenty. Trying so hard to be invisible that they're practically vibrating with the effort.
I go back inside before I make things worse. The second loaf is cooling on my counter, and I'm already planning lunch. Do shadow guild members have food preferences? Allergies? Strong feelings about soup?
By the time I've washed the dishes and changed into my market clothes - the blue skirt with only a few paint stains - the sun's properly up. My market stall awaits, and I can't afford to miss another day. Mrs. Harwicke's half payment won't stretch far, and paint doesn't buy itself. I pack my supplies, careful toinclude the wrapped bread I definitely didn't make specifically for shadow minions.
The basket's heavier than usual with all the extra food. The handle digs into my palm as I navigate the morning streets. My hips bump against doorways as I squeeze past other early risers, and I have to stop twice to readjust my grip.
