“Greetings, Martin,” I say, keeping my tone formal.
He doesn’t seem at all put off by my lack of warmth. “We’re going out to the Honey House. Care to join us?”
The Honey House is a lesser-known public house that sells one thing. Honey Pyrus. Wine, extract, powder, and several other forms of the hallucinogenic fae fruit can be found there. I feign a yawn. “No, thank you. I think I’ll just turn in early. It’s been a long night.” While I’m feeling much recovered from the aftereffects of entering the Twelfth Court, the night has been long indeed. But aren’t they all? Mostly, I just want to avoid doing anything that could give Martin false hope.
His face falls. “Are you sure?” In his eyes, I can see everything he’s left unsaid. Everything he wantsmeto say. That he should leave his friends behind and perhaps go to bed early with me.
But I’m not going to say that. I never should have dallied with him in the first place. Romance and lethal kisses do not make a sustainable pair. “I’m sure. Have a lovely time, though.”
I take a step away, but Martin circles my upper arm with his fingers. His expression turns pleading. “Come on—”
“If she doesn’t want to go, she doesn’t have to,” Nadia says, coming up beside me. She gives Martin a pointed look until he releases my arm. Then she turns toward me with a warm grin. “That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t want you to come. And you too, Podaxis.”
I glance down to see my friend peering from my bag, a subtle glow coming from the normally not-so-glowy mushrooms on his carapace. “Not tonight,” I say, my tone much kinder than it was with Martin.
“Next time,” she says with a wink and heads toward the door. Klaus flings an arm around Stanley’s shoulders and blows me a kiss, while the latter flutters his fingers in a wave. Then the pair follow Nadia. Martin lingers behind. He opens his mouth, but before he can utter a word, I brush past him and make my way backstage. Thankfully, he doesn’t follow. My heart sinks all the same. He and I will need to talk soon, and I’m not looking forward to it.
I find Mr. Tuttle in his office—a room I’m pretty sure was meant to be a mop closet before he filled it with his rickety old desk and crooked filing cabinets. Podaxis climbs from my bag and I set him on the floor. His mushrooms have ceased glowing and are back to their usual pinks, blues, reds, and greens. I’m curious what caused his momentary bout of luminescence, but I’ve got business to attend to.
“What did you bring today, dear Pearl?” Mr. Tuttle says without turning around to look at me. I glance over his shoulder to see him counting citrine chips and rounds—the currency of the Star Court. He’s an older gentleman, perhaps in his seventies, and human too. His wrinkled skin reminds me of an elephant seal, while his sparse gray hair recalls the wind-battered seagulls I used to watch from my lagoon.
“Just a few shiny things,” I say as I empty my satchel onto his desk, spilling out today’s treasures. Altogether there are two pocket watches, three money pouches, a bracelet, a necklace, and two mismatched earrings. Mr. Tuttle pushes his citrine chips aside and retrieves his loupe, bringing it to his eye. Then, one by one, he inspects each piece with his lens, uttering grunts of approval. No gasps of awe this time, for it’s rare that I lift something of supreme value. In our line of work, that’s a good thing. Anything too impressive could draw the wrong kind of attention back to us.
Once he’s inspected each piece, he picks up the necklace again. It’s a large pendant adorned with tiny amethysts, hanging from a brass chain. “Madame Lillian will like this one,” he says with a sideways grin.
I lift a brow. “Oh, I’m sure she will, but don’t you dare let her talk you down this time, Mr. Tuttle. You sold her the last necklace for half of what you said you could get for it.”
He faces me, and I can almost see the stars in his eyes. “I can’t help it, Pearl. She’s an enchantress.”
I bark a laugh. “She’s a charlatan and you know it.”
“Then why can’t I think straight when she’s around?”
“Because she has nice breasts, Mr. Tuttle.”
“They’re average, in my opinion,” Podaxis mutters near my feet.
I swivel toward my friend. “No, they’re fantastic.” That’s no lie. Madame Lillian is endowed fuller than a harp seal’s head. What I wouldn’t give to have bubbies like that. Or even a fraction of the delectable body fat I have when I’m a seal. But that’s beside the point.
Mr. Tuttle sighs. “Fantastic. That they are.”
I turn back to the old man with a pointed look. “Now, you better promise me. I’m fae, so I can hold you to it with my wicked magics.” I wink to show I’m teasing. Although promises with the fae can be binding indeed, bringing about horrible repercussions if broken, he knows I’m not the bargaining type.
He rolls his eyes with a groan. “Fine. I won’t let Madame Lillian buy this necklace for less than…twenty-five citrine chips.”
“Fifty.”
“Forty.”
“Fine. Forty. And that’s final.”
He scoffs, but his expression is amused. “You’re a vicious one, Pearl.”
“It’s for your own good. Not to mention the good of the Vulture’s Prose.” He can’t argue with the last part. It’s Mr. Tuttle’s responsibility to sell our so-calledfound treasuresto local shops and curios. In turn, he uses the money to fund the theater. Madame Lillian is one of his most regular customers, purchasing our stolen wares and then reselling them to gullible tourists under the guise ofProtection AmuletorEnchanted Bracelet That Will Bring True Love. Ridiculous. And if he keeps letting her take advantage of his infatuation, the Vulture’s Prose will never see the marvels of modern electricity.
“Very well, very well.” With a chuckle, he hands me five citrine chips as payment for my night’s work, then shoos me away.
With a skip in my step, I pocket the chips and head deeper backstage.
