She jumped, spinning to find a girl with dark hair perched on a pillow in front of the full-length mirror.
“You scared the hells out of me, Aine.”
In the glass, the girl arched her brows. “Jumpy?”
“No,” Marlow said, and then, “Yeah, I guess so. How was work?”
Aine was a shifter, meaning she could use her magic to change bits of her appearance, though she only used it to hide the purple rings in her eyes. She played the role of nonwielder well and had recently found a job as a maid for a wealthy family in the Conaeld District.
“It was fine,” Aine answered.
Marlow sat on the floor beside her. “Glad one of us can hold on to a job.”
Aine swiveled to face her. “What happened this time?”
“Doctor Riley’s a gobshite.”
“And I take it you told him as much,” Aine said with a smile.
Marlow shrugged. “Didn’t pay me near enough to tiptoe around his fragile ego.”
Aine fiddled with her locket and shook her head. “Are you sure you won’t let me hide your rings? You could be a doctor someday, Mar. You know more than most of them already.”
“I’ve lived here my whole life. People know me. If my rings suddenly vanish, at least one person will question who did it.”
Shifters were executed for using their powers. No way she’d risk outing Aine.
“Alright,” Aine said on a sigh. “We’ll figure this out. I’ll help you find another job, but in the meantime, you know Ciaran won’t let you go hungry.”
“I know.”
Ciaran pushed the wielders here to find work, to pull their own weight, but he never held it against them when they couldn’t.
Marlow, however, despised asking for help. She hadn’t depended on Ciaran for her meals since she was old enough to steal for them.
She’d manage just fine on her own.
Aine cast a glance at the closed door, then leaned in close. “We’ve word from Bedwyck. A letter at the dead drop. They’ve gone and sabotaged a shipment of weapons leaving the West Docks for Fallowmoor.” She gave a quick smile. “It’s a massive win, Mar.”
“It’s not enough. We’re sitting around doing nothing while our numbers drop. We’re losing fighters faster than we can find new ones.”
Aine’s face sobered. “What’d Raesharinn say? Any word back?”
Raesharinn, whose alias meant “Iron Rose,” was an extraordinary woman who had been fighting for wielders for years, despite having no magic of her own. Even before Marlow knew her as the leader of the resistance, she’d admired her. Raesharinn was compassionate and cunning, strong and protective. Felix reminded Marlow so much of her.
“Nothing yet, but she only sent the letters a week ago.” The resistance had fighters in most of Atheran’s cities, and Raesharinn had sent word to every dead drop to see if the missing wielders had turned up. “She’s taking it serious at least. Can’t say the same for many others.”
“Hey, I’m taking it serious.”
“I know that. It’s just . . . I’m restless. Wish we had the numbers to actually do something, y’know?”
Ciaran called for her as he pushed through the door, and Marlow flinched at the name he used—the wrong one. He quickly realized his mistake and muttered a quiet apology.
“It’s fine,” she said automatically, and repeated the assurance when Aine gave her a pitying look.
The name change was relatively recent. Six months was a short time. And his slipups didn’t happen as much these days. Sheknew he was trying, but it still stung. Felix had known Marlow since they were kids, and he never slipped.
Ciaran scratched his beard, eagerly moving on. “I have a job for ya.”
