The rain had intensified while I’d been inside, fat drops that struck the cobblestones hard enough to bounce. I pulled my cloak tight, but the fabric was already soaked through from earlier. Water found its way beneath the collar, trickling down my spine and between my shoulder blades. I arched slightly, trying to shift the wet fabric away from my skin, and caught the farmer staring.
He looked away fast, colour rising in his rain-pale cheeks.
We walked quickly, our boots splashing through puddles that reflected the floating lanterns overhead. The enchanted lightsbobbed gently on their invisible tethers, casting warm golden pools.
“How long has she been like this?” I asked, watching my breath mist in the cold air.
“Started this morning.” The farmer’s voice shook. “First she wouldn’t eat. Then she bit my hand when I tried to check on her.” He held up his palm, showing angry red marks. “I’ve had Clover since she was a hatchling. Five years. She’s never—“
“It’s not her fault,” I said quickly. “Something’s affecting the creatures. We’ve had three cases this tenday alone.”
We turned onto Bridge Street, following the Silver River as it wound through the lower town. The rain made everything shimmer, shop windows reflecting lamplight, the river rushing dark and swift beneath the stone arches, even the moss growing between cobblestones seemed to glow faintly green.
“My neighbour’s familiar went strange yesterday,” the farmer said. “Wouldn’t leave his perch. Just sat there, trembling.” He hesitated. “People are saying it’s the ley-lines. That something’s wrong up at the manor, and it’s spreading.”
The manor. Always the manor. I pushed wet hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. My fingers came away stained purple from the tincture I’d mixed this afternoon.
“The Stormgardes used to manage the ley-line convergence,” the farmer continued, his words coming faster now. “When Lord Fenrik’s parents were alive, the magic flowed clean. Butnow...”
Now the estate crumbled on its cliff, and its lord never emerged.
We passed The Silver Bell tavern, warmth and music spilling from its open door. I caught a glimpse of packed tables, people laughing over mugs of hot cider, a fiddler tuning her instrument by the fire. The scent of roasted meat made my stomach clench.
I stopped walking. Was my head actually spinning from fatigue? No, the cobblestones were trembling. It was a subtle quake, but the sensation travelled up through my boots. Every floating lantern in the street flickered once, then it passed. The lanterns steadied and the cobblestones stilled. Rain continued to fall in steady, relentless sheets. The farmer hadn’t noticed. He’d already walked several paces ahead, still talking about his drake’s symptoms.
two
Lysa
The garden drake hadn’t been difficult, she was just frightened, her internal magic churning in erratic spirals that felt quite wrong to my senses. I’d stilled it with barely a thought, my hands pressed to her scales. The relief in her bonded owner’s eyes had been payment enough, though he’d pressed a few coins into my palm anyway. They clinked in my pocket as I pushed through the infirmary door.
My father was hunched over the account books at his desk, lamplight casting deep shadows beneath his eyes. He muttered numbers under his breath, crossing something out with such force the pen nib tore through the paper.
“Da?”
He didn’t look up. He reached for another sheet, this one already covered in red ink. Debts circled. Underlined. Starred with what looked like angry slashes.
Empty potion bottles crowded the desk’s edge, labels peeling, glass dusty. Crumpled bills were scattered between them like fallen leaves. One had tumbled to the floor. I bent to retrieve it and caught sight of the amount.
My stomach dropped. The room smelled wrong. Old paper and tallow candles, yes, but beneath that, the faint bitter scent of worry-sweat, of sleepless nights and mounting panic. The same smell that had clung to the walls after Mother died, when everything had started falling apart.
“We had four appointments today.” I set the bill carefully on the desk’s only clear corner. “Five, counting the emergency call.”
“Mm.” He rewrote a figure, squinting at his own handwriting. His hand shook slightly, making the numbers wobble. “And how much did they pay?”
I pulled the coins from my pocket. “The Hawthornes brought eggs. Mrs. Chen paid half in dried herbs…”
“Eggs.” He laughed, but there was no humour in it. “We’ll pay the apothecary supplier in eggs, shall we? I’m sure they’ll be delighted.”
Heat prickled along my collar. “They’re good people. They paid what they could.”
“Good people don’t keep a business afloat.” He finally looked up. The lamplight caught the red webbing of blood vessels in his eyes, the gaunt hollows of his cheeks. When had he started looking so old? “Do you know what we owe the property holder? The guild feesalone ...”
“I know.” My voice came out sharper than I’d intended. I knew. I saw the bills. I heard the creditors knocking. I felt the weight of it every time I accepted barter instead of coin because I couldn’t bear to turn away someone whose familiar was suffering.
He turned back to his ledger, pen scratching viciously across the page. “Another wyrm-keeper cancelled their contract today. Said they’re taking their business to the new clinic on East Street. The one with the proper facilities, the certified Brewmaster, the—“
“They have three times our funding.”
