But if she needed his magic, and she did, this was the price she had to pay. A slow start, and, evidently, being used as a pack mule.
The bell chimed over their heads as they stepped out to the rapidly warming street. The wind carried the smell of potted flowers and food from the restaurants nearby. She glanced at the wizard, at his shining, sand-gold hair, at the way his perfectly tailored jacket fit against his chest. His color was better today, though she knew he hadn’t slept a wink. She knew, because she hadn’t either. Earlier, in the dappled morning light under the maple tree, she watched him clutch his aching back and saw he had brought his scribing kit with him in the night.
He kept it with him all morning and wore it now, a mark of status that granted them special treatment in the shops, like his tailored jacket, his perfectly sculpted, flattering smile, the earring that brought out the gold flecks in his amber eyes. The guarded, perfectly practiced tone of his voice, tuned like a fine instrument.
Even the scent he put on. Today, he smelled of hyacinth. When they stopped at his apartment to restore his pillow and blanket and grab his coin purse, he’d unearthed the expensive-looking bottle from his wardrobe.
Despite her very reasonable protestations that their prey would smell him from miles away, he countered with, “That’s all well and good for tomorrow, but today, we hunt a different sort of game.”
Each facet of his appearance adorned purposefully, wielded like a weapon against the looker.
But he had brought his pen kit in the dark.
The resentment she had abandoned in her relief came quickly when called.
They paused at the end of the sidewalk, letting a horse-drawn cab pass. “You had your pen with you last night.”
He stared at her blankly. “And?”
“Expensive, isn’t it? Yet you risked getting it stolen by… what was it? Lecherous drunks?”
“I rarely leave home without it,” he said with a shrug. They crossed the street.
“You didn’t have it with you when you returned home last night.”
Any answer was swallowed by the rumble of a passing trolley. Perhaps she should not have revealed she noticed so much. But then, it didn’t hurt to convince him she was a canny hunter, especially since letting him surprise her in the dark did nothing for her credibility. Of course, it wasn’t as if it mattered how credible he found her, now their deal was struck.
“As I said,” he relented when they reached the sidewalk, “these streets are not safe for young women.”
“I knew it.” A disparaging laugh escaped her. “My knight in dyed silk. Perhaps you would smother them with your pillow. No, silly me – criminals run quivering from your golden pen.”
“They should.” He stepped aside to let a fine lady and her handmaid pass, then leaned closer to Anya, his voice humming in her ear. “If given time, there are many spells whose purposes may be turned to ending a life. Though to use them would violate my oath as a spellscribe and King’s Wizard to do no harm, and I would never use magic to such an end.” He raised his eyebrows suggestively. “Then again, the nib itself is quite sharp.”
Was that…a joke? As they paused at the end of another block, she peered at him sideways. His expression revealed nothing. “You’ve thought about this,” she goaded.
“All night.”
His sincerity surprised her.Stronger stuff than straw, she reminded herself. And, perhaps, more lynx than kitten.
They stopped in front of a shop with windows full of mannequins wearing clothes like his, but sharper, less threadbare. She’d thought his bright, colorful shirt an extravagance, but now noticed how faded it was.
“This should be the last stop,” he promised as they entered. “You’ll of course be shocked to learn I have no suitable clothes for hunting.”
Anya bit her tongue; itwassensible to dress for one’s environment, she thought as she scowled at the tailor’s assistant, who ogled her boots and hatchet.
She waited on a footstool, arms folded and legs crossed, watching him model the clothes, preventing him from buying anything too easily torn or too bright. He did like bright.
“We needdullcolors,” she explained. “Between this and your scent, you’ll stand out like a Marchess tulip.”
“Yes, but dull colors drain the soul, don’t you think?” Then, eyes flicking over her costume of tan and white, his lips pressed tightly closed.
She tossed her braid casually. “You can wear all green, if you prefer.”
He made a face. “I wouldprefera nice plum, but I suppose my soul shall have to bear the sacrifice.”
She doubted it could. But luckily for his soul and Anya’s patience, since they were leaving that day and could not wait for alterations his options were limited and plain. Though she tried to dissuade him, he absolutely refused to remove his earring. Since it didn’t dangle and wasn’t so gaudy it would scare prey away in the wrong light, she relented.
While the tailor’s assistant tallied his selections, Sylas browsed an assortment of gloves laid out on a velvet shelf. She watched him deliberate over a pair of red silk, then pick a pair of soft, plain, pliant leather, much like the ones he wore now but with the fingers all intact.Wouldn’t want to dirty his fingertips, she thought, then vaguely recalled how temperamental his magic could be.
