“That’s terrible negotiating,” Bryn said. “Offer me ten percent.”
“Um, ten percent?”
“That’s much too low. Why are you insulting me with such a low offer?”
“Forty?” Kiela said.
“Okay, you are not good at this at all. Fair is twenty, plus I supply the sugar and wax, and you provide the berries, as well as the labor of making and canning the jam.”
Kiela smiled. “Twenty. And once my shop is open, you recommend it to your customers and neighbors.”
Bryn nodded. “I’ll spread the word and tell everyone it’s worth the climb. In return, you need to tell me how you convinced Larran to take you on a ride on one of his merhorses, because my nephew Tobin—he’s the smart-mouthed one who somehow managed to get jam in his eyebrow fur—has been drooling over those horse-fish for years with no luck.”
She hadn’t known that was a coveted invite. “I . . . He just asked me.”
“Hmm . . .” Bryn studied her so long that Kiela patted her hair to make sure it wasn’t sticking up. “Perhaps Tobin would have more luck if he tried being less annoying.”
From out the window, Tobin called, “I heard that!”
Bryn grinned. “Why don’t you help your mother with the nets?”
“Because that’s work, and she won’t pay!”
“How about I pay you then?” Bryn offered. “You help Kiela here carry a bag of sugar up the cliff steps, and you can eat the very first raspberry croissant I bake.”
“I don’t need—” Kiela began.
“Hush,” Bryn said. “Let the boy be useful. It’ll make him feel important, and as an added bonus, it will make your climb easier.” Louder, she called out the window, “Deal?”
He whooped and shouted, “Deal!”
Bryn ducked through a door, dipping her head so her antlers didn’t scrape the top of the doorframe, and returned a half minute later with a sack of sugar slung under one arm and a jar of wax in her other hand. Kiela took the wax, and Tobin darted in to take the bag of sugar. It was nearly half his size, but he hefted it up without complaint.
“I’ll be back when I’ve made more,” Kiela promised.
After saying goodbye to Bryn and Eadie, she followed the boy with the sugar out of the bakery and through the streets. He was, she quickly discovered, as fond of talking as his aunt, but he preferred questions. “Where are you from?” “Did you come by boat?” “Have you ever seen a kraken?” “Have you met the emperor?” “What’s the palace like?” “Is it true the streets of Alyssium are made of flowers?” “Do you know any nobles?” “Have you ever been in the palace?” “Do you know any sorcerers?”
Not really wanting to answer any of that, but especially the last question, she redirected it back at him. “Do you?”
And he was off.
He hadn’t seen a sorcerer since he was a kid, he said (despite still being a kid), but back in his youth, he remembered one who dressed all in purple—Tobin seemed to feel it very important that she understood how very much purple: purple cloak, purple pants, purple socks, purple belt—who would visit on her regular rotation once a season. Everything was better then, he said his parents said, because the magic was all spread out across all the islands. Fewer storms. Better crops. More fish. She’d stopped coming about three years ago, maybe four, because he hadn’t learned to skip rocks yet. Since then, everything had gotten worse. Everything was unbalanced, and that’s why he had to eat kelp porridge, even though it tasted like slime mold. He concluded with: “If you need a jam taster, I volunteer. Are you really going to sell jam?”
“And remedies,” she said.
“For what?”
For asking too many questions,she thought, but she said, “I’m still figuring it out.”
At the top of the cliff stairs, he dropped the sugar bag on the ground and stretched his arms. Kiela looked back at the village and the sea beyond it. The sun was dipping low, enough so it looked as if it were about to drip into the water.
“Whoa, what isthat?”Tobin asked.
She turned to see Caz propelling himself toward them with his usual method: reaching out with his tendrils and then flinging his bare root ball forward. Seen at a distance, he looked a bit like a very hairy, very green dog with a very dirty belly. Closer . . . he just looked like a pot-less spider plant about the size of a dog. “Who,” Kiela corrected. “He’s my friend, Caz.”
“Wow, he’s awesome. Is he a plant?”
“Chlorophytum comosum,”Caz said, reaching them. “And you are—Goat horns? Are you a goat?” All of his leaves began to shake, and he waved his tendrils in the air. “Kiela, did you bring a plant-eater back with you?”
