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“Are you kidding me?!” I shout, looking at the bottom of my shoe. A large chunk falls off with a splat.

My teeth grit and I’m filled with rage as I turn around, looking for the culprit.

“You!” I shout, pointing to the man on his black horse. “Pick up after your damn horse! There are people walking here and besides it being the law, it’s also common freaking courtesy!”

He turns around and has no head. Just my luck, it’s a freaking headless horseman. Just a creepy hole in his black leather coat where a neck and head should be.

You can’t even reason with these guys. It’s frustrating, really. They’re incapable of having a conversation and trying is just a waste of time. Sometimes you can get by with some rudimentary hand signals and charades, but I’m not in the mood to try today and I definitely don’t want anyone seeing me miming out the defecation part of the complaint. People around here think I’m weird enough.

So, I just grunt in frustration as I wipe the bottom of my shoe on a raised cobblestone and hurry on. Dad is going to be really mad now. We have an exceptionally grumpy Thornback on the agenda this morning and it takes two to handle it with all those teeth and poisonous thorns. After that, we have a package coming—some unknown creature sent by Lord Harshballow for disposal—plus whatever the King’s guards drop off for the day.

I knew I shouldn’t have stopped at the Village Library. I always get lost in the old fairy tales of lovers fighting against all odds to be together. It’s always a bad idea to stop before work, but I couldn’t help myself.

When I’m out of the Market Square, I start hightailing it home. I fly over the Old Bridge and past the creepy dentist’s office who I’m pretty sure is a vampire, and skid to a stop when I smell the delicious scent wafting out of the bakery. Mrs. Honeycake makes the best pumpkin muffins I’ve ever tasted. Father adores them, so I turn on my heels and head inside.

I’ll just tell him I was late because I was waiting for the muffins to get out of the oven. He’ll buy that. I hope.

“Morning, Mrs. Honeycake,” I say as my hungry eyes roam over all of the freshly baked loaves of bread and warm pies.

“Ravena, love,” she says warmly as she takes a tray of pastries out of the oven. She’s a human like me, with gray hair (although unlike me with my wild red curls) and a smile that always makes you feel as warm as the inside of this delicious-smelling bakery. “How’s your father doing?”

“Oh, he’s good,” I say as I eye the large muffins. That big one has steam coming off it. My mouth waters.

“And how’s business?” she asks as she grabs a large ceramic bowl and mixes what’s inside while bumping the oven door closed with her hip.

“It was a bit slow this summer, but it’s picking up now.”

“That’s good,” she says as she sets the bowl down and starts piping icing onto a tray of cinnamon rolls. “Let me guess, you’re here for some pumpkin muffins?”

“Do you have any left?”

She winces. “Just sold out.”

“Really? Darn it.” So much for blaming the muffins.

“I would have held some for you if I knew you were coming,” she says sadly. “The lemain muffins are fresh, though.”

It’s not the same and my father is not a big fan of sour-tasting fruit, but they’ll have to do. She wraps up six for me and I hurry out with the paper bag under my arm.

The sun is fully up now and the whole town is open for business. A mule-pulled cart is rolling down the cobblestone road, the driver chatting with a couple of centaurs clomping along beside him. But my eye goes to the young couple sitting on the fountain. They’re just lounging around, laughing about something, holding hands and unable to look away from each other for more than a handful of seconds. I watch them a beat too long and nearly walk into the path of the mule.

“Sorry!” I say, leaping out of the way.

Neither the mule, the driver, nor the centaurs pay me any attention as I continue on, wishing that I had someone to lounge with on a gorgeous fountain. Someone who would look at me like that…

I hurry into the Forge District where the constant clanking of hammers on anvils is enough to drive a girl insane. But I’m used to it by now. I was born in this loud, dirty district and the sound has become like a soothing background hum. Sometimes I miss it when I’m out in quieter places.

“Hey, Ravena!” Gus says, waving his big dirty hand. He’s hammering flat a red-hot sword, his bald head sweating furiously. He keeps trying to set me up with his son Korrick, but I am not interested. The boy is three years younger than me and cannot hold a conversation. If that wasn’t enough, he burns books! Like for real. That’s how he starts his fires, by throwing old books in. I wanted to throw him into the fire when I saw it with my own incensed eyes.

“Hey, Gus!” I say, waving back.

“Are those pumpkin muffins you got there?” he asks, eyeing the soggy brown bag in my arms.

“Sold out. I got lemain.”

He sticks out his tongue in disgust and gets back to banging out his sword.

I hurry into our home, which is also our workplace. The sign above the door is brass, polished by me every Sunday (not by choice), and entirely too formal for what happens inside.