Page 21 of The Sorcerer's Thief
No, I don’t believe I will. “It’s just that I’ve always loved rings.”
He stares, which is quite unpleasant, then clears his throat. “Perhaps with gloves so no one will be the wiser?”
As if I hadn’t thought of that.
Gloves make the ugly nubs slightly less noticeable, yes, but either the unfilled fabric flops around with every movement, or I stuff the empty columns, and the digits are oddly stiff and weird looking. There’s no disguising my deformity. “You think I should hide them?”
“Erm, uh, I didn’t say that.”
“You practically did, though.” Picking a fight is fun. I like the chaos. The pleasure of keeping someone on their back foot. This fae makes it too easy.
“Apologies. That’s not what I meant. If you love rings, you should have them.” A false smile slashes across his sly face. “Let’s open the case and have a closer look, hmm?”
“If you insist.”
“May I ask, are you the artist?”
“Oh, me? No. Not so talented myself.”
“Then who is?” I know the answer. In the past, most of the gems from these southerly mining towns were dug up and fashioned into jewelry by humans working for little more than slaves’ wages.
It must be changing, or it will be soon, with the revolution won and new laws in place to ensure equality. The guilds must be pissing themselves with anger. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re scheming to skirt around the law behind the scenes.
“Different people,” he says, dodging the real question. “Not one artist but many.”
We spend roughly an hour hemming and hawing over each piece. I enjoy whiling away the minutes studying pretties while the shopkeep dances from foot to foot, desperate for the sale.
It’s fun, but I grow bored. And I’d never buy something that might be lining the pockets of the guild.
“Never mind. I shall have to go without,” I declare after trying on about a hundred baubles, ranging from quite beautiful to extremely tacky.
Cricket would definitely have stolen something from this pushy snob of a salesman. We could have done it together with me as the distraction. A team effort.
What would he have chosen? Something cream or brown to match his lovely coloring? Or perhaps something viridian or black to match mine?
Too bad I’ll never know.
The rest of the day, I spend eating, drinking, and generally lying around to regain my strength. My calves are sore. As are the bottoms of my feet. It’s nice to pass the time without a sense of urgency, knowing I’ll see Cricket once more come sundown.
Perhaps he’ll realize he can’t escape, and he’ll bargain with me for the coin at last.
Perhaps he won’t.
In that case, I’ll have to dedicate some time to a plan. Steal it? Weasel my way into his affections? Fight him for it?
All of the above?
When dusk settles over Ember Crest, I close my eyes and listen for the sweet song of the coin to lure me in. The melody comes at once, floating on the wind like moonlion mane seeds and just as delicate as those lovely silver strands.
But it brings something else too.
A surprise.
A sense of Cricket, frustrated. He’s tired, mind and body. Longing for something. The sensation is so strong I nearly lose my balance. I whip my eyes open and glance around, almost expecting to see him, but no, he’s sunstrides away. Farther south. I haven’t gated yet.
That’s new.
My magic has never worked that way before. I don’t sense people. Not their thoughts or feelings.
