Page 112 of Fate's Sweetest Curse
“Enjoyable as it is for you to ask cryptic questions,” Uriel said, pointing a thumb toward the market, “there is a blade smith’s stall that I would like to visit. Seeing as youstillhave not returned my dagger.”
It was perhaps midnight, now, and the Night Market was packed with laughing, dancing, and meandering bodies. Knowing I wouldn’t solve the curse tonight in the chaos of Rose Street, I smiled at Uriel. “Why don’t I purchase you a new one?”
“Better yet,” she said, leading Sani and I back into the throng, “return mine and purchase one for yourself.”
It was after one in the morning when we returned to our dorm. While Sani and Uriel retired bed, I lingered in the common area of our quarters,my mind stillawake. I felt akin to Anya’s wolfhound Wicker when he caught onto the scent of a dropped morsel in the bar room, his nose skimming the ground as he sought it out, singular in his focus. Dissatisfied until he uncovered his prize.
Once I’d stripped off my dusty outer clothes and donned a chemise to sleep in, I cracked the window by the writing desk, set my new six-inch dagger on the worn surface, lit a small taper candle, and plopped down in the hard wooden chair. Inside the desk drawer were a quill, ink, and paper—I pulled out two sheets and started writing.
Dear Anya,
I highly doubt you are willing to expand upon the experience that altered your Fate—especially not in writing—but I must ask anyhow. Something has come up in my research program here
My Oath stung the back of my throat, warning me not to put too many details on paper.
that has me curious about the exact sequence of events and the materials involved. Did you or Idris use your magic when in contact with the water? Did either of you have any Hylder or Gildium on your person? If you can share any details, I’d be grateful.
I wish I could say more about what’s happening here. I promise I’m taking care.
Hattie
P.S. I had a rather fabulous, warmed milk concoction here in the city that I think our regulars at the Possum would love, perhaps when craving something a little more decadent than tea. I’ve included my best guess at the recipe on the second page.
P.P.S. Burn this missive upon receipt; we can’t be too careful.
I folded the letter and recipe, dribbled the candle over the outer pleat, and pressed a heart-shaped seal into the warm wax. As I scrawled the Pretty Possum’s address across the front, my heart squeezed. If I thought hard enough, I could smell the savory scent of the pub—ale, woodsmoke, and the sage-and-sausage aroma of supper—and hear the jovial music and laughter of the evening rush. I imagined our regulars seated at the bar: Martha’s rosy cheeks and riveting stories, Vera’s nose wrinkling with her usual wryness, Hugh’s scandalized coughs and grunts as the women gossiped.
When I closed my eyes, I couldfeelAnya’s presence beside me. Chopping potatoes and kneading dough in the kitchen after the regulars all went home for the night, our preparations for breakfast like a practiced dance. In the time Idris had been living at the Possum, he’d lent a hand in the kitchen also, following my instructions with precision. He’d even shared his maple syrup with me for new recipes.
I had planned to return to Waldron once I received my apothecary license, but now that I was entangled in Phina’s program—with Noble’s life hinging on our studies—I wasn’t surewhen. The thought made my stomach sink with worry, homesickness.
In all the years I’d lived in Waldron, I had never felt unwelcome. The town had embraced me from the moment I arrived, showing me unconditional kindness even before I’d earned my keep. And while Irelished the life I’d created there, not a day went by in which I didn’t feel guilty about deceiving folks who had shown me such openheartedness. I only hoped thatwhenI returned—hopefully with Noble,healed—I could tell them all the truth, and they’d find it in their hearts to forgive me.
Once Anya’s letter was sealed and dry, I tucked it into my satchel, so I’d remember to take it to the messenger service tomorrow. Then, with a sleepy sigh, I closed and locked the window, blew out the candle, and retired to bed.
Early the next morning, I stirred awake with a grumble. Having spent so many nights with Noble, I’d grown accustomed to being woken up by his lips on my neck, filthy whispers in my ear, his hot and solid body curling behind me.
Fates bless him for cultivating the habit of sleeping naked.
But this morning, the emptiness of my bed had me rising in spite of how few hours I’d slept. Out in the common area, I stoked the hearth and prepared a kettle for tea, while soft snores came from Sani and Uriel’s shared bedroom. While the water boiled, I turned toward the window, stifling a yawn.
Our quarters overlooked a narrow strip of lawn that cut between our dormitory building and the twenty-foot wall that separated it from the neighboring street. We were on the third floor, which gave us an excellent view over the barrier. Golden sunlight splashed the faces of the buildings opposite us. I could hear pigeons cooing in the eaves of our roof.
Blinking the sleep from my eyes, my vision sank to the writing desk—and landed on a new object resting there.
A vial.
Paper had been curled around its exterior and bound with twine, leaving the corked top poking out. I snatched it quickly off the desk and slid off its paper shroud. I knew what it was—knew what to expect—but my breath still caught when I saw the viscous black liquid inside the clear glass.
My gaze flicked the window. It was closed and locked, just as I had left it. I swiveled toward the door, finding that still locked, too. Leaning over the desk, I observed the ledge outside our window, and—there: a smudge in the speckling of pigeon poop. The only evidence that Mariana had snuck into our dorm.
My lungs tensed, air wheezing out of me as I imagined Mariana creeping inside while we all slept. No doubt, the violation was meant to intimidate—remind me of her skill and mercy. But disturbed as I was, I was also impressed by her ability to deliver the monster bloodat all; I tried not to think of what she’d had to do to retrieve it.
Without sparing the cursed liquid another glance, I slid the vial into my satchel—only to discover that my letter to Anya torn open, with only the recipe remaining.
Fists clenching, I returned to the desk, finding the paper Mariana had used to cover the vial. There was writing on it, her scrawl surprisingly delicate.
Letters like that will get you killed.
