Larkin and Garran followed the canal to the crowded market stalls nestled in a bowl beneath the palace. Most of those who bartered with the street vendors were miners from the canyon, sifting through barrels of threshed wheat and baskets brimming with shriveled fruit. Their determination bordered on desperation; a successful haggle was the difference between food on the table or another supper of clear broth.
The stalls were surrounded by bronze-doored shops and pillars of granite. Guards normally patrolled the entrances, forcing patrons to display a full coin purse before they could enter. They were absent today, just like in the mines.
They’ll be back, she thought, dipping her hand beneath her frayed tunic and grazing her purse. Her father would want her to barter at the stalls instead of entering one of the shops. But that would mean forfeiting …
“Cake?” Garran asked encouragingly.
Larkin nodded, knowing he could sense her nerves. “Two of us in the shop will look suspicious. I’ll meet you in the canyon.”
Garran frowned. “Let me go in.”
“You know I’ll be fine,” Larkin said.
“Then I’ll wait for you outside.”
“Garran.” She stared hard at him. “Go home.”
Garran bounced on his toes, uncomfortable, but Larkin would win. She’d die on the steps of this shop before going home first. Most shopkeepers thought Empaths loathsome, and Larkin much preferred to take the brunt of their cruelty rather than subjecting Garran to it.
Garran gave in, his shoulders sagging. “Don’t be too long. I’m starving,” he said, casting one final glance at Larkin before crossing the canal bridge home.
Larkin approached the nearest bronze door and ducked into the shop. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low light, and she saw a candlelit effigy of Ilona in the center of the room. Larkin almost laughed. The goddess’s face was deformed with the help of the artist’s poor skill.
As in every shop she’d been in before, small luminite trinkets were strung along the edges of the ceiling. The shopkeeper must have paid a small fortune for them. She thought of the Empath boy who regularly peddled fake luminite trinkets in the market, wondering if these were fake too.
Beneath the trinkets, a woman and a young girl in an embroidered dress browsed shelves stuffed with sugar-glazed pastries and imported candies. The woman’s eyes kept darting over her shoulder.
She’s used to guards, Larkin thought. How wonderful it must be to find comfort in those polished suits of armor.
Larkin was only able to glimpse at the shelves before the shop owner, dressed in a crisp linen tunic and leather apron, strode over to her. She felt the sensation of mud dribbling down her skin. Disgust. Her unkemptness disgusted him. Larkin stared back, forcing herself not to swipe at the dust on her cheeks.
“Can I help you?”
“I have twenty-four marks.” She proceeded to rattle off everything she wanted, allowing him to do the math for the cuts of meat and pounds of flour. The man busied himself, scurrying about to fulfill her request.
Larkin stood by the counter and waited, the child behind her chattering with glee as she and her mother made decisions on sweet rolls and toffee. Every so often, the shop owner glanced at Larkin, but his indulgent smile was laced with the kind of suspicion that made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
She met his smile, widening her eyes innocently.
The shop owner returned with her requested items. “Twenty-two marks.”
Larkin emptied her purse into her palm, counting out coins as he wrapped her cut of salted meat. As she held the marks out, he stalled, studying her hand.
Black clay crusted over the fresh scab on her knuckle, black clay beneath her fingernails. Black clay lined her palms like roads on a map. Only Empath miners burrowed deep enough to hit black clay.
His suspicion intensified, and hate sparked on Larkin’s tongue and scorched her throat like molten ore. But the shopkeeper’s calm face didn’t betray his hatred, which told Larkin one thing: He was used to turning down Empaths like her.
“Take your coin to the shop down the road,” he said flatly. “They’ll serve you.”
Larkin wouldn’t beg. She refused to beg. “My marks are as real as any.”
Silently, the shopkeeper plucked the items off the counter and placed them all on a shelf behind him. He turned back to her and crossed his arms, waiting for her to do or say something—anything—to cry and scream or shuffle out of the shop.
Larkin wouldn’t give him the pleasure.
Slowly, Larkin reopened her purse and funneled the coins back in. One fell and hit the ground, ringing. She bent down to pick it up, then paused.
Larkin should have been out the door already, the shopkeeper all the wealthier. Yet here she was, crouched beneath an assortment of fake trinkets. She could still sense the man’s revulsion.
It was almost too easy.
She closed her eyes and siphoned his scalding emotion, ushering it, her hand curling into a fist. She focused on the shelf near the woman and the young girl, fanning her fingers as her body exhaled his rage.
With a crack, the shelf snapped in half, glass jars smashing against the floor. The girl screamed as the shards shot across the tile. The shopkeeper swore and raced to assess the damage.
In the chaos, Larkin quickly evaluated what was in reach—rounds of aged cheeses, three rabbits, and two unplucked pheasants hanging by their feet. No cake. Sorry, Garran. She stuffed it all into her knapsack.
Above her, the delicate trinkets swayed with the commotion, useless.
Larkin punched open the shop door and scrambled down the steps. She ran through the circle of outdoor carts, dodging vendors and patrons, and across the footbridge toward the shelter of the canyon.
She imagined the shopkeeper’s face when he realized what she’d stolen and grinned.
He could have had her money but chose her wrath instead.
THREE
The strap of Larkin’s bag cut into her shoulder as she rushed toward the canyon. The sun had just dipped beneath the city’s mountain, stall vendors filling wagons with leftover wares to cart home.
She scanned for the patrol and found none. The streets were vacant of guards, just like the mines and the shops. Any concern was quickly overwhelmed by her relief. The absence of guards had granted her a satchel full of food and a purse heavy with marks.
She’d gotten away with magic.
Destruction magic.
Loathing like that of the shopkeeper wasn’t unfamiliar. The merchants and gentry were saturated with it. But their hatred was always mixed with fear. They knew that were it not for the luminite, she could glean their silent loathing and use it against them.
Her own exhilaration at using magic surprised her, and she quickly sobered. To be caught using magic meant a lifetime in a cell, or worse. Her family couldn’t afford to lose her wages.
She couldn’t risk it, not again.
Larkin hurried through the canyon, the granite cliffs trapping the stench of garbage. Broken lampposts lined the path, and a luminite cable crisscrossed the high walls like an iridescent web. As Larkin neared the canyon’s bottom, she passed a woman sweeping the steps to her home. A dejected man on the next stoop drank from an opaque bottle.
She sensed the same emotion every evening as she walked up to the door of her home. The same emotion, but not a constant one. Because love wasn’t a fine-tuned note that rang without changing pitch. Love was harmonized by worry and trust, bright with joy, and sometimes heartbreaking. There were few emotions like that, ones that took Larkin’s breath away every time she felt them. Even as angry and exhausted as she was now.