She left the estate just after noon, cloak plain, hood low. No crest on the carriage this ti because she wanted to avoid being followed; she told no one but Adolf of her trip. The city was bright and loud, but she kept to the quieter streets until the bell above the door chid.
Wanderer’s Curiosities.
The sa neatly sorted counters, the countless rows of things, trinkets, dotting them. The sa woman behind the register, quill scratching in careful strokes.
The shopkeeper looked up from her book for a mont and smiled when she noticed the girl.
"Back so soon, dear?"
"I am. Those three things I bought—do you have more from the sa lot?"
Morena wasted no ti and dived directly into the reason for her visit. She wanted more things like she had gotten before, more specifically, another journal or notebook that could help her.
The woman’s eyes flicked, quick, to the hooded figure before her, then down.
"Possibly. Depends what you’re after."
"Information, mostly."
The quill paused for a mont, but she did not put it down completely; she was simply contemplating the words.
"What sort of information?"
"The seller."
Morena rested a golden coin on the counter. Then another. She was smooth with her motion, enough to be noticed.
"I want to know who brought them in. Where. When. And what else they tried to sell."
The woman’s mouth pressed into a thin line. Morena could tell from the look on the shopkeeper’s face that she was weighing the risk of talking against the comfort of coin.
Finally, Morena could see her face twist in resignation.
"Let see what I wrote that day."
She wiped the quill, turned the roster back, and slid a ribbon aside. Morena stood to the side but observed the book as she flipped through it; every page clear for but a brief second.
’AI.’
[Listening.]
’Record everything in the book.’
[Recording.]
The woman tracked a finger down a column.
"Traveler. Brought a wrapped parcel—a stone, a pendant, a book, and a handful of loose paper he said wasn’t worth the paper. I didn’t take the scraps."
"What did he call himself?"
"He didn’t give a na at first, but I convinced him to leave one just in case I had to contact him."
The woman’s eyes crinkled, amused at the mory.
"He gave a na. ’Corin.’ Might as well have said ’man.’ But he looked like he’d used another na before."
"What did he look like?"
"Lean. Taller than you by a head. Blond, but not bright—dusty. Skin not made for sun, though he’d seen it. Dirt on his fingers, under his nails. Small burn on the inside wrist here."
She tapped her own arm.
"New enough not to scar yet, flesh was still festering."
Dirt? Soone who had explored often? From the book, she could tell that he had investigated a ruin once before; perhaps he had been doing it more. Morena set a third coin down.
"Accent?"
"Not ours. North or northeast. Hints of the border. Not noble. He didn’t carry himself like one."
"What did he pay with?"
"Mixed coin. A Brightburn half-crown, two northern coppers, and a brass token."
She frowned a little.
"I kept the token for curiosity, but it didn’t have much value here. I think it’s from the neighboring Empire, but we don’t see any of their money flowing through here."
"Can I see it?"
The woman hesitated, then nodded. She dug into a small drawer, sifted through buttons and bent pins, and brought out a round, dull brass with a hole bored near the rim. A symbol was pressed into one face—three lines inside a circle, not quite eting.
Morena didn’t touch it yet. She looked at it, feeling no elental energy. Not any guild mark or currency she knew.
’AI.’
[Scanning.]
’Identify?’
[No known local guild mark or local currency. Design matches the recorded ntion of 1 currency from the Veythian Empire. Residual residue: plant oil, soot, ash.]
She picked it up. The token was warm from the woman’s hand, slick with old oil that never fully dried, and covered in a few patches of dirt.
’Store the symbol. Cross-check it later for anything, maybe it’s related to sothing ntioned in another book.’
[Stored.]
"What else did he say?"
Morena asked, still looking at the token.
"Very little. He wanted coins quickly. Didn’t want to haggle. He’d been sleeping rough; I could sll the cold on his coat. He asked directions."
"To where?"
The woman’s smile returned, knowingly soft.
"That will cost you another coin, dear."
Morena slid the fourth across.
"He asked for quiet places to sleep cheaply. I told him the Black Lane boys will cut your boots off if you snore. So he asked for sowhere honest with poor food. I sent him to the Stone Jackdaw."
"Where is it?"
"Tally Street. End of the row where the cobbles run out. If you sll old yeast and wet rope, you went too far."
"What did he carry his things in?"
"Canvas satchel. Stiff with salt, like it had been near the sea. And—"
She paused, considering whether the next detail was worth a coin. Morena answered the pause by setting a fifth down, but at this point she was already over her limit.
The woman brightened.
"A roll of thin paper tucked into a leather tube. He’d stop touching it, then his hand would go back to it again. Like he was checking it was still there."
"Maps?"
"Maybe. Or drawings. He had the look of a man who draws more than he eats."
"Did he say where he found these?"
Morena asked, glancing once at the wrapped book in her arm.
"He didn’t give much detail about that, but he did ntion so sort of ’old place.’ Sothing about the east, broken by a slide. He kept saying the word ’angles.’ Strange, the way he said it. Like the shape of them mattered."
Angles.
"Was he alone?"
"He ca alone. Left alone. Kept looking over his shoulder like he was afraid he wasn’t alone."
"Anything else?"
The woman thought, eyes ticking left the way they did when she reached for small details.
"He slled like wet stone and lamp soot. And his coat hem had dried mud with tiny flakes of glass in it. I swept little glitter off the counter after he left."
She huffed a tiny laugh.
"Glass?"
Morena asked.
"Not like window glass. Brittle. Gray. Like glass that was still forming? If that makes any sense."
Morena put the token down between them.
"I’ll take this."
"It isn’t worth much."
"That’s good then, I won’t pay much."
The woman weighed that, then nodded and slid the token into a small cloth pouch.
"You’re polite to pay for it. Most wouldn’t."
"I’m fair when needed."
"That you are, my lady."
Morena drew a thin strip of parchnt from her sleeve and wrote a line on it.
"If he cos back, send word to the Ravenscroft estate. Ask for Adolf. Say it’s about a book. You’ll be paid for your trouble."
The woman read the na, eyebrows lifting just a hair, then tucked the strip under her ledger ribbon.
"I’ll do that."
Morena turned to go, then paused.
"The day he ca in—what did his hands do when he stood still?"
The woman blinked, then smiled crookedly.
"He traced little shapes against his thigh with his fingers. Sa shapes over and over, like a habit."
Morena inclined her head.
"Thank you."
"Be careful, dear."
The woman said quietly, as Morena reached the door.
"He wasn’t only hungry. He was frightened. Not of . Of whatever was following behind him."
"I’m always careful."
The bell chid behind her.
Outside, the street’s noise folded back over her. She walked two alleys before she spoke.
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