Chapter Eight
At a quarter to midnight, I left Argyle cozy in his basket, belly full of chicken and head full of innocent things, no doubt—like balls of yarn and the crook of my neck.
I’d been tempted to stay. He’d fallen asleep on my shoulder, and it had taken all my willpower to remove him, wrap myself in my plaid, and head out into the chilly night.
Nothing good came of shady business dealings at the witching hour.
Even my father would have been hesitant to involve himself in something like this, dragon teeth or no.
My father hadn’t always made good decisions, as evidenced by the state his affairs were in when he passed.
I’d finally gotten our accounts balanced, but it wouldn’t last long if I didn’t come up with more money, quickly.
I thought again of Bri, how easily she could have turned things around for me.
But perhaps wherever the dragon teeth came from, there was a clue that would lead me to her missing grimoire.
Maybe there was a chance we could still prove useful to each other.
My path led me across the windswept moors, my skirts tangling in the gorse and heather.
Fortunately the moon was full tonight, or I might have gotten hopelessly lost until daybreak.
Though I’d walked the sheep trail here hundreds of times, it was narrow, and the moors could be tricky in the dark.
There were also boggy patches indistinguishable from dry ground, and occasionally a body would be found in one, stained the russet color of peat and eerily preserved, so it was impossible to say if the person had died last week or hundreds of years ago.
I thought of what would happen if I disappeared into one—whether anyone aside from Argyle would notice I was missing, or if I’d be categorized as another runaway girl, off to seek her fortune—and pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders.
At least my clothing had dried during the day, and I was wearing my darkest gray dress.
One that fit me properly, albeit not flatteringly.
I imagined that if I’d grown up with a mother, she would have known how to dress me.
Da had bought me whatever was cheapest but well made enough to last a good long while.
To be fair, he followed the same parameters when it came to his own clothing; neither of us was fashionable.
Once, the dressmaker at the general store had commented to my father that pastels would flatter my complexion far better than the drab wool he favored.
“Pastels are for girls who don’t get dirty,” Da said. I’d detected pride in his voice, rather than the shame I felt staining my cheeks. “Willow has no use for pastels.”
“Every girl should have something pretty,” the dressmaker sniffed, and I’d glanced at Da, hopeful that maybe this woman’s opinion would mean something to him. I’d asked for a pretty dress plenty of times, and that had certainly not been effective.
“Willow is pretty,” Da had replied, with a forcefulness that surprised me. He’d never once called me pretty. He’d never referred to my appearance at all. “She doesn’t need a silly dress to prove it.”
As I reached the end of the moors and the outskirts of town, I touched my cheek self-consciously.
Was I pretty? It wasn’t something I gave much thought, at least not when I was alone.
Fortunately for me, I was alone a lot. But if I had the money for it, I’d buy myself a heather-purple dress and a matching ribbon, even if it wasn’t useful.
I passed the print shoppe and couldn’t help glancing up at the window above, where Finlay and his mother were no doubt sound asleep.
I’d only met his mother once, when he’d escorted her to the winter fair.
She was so bundled up I’d only seen a bit of her face: the same twinkly blue eyes as Finlay, though her cheeks were hollow and her mouth pinched, so different from Finlay’s bright smile.
She seemed far older than her forty years.
She hadn’t called me pretty, but her eyes had passed between Finlay and me knowingly, and she’d leaned into him and whispered something that made the cold-induced rosiness in his cheeks spread across his nose.
Later, I’d asked him what she’d said.
“She said she understood now,” he said, and I’d been too embarrassed to ask what that meant. But in the wee hours of the night, when I remembered that moment and felt the same woozy-warm feeling in my belly, I could almost convince myself I knew. Almost.
It was past midnight by the time I reached the docks, and I worried I’d missed the transaction.
Everything was silent, save for the black water lapping gently at the boats, the creak of old wood, and the occasional bark of laughter from one of the nearby pubs.
If I was caught, I could say I was on my way back from an evening of drinking with friends, an alibi that would only work if the person didn’t know me.
Anyone local would know that Willow Stokes had no friends.
I was starting to lose hope when I caught a flash of something shiny in the dark.
Near a boat at the end of one of the docks, I could make out two shadowy figures.
That had to be the trader and the Sapphire Islander.
As quietly as I could, I slipped toward the dock, holding my skirts next to my body so their swishing wouldn’t give me away.
When I was as close as I dared, I crouched behind a small fisherman’s boat and listened. The men were speaking, but I couldn’t make out their words. I would have to get closer if I hoped to glean anything useful.
Just then, a rowdy, drunken group left the closest pub. Their laughter was the cover I needed. My thighs burning, I crouch-ran along the dock until I was two boats from the men. Close enough, I hoped.
“… you said you had a scapula.”
That was the trader talking. He had to be referring to the dragon bones.
“Scapula, breast plate, what’s the difference.” I recognized the Sapphire Islander by his accent.
“One is considerably larger than the other, for starters.”
“Do you want the bones or not? I’m supposed to head back to the Isles in the morning, and I’d like to get some sleep before I leave.”
“I want them. But I’m not paying a thousand for the breast plate. I’ll give you five hundred, more than twice what I’m paying for the tooth.”
“A breast plate is far more useful than a tooth,” the Islander argued. “It will give you protection from almost anything, not just fire.”
“Yes, but it won’t make me fly, now will it?”
Holy shite. I hadn’t made the connection to the different parts of a dragon before now, but it made sense that each part would imbue the consumer with the ability of that particular aspect of a dragon’s power.
“I’ll throw in a handful of scales,” the Islander offered.
There was a long silence. “Where did you get the bones, anyhow? No one’s seen a dragon in at least a hundred years.”
I couldn’t help myself. I had to get closer. Crouched so low I was practically on my knees, I crab-scuttled to one boat away from the men, praying the waves would cover the sound of my skirts dragging on the wood.
I froze as the men ceased their conversation. I held my breath until I thought my lungs might explode.
“I can’t reveal my sources,” the Islander said. “You know that. But they’re genuine, and there’s more where these came from, if you’d like to visit the Isles yourself.”
The trader laughed, though it had a hollow, mocking ring to it. “I wouldn’t come to Sapphire if you were the one to pay me a thousand pounds.”
The Islander chuckled. “You mainlanders, so superstitious. It’s only dangerous if you’re wielding magic yourself. Then the Chancellor might want your bones to trade with.”
I shuddered, imagining the Islander smiling with all his teeth.
“Lucky for me I don’t have any magic,” the trader said.
I heard the tinkling of coins and felt my mouth fill with saliva.
I’d never been in the presence of so much money before.
A small, irrational voice in my head urged me to make a run for it.
With the element of surprise in my favor, I could grab the money and be gone before they realized what had hit them.
Fortunately, I knew better than to listen to that voice.
No amount of money was worth dying for. Maybe the one piece of wisdom that separated me from my father.
The Islander chuckled again. “You know, I heard about a girl selling a magic broom in this very port today. I don’t suppose you heard a similar rumor?”
I threw my hand over my mouth to smother an involuntary gasp. I hadn’t even considered that my little demonstration would be worth a second thought from these two. It was only a magic broom. What was that, to someone who apparently had an entire dragon at his disposal?
“I did,” the trader said. “What of it?”
“I wasn’t aware there were any young magic practitioners here in Ardmuir. That’s all.”
“She’s not a magic practitioner. Her father was a good-for-nothing cheat who fancied himself a trader.
He dabbled in small-time trinkets. Trash, mostly.
I kept tabs on him for a while, to make sure he wasn’t going to be competition.
He might have had an eye for the valuable, but he never made enough money to really participate in the trade. ”
“Then how did his daughter come by this magic broom?”
I imagined the trader shrugging. “Luck, maybe. Or a sham, like her father. You’ll notice she sold the thing to an outlander. I’ll give her some credit for not being glaikit enough to trade with a local.”
If he was so sure it was a scam, why had he offered me fifty pounds for it? Was he hoping to catch me in a lie? My heart hammered in my chest. What would these men do if they knew the very girl in question was crouched feet away from them?
“So you’re not worried about her?” the Islander asked.
“Worried? Honestly, Torion. I have far greater things to worry about than a skinny little orphan who can barely pay her bills.”
“Like The Oxblood Book?”
The blood drained from my face at the Islander’s words.
“What of it?” The tone in the trader’s voice was low and serious now.
“I had a meeting earlier with that weaselly grimoire conservator, Tell. He said he’d had two girls in his shoppe, asking after the book. As I recall, you had it in your possession at one point. I believe you paid a pretty penny for it, Wexley.”
A chill traveled up my spine and over my scalp. I knew there was something off with Tell and his gribbly little bat.
“I doubt it was the Stokes girl,” the trader—Mr. Wexley, apparently—said. “She’d have no reason to be messing with grimoires.”
“What about the other girl? An outlander, he said. Had a special interest in the book. Maybe even a family connection.”
I thought I might pass out. I could only be grateful Tell hadn’t revealed Bri’s curse. If there were really people who traded in magic-wielders’ bones, Bri could be in grave danger.
“I don’t know anything about the lives of teenage girls,” Mr. Wexley said. “And if I were you, I’d steer well clear. Stokes is an orphan, like I said. I doubt anyone would miss her. But a young outlander likely has people. I would hate law enforcement to get wind of our business.”
The Islander scoffed. “Ardmuir law enforcement is a joke. Everyone knows that.”
“Aye, it was. But there’s talk of a new constable known for cracking down on illegal trading. People say unsavory types are coming into Ardmuir more and more these days.”
“Types like you and me, I take it?”
“More like you. I’m not an outlander, remember? Plus, I can afford to pay off anyone who questions me.”
Another group of revelers burst out of the pub, causing me to yelp. It was muffled by my palm, but it was time for me to leave. Without a second glance, I scuttled back up the dock, toward the beckoning lights of the pub, and folded myself in among the crowd.
“Is that Willow Stokes?” a young man breathed, so close to my face I could smell the whisky on his breath.
Just what I needed. Bleedin’ Trystan Shilling.
“You’re even drunker than I thought, Trystan,” someone shouted. “Willow Stokes wouldn’t be caught dead within three feet of you.”
Truer words had never been spoken. With my heart still pounding and my head spinning, I peeled off from the crowd as they passed an alley and stood with my hands pressed to my knees, struggling to regain my breath.
I’d come out here tonight hoping to find a source of magical artifacts.
I’d gotten so much more than I bargained for.