THREE #2
The sharp tang of blood hit her first when she stepped into the hallway that housed, amongst other things, Grant’s salching concern. Her own scars prickled with phantom pain and she tried to walk past without looking, but a voice called out her name.
She whirled round. Hazel, one of Grant’s employees, stood at the door to the salching room, beckoning Aly over. A fair-haired man loomed over her, his expression plaintive.
“What’s going on?” Aly asked, stepping towards them.
“He’s not paying, and he won’t leave,” Hazel said, her features creased with worry.
“I’ll deal with it,” Aly said. “You go back in.” She jerked her head into the room, then closed the door behind Hazel, blocking out the smell of blood.
Her forearms stung as she tried to shove the thought of that room from her mind, the memory of the clawing agony of her power leaving her body.
She had a few scars elsewhere, mostly on her calves, but nowhere closer to her heart than that; it was too dangerous, the risk of being drained too high.
Not that the extremities were safe. She’d seen people die and their clients rage at being deprived of their fix.
She pressed her jaw closed, cutting off that line of thought, and looked at the man before her.
His garments were well-made and well-fitting, but plain—the attire of a man who clothed himself solely at a tailor’s and had no idea the vast second-hand markets patronised by most on this side of the Meadowbank Canal even existed.
She’d have thought he was formerly well-off and had fallen on hard times, like herself, were it not for the glint of his gold cravat pin. That would be the first thing to pawn.
“It’s four shillings,” Aly said, holding out a hand. She’d give him a chance to pretend it was all a misunderstanding.
The man dipped his hand in the pocket of his coat, turning up nothing other than the stub of a ferry ticket.
“I’m terribly sorry, I seem to have forgotten to bring any coin.
” His accent was crisp enough to cut through granite.
There was something familiar about his features that Aly couldn’t place.
She didn’t think she’d encountered him at Grant’s market—she’d remember a man who spoke like that—but she was sure she’d seen him before.
“Then you’ll have to leave.” Aly’s own accent returned to the registers of her childhood in response.
The man patted at his pockets and kilt, as though feeling for a sporran that wasn’t there. “Wait.” He unfastened his kilt pin, holding it out to Aly. “What about this? It’s real sapphire and silver, worth more than four shillings.”
Aly took the kilt pin, examining it in the dull light of the corridor.
She’d fenced enough stolen jewels that she could usually tell if a gem was real or just paste, and she was fairly certain the man was telling the truth.
If he was, the sapphire alone was worth at least five shillings.
Of course, if she was wrong, she’d be lucky to get more than sixpence for it and she’d have to make up the remainder herself or Grant would have her hide.
But the man looked the sort who would make a scene, and Grant wouldn’t thank her for that either, particularly not if he fetched the police.
She tilted the pin so the stone caught the light from the tallow candle in the sconce above her head. She wouldn’t stake her life on it being a sapphire, but she was as confident as she could be that it was.
“How do I know you won’t just report this stolen in the morning?” She held the kilt pin up.
“You have my word, I will not.”
Aye, right. The word of a wealthy man who sneaked around buying other people’s magic. Even still, if she could sell it far away from Mossburgh, she could get close to its value for it.
She let out a sigh. “All right. Just this once.” She jerked her head into the room. “Go on, then.”
At the end of the night, she stayed in Grant’s office as he counted the coins from the purse Hazel had handed him. The coins were mostly Eskalian shillings, flashing silver in the lamplight, but Aly also caught sight of Ujuyul ayurs, as well as coins embossed with the face of the Ardsteden king.
“You’re short by four shillings.” Grant dropped the purse with a clunk. “There’s fifty-six in there, and Rory counted fifteen customers.”
Aly twisted to look at Rory where he loomed near the door, his muscular arms crossed over his chest. His face was closed off, but it sent a shiver down Aly’s back.
She’d never liked him—there was something about him that just screamed off to her—but he was one of Grant’s most trusted lieutenants, given the task of counting customers while someone else took payment.
Grant always had one person receiving the money and another counting the customers to stop them stealing—and he made sure to pair up folk who didn’t trust each other to prevent them colluding and lying to him.
Hazel glanced at Aly, her fingers threading through the bottom of her dark brown plait. All Aly had to do was keep quiet, and Hazel would be on the hook for four shillings. With a sigh, Aly leant against the desk, keeping her voice casual as she said, “That’s my fault.”
Grant twisted to look at her. “I’m sorry?”
Aly dug the kilt pin out of her pocket. “One client paid with this.”
“And you let him?” Grant’s eyes narrowed, making Aly’s heartbeat quicken.
“He looked like he’d make a scene if I turned him away.”
“I want my money by the end of the week.” Grant waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t much care how you get it.”
Aly fought the urge to reply. She knew better than to talk back to him in front of his subordinates, and she had three days to convince him to wait for her to fence the kilt pin. As long as he listened, she’d be fine.