Chapter 4
I'm up at four-thirty wondering if the man who walked through my walls ate dinner last night.
This seems like the wrong priority after almost being murdered, but the bags under his eyes were terrible. When's the last time someone made him breakfast? Does he even eat breakfast? He seems like the type to forget about food entirely until his body starts shutting down.
"Banana bread," I tell my mixing bowl. "Everyone likes banana bread. Even people who dissolve into shadows. Especially people who dissolve into shadows. All that dissolving probably burns calories."
My kitchen smells like cinnamon and overripe bananas I've been meaning to use for days. They're more brown than yellow now, which is perfect for baking.
I should be terrified. Should be packing. Should be doing literally anything other than creaming butter and sugar while debating whether assassins have food allergies.
"No nuts," I decide. "Definitely no nuts. Imagine surviving the guild wars just to die from anaphylaxis. That would be embarrassing."
The butter's still too cold and hard under my hands.
I lean into it, putting my weight behind the wooden spoon.
My soft arms already ache from painting until two in the morning, and my back protests as I hunch over the bowl.
The kitchen table hits right at my hips, making this angle awkward, but this feels necessary.
Vital, even. He looked so tired. The kind of tired that lives in your bones and makes everything hurt.
My magic stirs, warm under my skin like sunshine through glass. The mixing bowl starts glowing faintly.
"Stop that." I cover it with a dish towel. "We're being subtle. Stealthy. Like ninjas who bake."
The glow gets brighter, leaking through the fabric. Of course. My magic has never met subtlety it didn't want to personally offend.
By the time the bread's in the oven, dawn's creeping through my windows.
The kitchen's warm now, almost too warm, and I can feel sweat gathering under my breasts where my corset sits.
I've made two loaves because... well, because.
He probably has minions. Henchmen? What do you call people who work for shadow assassins?
Employees? Whatever they are, they probably need feeding too.
Forty-five minutes later, I'm carefully wrapping still-warm slices in clean cloth.
The heat seeps through the fabric, almost burning my fingers.
Not my good cloth - that seems presumptuous.
Just the everyday cloth that's only a little paint-stained with a suspicious blue streak across one corner.
I've written a note, crossed it out, written another one, given up, and settled for a simple drawing of a smiling sun.
He'll either find it charming or have me killed for my artistic choices.
"For the cats," I tell myself, heading to the window. "This is for the stray cats. The large, person-shaped cats who lurk in shadows and probably report my every movement to their terrifying boss."
The alley below looks empty, but shadows don't always advertise their contents.
I arrange the wrapped bread on my windowsill with the kind of care usually reserved for religious offerings.
Which this might be. Do shadow guilds have dietary restrictions?
Religious observances? I should have researched this.
"There's also some apple butter." I say it to the empty air, feeling ridiculous. "In the little jar. It's homemade. Well, home-purchased. From Emmerson's. But I put it in a different jar, so that's almost like making it."
Movement across the street. Just a flicker, but enough to make my magic prickle. Someone's definitely there, trying to look like they're not there. They're doing a good job of it too. Very lurky. Very professional. Probably skipped breakfast to achieve peak lurking.
I wave.
The shadow freezes. Actually freezes, like I've broken some fundamental rule of surveillance etiquette. Which I probably have. There's likely a whole manual about proper stalking protocol, and 'don't wave at your marks' is probably chapter one.
"The bread's still warm," I call down, because apparently I've decided to abandon all pretense. "Better eat it before it gets cold. Cold banana bread is just sad bread."
The shadow shifts. I catch a glimpse of someone in dark clothing doing their best to pretend they don't exist. Young, maybe twenty. Trying so hard to be invisible that they're practically vibrating with the effort.
I go back inside before I make things worse. The second loaf is cooling on my counter, and I'm already planning lunch. Do shadow guild members have food preferences? Allergies? Strong feelings about soup?
By the time I've washed the dishes and changed into my market clothes - the blue skirt with only a few paint stains - the sun's properly up.
My market stall awaits, and I can't afford to miss another day.
Mrs. Harwicke's half payment won't stretch far, and paint doesn't buy itself.
I pack my supplies, careful to include the wrapped bread I definitely didn't make specifically for shadow minions.
The basket's heavier than usual with all the extra food. The handle digs into my palm as I navigate the morning streets. My hips bump against doorways as I squeeze past other early risers, and I have to stop twice to readjust my grip.
The walk to market feels different today. Every few steps, there's a little scuff. A shuffle. Someone's definitely following me, and they're not as quiet as they think they are.
"Morning, Emil!" I wave at the vegetable vendor, who's already set up.
"Olivia! You're up early. And you've got..." He squints past me. "Friends?"
I glance back. My shadow is trying to hide behind a cart that's half his size. It's not working.
"New neighbors," I say brightly. "Very shy. Probably hungry. Do you have any of those carrots from yesterday?"
Emil, bless him, doesn't ask questions. Just loads a bag with vegetables that have seen better days but still have good hearts. Like people, really. The best ones are usually a little bruised.
I set up my stall, trying not to knock things over with my hips as I squeeze behind the display table.
My stomach's already growling - should have eaten some of that banana bread myself - but there's work to do.
I pretend not to notice the shadow relocating to a better vantage point.
Then another shadow joins them. Then a few more.
By noon, when the sun's high and my back aches from standing, I've got what appears to be an entire surveillance convention happening around my stall.
"Your paintings." A customer peers at my landscape. "Why does that tree look worried?"
Because I painted it while thinking about whether shadow assassins get enough vitamin D, but I can't say that.
"Artistic interpretation," I offer instead. "Trees have feelings too."
She moves on without buying anything, which is starting to feel like a theme. Maybe I should paint happier trees. Trees that haven't witnessed attempted murder. Optimistic foliage.
"Psst."
I turn, my skirt catching on the corner of my display. One of my shadows - the young one from this morning - is edging closer. He's holding my bread cloth like it might explode.
"Was this... did you... is it poisoned?"
"Why does everyone think I'm trying to poison people?" The question comes out more exasperated than I intended. "It's banana bread. Made with love and cinnamon. Poison would ruin the flavor profile."
He stares at me. Opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.
"But... why?"
"Because you've been standing out here since dawn and you look hungry." I dig in my basket, bending awkwardly to reach the bottom. "Here. Apple slices. They're only slightly brown. The lemon juice didn't quite do its job, but they're still good."
"I can't. We're not supposed to interact with—"
"With the people you're stalking? That does seem like it would complicate things." I put the apple slices on the corner of my stall. "I'll just leave these here. For the pigeons. The very large, person-shaped pigeons who probably report back to someone scarier."
He grabs the apple slices and retreats, but not as far this time. Progress.
The afternoon crowd picks up. The sun beats down, making me wish I'd worn my lighter corset.
Sweat trickles down my spine. I manage to sell two small paintings to tourists who don't notice the existential dread in the brushstrokes.
My shadows multiply. By four o'clock, when my feet hurt and my basket's empty of snacks, I count at least six people trying very hard to look like they're not watching me.
"This is getting ridiculous," I mutter, packing up for the day. My hands shake slightly from hunger - definitely should have kept some bread for myself. "I can't feed all of you. I'm not running a charity for unexpectedly hungry people who follow me around."
Except I absolutely am, because I've already mentally allocated tomorrow's bread budget to include more loaves.
The late afternoon sun slants between buildings as I head home through the quieter streets.
My basket's lighter now but my arms still ache from carrying it all day.
The attack comes between the bakery and the cobbler's shop.
Not my shadows - they've been maintaining their careful distance all day.
These are new ones, and they don't feel careful at all.
"Olivia Caldris." The voice comes from an alley that was empty five seconds ago. "Someone wants a word."
Four figures emerge. Different energy entirely. These shadows have edges, sharp and hungry. Their leader smiles, and it's all teeth and bad intentions.
"I'm really very busy," I try, even though my voice comes out higher than normal. "Perhaps we could schedule something? I have Tuesday afternoons free."