Chapter 8
Matthias's left eye is twitching. The one that means I've said something perfectly reasonable that he's decided to find alarming.
"Antifungal treatment. Industrial strength." I pile another bottle on his counter, reading labels. "And something for respiratory infections. Preventative, if you have it. The black mold situation is really quite advanced."
"Black mold." His voice comes out flat. "You're treating black mold."
"Well, someone has to. They're just living with it, Matthias.
Like it's a decorative choice." I find what I'm looking for—a thick salve that promises to kill 'even the most persistent fungal infections.
' Perfect. "Can you imagine? Sleeping next to patches of actual death spores because nobody taught them about proper ventilation? "
He sets down the jar he's holding very carefully. "Where exactly is this mold problem?"
"My friends' place. You know, the ones I mentioned?
They live in this compound that's basically held together by damp and poor decisions.
" I count out coins, making neat piles. "The kitchen's better now—I cleaned that yesterday—but the sleeping quarters are disasters.
One room has mushrooms growing in the corner. Actual mushrooms, Matthias."
"Your friends." He's using his careful voice now. The one he saves for when Mrs. Wickershaft insists her cat can talk. "The ones who lurk outside your window."
"They don't lurk. They maintain professional surveillance distance." I add another bottle to my pile. "Anyway, I need you to come look at it. You know more about structural mold than anyone."
"No."
"But you haven't even heard where—"
"The Shadow King's compound." He says it like a diagnosis. Terminal, probably. "You're asking me to voluntarily enter the Shadow King's compound to critique his housekeeping."
"His what now?" I pause in my coin counting. "No, this is just where my friends live. The ones who've been eating my soup. Very nice people. Terrible living conditions."
Matthias grabs my shoulders. Gently, but his hands shake slightly. "Olivia. Sweet, impossible girl. The Shadow Guild. You've been feeding the Shadow Guild."
"Don't be dramatic. They're just—" I stop. Think about the shadows. The knives. The way they call someone 'Boss' with that particular flavor of terror. "Oh."
"Oh? That's all? Oh?"
"Well, that does explain the dramatic entrances." I go back to packing supplies. "And why they're so pale. Shadow magic's terrible for vitamin D production."
"You're still packing."
"The mold doesn't care who they work for, Matthias. It'll kill them just as dead as anyone else." I find rope to tie everything together. My basket's already full of bread and vegetables. "Besides, they need vegetables. Have you seen them? All sharp angles and malnutrition."
He makes a sound. A dying teakettle sound. "I enjoy having fingers, Olivia. All of them. Attached. To my hands."
"Nobody's going to take your fingers." Probably. "Look, just give me instructions then. What kills black mold? How do I fix the ventilation? Is there something for the coughing?"
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, with the resignation of someone who's given up on sensible outcomes, he starts pulling things off shelves.
"Dilute this in hot water. Scrub everything—walls, floors, ceiling if you can reach." He sets bottle after bottle on the counter. "This opens airways. Two drops in steaming water, make them breathe it. This prevents the spores from settling in lungs. Mix it with their food."
"You're wonderful." I'm taking notes on the back of yesterday's shopping list. "What about the mushrooms?"
"Fire. Controlled fire. Or just burn the whole building down and start over." He pauses. "Actually, that's probably safer than what you're planning."
"Don't be silly. They need that building. Where else would they lurk professionally?"
He gives me enough supplies to treat a small plague, plus detailed instructions that I mostly understand. I pay, count my remaining coins—these are from my painting sales, getting thin now—and head out before he can restart the finger-attachment lecture.
The market's busy for a Tuesday. Perfect. I need bulk supplies and a cart.
"Emil!" I wave at the vegetable seller. "I need all your carrots. The ugly ones are fine."
"All of them?" He looks at his display. "That's... fifty pounds of carrots, Olivia."
"Perfect. And onions. Celery. Potatoes—the kind that keep. Do you have cabbage?"
"Having a party?"
"Something like that. More of a... nutritional intervention."
By the time I've hit four vendors, I have a cart that requires actual effort to push.
Sacks of flour and oats. Enough vegetables to feed a small army.
Or one medium-sized guild of malnourished shadow workers.
Salt, oil, dried beans that'll keep forever.
My arms already ache and I haven't even reached the compound yet.
The leather pouch Night Manager left on my kitchen table is empty now.
Every last coin spent on vegetables and grains and things that'll keep people alive through winter.
He probably meant it for a week's groceries, not one aggressive shopping expedition.
But when you're feeding forty-some people who think tavern scraps count as meals, you need to buy in bulk.
I'll explain that when I see him next. He'll understand.
Probably. Maybe I should have saved the receipt.
"Bit much for one person," the grain seller observes, helping me balance a bag of barley.
"Oh, it's not for me. I'm teaching some friends to cook." I test the cart's weight. "They've been living on tavern food. Never learned properly."
The streets to the compound are narrower than I remembered. The cart catches on every corner, wheels stuttering over broken cobblestones. By the time I reach the familiar alley, I'm sweating despite the cold and my lower back has opinions about cart-pushing posture.
The compound door is closed.
Not just closed. Barred. Locked. Possibly welded shut from the inside.
"Oh, come on." I knock. Nothing. Knock harder. Still nothing. "I know you're in there! I can see boots under that shadow, Gray Streak!"
The boots don't move. Neither does the shadow. Very professional.
I try the side entrance I used yesterday. Locked. The back way Ridge showed me? Blocked by an overturned barrel that definitely wasn't there before. Even the window someone always leaves cracked is sealed tight.
"This is ridiculous." I tell the nearest shadow. It ripples but doesn't respond. "I have supplies! Vegetables! That medicine for Ridge's lingering cough!"
Nothing.
Fine. I leave the cart by the main door—it's too heavy to drag around anymore—and start circling the building. There must be another way in. These people are professionals at sneaking. Surely they haven't sealed every—
The scream stops me mid-step.
Not a normal scream. This is the kind that means someone's really dying, not just being dramatic about it.
My feet are moving before I remember I'm supposed to be afraid of these people.
Running toward the sound because that's what you do when someone's hurt, even if they're probably a criminal. My skirts catch on everything.
Around the corner. Down an alley I didn't explore yesterday. A door—old, forgotten, probably a servant's entrance from when this was something other than a criminal compound. It's been forced open from the inside, hanging crooked on bent hinges.
Another scream. Weaker. Wet.
I push through the door into darkness that smells like copper and bile and something worse. My eyes adjust slowly, but I can hear breathing. Labored. Wrong.
He's on his knees in something wet and black.
Not blood—blood I know. This is thicker, darker.
Steaming against the stones. His beautiful coat is ruined, which seems like the wrong thing to notice but it was such nice wool.
Probably expensive. Someone else's blood is everywhere—all over his hands, his shirt, splattered across his face.
Has to be someone else's because he's not bleeding, he's shaking.
Full body convulsions that slam him into walls, into the floor. That can't be good for his knees. Stone floors are so hard. His back bends at angles that backs shouldn't bend and more black stuff pours from his mouth, his nose. Is he cold? He must be cold. The floor's probably freezing.
"Oh no. No, no, no." I drop beside him, knees landing right in the black puddle.
It's warm. Why is it warm? That can't be healthy.
"What did you—why didn't you—do you not own a bed?
Is that the problem? Have you been sleeping on floors?
Your knees must be bruised. Look at them. All scraped from the stone."
His eyes roll back. All white. The shaking gets worse.
Should I hold his head? I should hold his head.
Or not? What if that makes it worse? I don't know seizure protocol.
Why don't I know seizure protocol? And he's going to catch cold.
This floor is freezing. Damp too. When's the last time anyone mopped properly?
My magic doesn't ask permission. It just pours out of me in big warm waves. Probably too much but when someone's dying in front of you, you don't measure, you just pour.
I get his head in my lap somehow. He's heavy—all muscle and bad decisions—but I manage.
His blood—definitely someone else's blood—soaks through my skirt immediately.
My good skirt. The blue one without paint stains.
Well, it has stains now. Cold water. I'll need cold water for the blood.
Hot water sets stains. Mother taught me that.