Chapter 10 Friends
Friends
As it so happens—this place does have a nighttime.
I awake in total darkness and almost scream out in terror.
While my thundering pulse settles, my eyes adjust to the dark.
I slip out of bed and stumble to the window, where the faintest line of violet light emerges on the horizon in the distance.
Closer, there are specks of lit candles in surrounding buildings, violently blinking like dying stars. Houses or apartments, I think.
The Sanctuarian sun rises into the sky as a bright violet orb.
The more it ascends, the more it smolders.
The violet shifts into a burnt orange. The ombre effect as the two colors blend is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed in my boring life.
By the time the sky burns the same radiant, warm copper tone of yesterday, a peculiar optimism has settled over me.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, I think, curbing my own expectations.
My stomach growls ravenously. I eat the remainder of the brown bread loaf as well as stale crackers and cheese, adding find something edible to the list of today’s plans.
The untouched cup of milk now has a horrid, spoiled smell as I pour it down the pisspot.
I remember the random fruit stuffed in my satchel too, but a sneaking suspicion tells me they’re pluckroot.
It wouldn’t hurt to ask. As though summoned by my thoughts, a gentle knock sounds at the door.
“Good day, human!” calls the cheery voice of the satyr innkeeper. There are worse things they could call me. “I’ve brought you a pitcher of water.”
Oh, thank god. I was so, so thirsty, but had no clue if water was a normal request. I open the door to find the same square-toothed grin from yesterday.
“Good day, indeed,” I say with a polite smile.
They hand over a tin pitcher of ice-cold water, along with a matching cup. I could hug them. I refrain, rather opting to set the items on the desk to free up my hands.
“Do you mind helping me with something?” I hesitate, immediately aware that I’ve said the wrong thing. Their smile stutters.
“I suppose I could,” they say, beady goat eyes narrowing.
Fae do not help or provide favors without something guaranteed in return—bargains, of course.
But I’m unsure how it works when they’re a proprietor.
I’ve paid to stay here, by trading a bottled cure for Ficklewarts of all things, and I wonder if that suffices for one more ask.
I can’t risk it though. A new tactic strikes me.
“Do you like pluckroot?” I ask, feigning nonchalance. I grab one of the fruits from my bag and hold it in front of them. Its reddish fuzzy skin is similar to the texture of a kiwi, but it’s shaped more like a fat tomato. The satyr’s pupils widen at the sight of it. Confirmation.
“Ooh, yes, I certainly do!”
“Here—for you—for your hospitality,” I say smugly, careful not to say thank you. I’m proud of myself for sorting that one out. The last thing I need is to be more indebted here. My confidence grows a smidgen. “For the water—and everything.”
They take the fruit with a hoof of a hand and leave without another word. Because of Mavick, I know their lack of thanks is a good sign. We’re square here.
Now that I am certain the fruit is pluckroot, it will remain uneaten. Maybe they are useful for trade. I’m sure they hold some value, being the active property in mortal truth serum. My blood again boils at the thought.
With an added pang of unease, I wonder if Father has realized I’m missing.
I cannot say with certainty how much time has passed there.
Maybe Alma or Edwin will think of a clever cover for my disappearance, since they are with me most. Edwin will surely be dismissed from his post if they learn he’s somehow misplaced me.
The thought gives me cruel satisfaction.
Let them squirm for a bit. They deserve it.
I drink almost the entire pitcher, saving the last of the icy water to splash my face. It’s exactly what I needed, and for the first time since arriving through yesterday’s passageway, my mind is sharp.
I braid my hair and pin it in a crown around my head.
Alma could do better, but this will do. I slip the dagger back into my belt loop and don my cloak again, not bothering with the hood today.
I fold the parchment and stuff it into my bodice pocket.
I could read it once more to refresh my memory, but it’s unnecessary. I know it by heart.
The streets of Mayhem hum with morning life.
The walk to the bazaar is short and largely uneventful, though I do spot several new creatures on my way.
The first are about a foot tall and buzz around frightfully, like big angry stick bugs.
I learn they are pixies, from a lovely man exclaiming fucking pixies as they zoom by, knocking him into a wall.
Thanks to storybooks, I always thought pixies were cute things—tiny faeries with graceful wings that throw glitter around.
They’re not. They’re naked and bony and awfully rude, shouting shrill curses at those in their way as they speed down the path.
Then there’s selkies, or shapeshifters. At least, that’s what I dare assume of the blue-tinged male, his neck marked by slitted gills.
Lastly, I pass a pallid, skeletal figure with red eyes.
I’m uncertain, but my first guess is a starving vampire. I give him a wide berth.
I take a similar approach here as in Aston.
I walk the stalls, tents, and storefronts a few times over to observe the shopkeepers.
There is an apothecary—and the proprietor appears to be human.
After my fourth walkaround, I circle back to her stall and peer in at the many colorful potions on display.
I hold my chin high, as though this will give me a boost of courage, and march in.
The young woman sits reading a book and does not notice me whatsoever.
I feign a look at the various bottles and vials in hopes that she will greet me.
She does not. I move closer to where she sits and begin genuinely searching the displays—why is nothing labeled?
Much like the vials stolen from Mavick’s, I have no idea what any of these are or what they do. Finally, I clear my throat.
She leaps from her seat, dropping the book to the ground. Now that I am close, she does in fact look like a normal, human woman—she has short, wavy brown hair, green eyes, and beautiful ochre skin. Her cheeks and nose are dusted with umber freckles. She exudes an air of good-naturedness.
“Good gods, you scared me!” she exclaims, offering a relieved grin as she relaxes at the sight of me.
There’s a charming gap between her two front teeth.
I remind myself not to outright apologize—she may not be fae, but I don’t want to risk offending her.
I stoop low to retrieve her dropped copy of Razzle’s Recipes: Lesser-Known Elixirs, Volume XXXIV.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say as I hand the book of recipes back to her. I do not discern any glamours. Maybe she is a mortal, but it’s unwise to assume. I tread carefully. “I was hoping to ask you some questions.”
The young woman surveys me. She sets Razzle’s atop her stool. “Are you a mortal?”
I blink, caught off guard—
“Oh gods, I am so sorry! I guess that could be considered a personal question. I’ve been around the fae for many years and have become too familiar with speaking the first thing that comes to mind!”
So… she’s not fae.
“Are you…” I begin. She catches on quickly.
“Oh yes, I’m a mortal! You don’t see too many of us here. What brings you to the Mayhem Bazaar?”
“I—I’m looking for a friend,” I say, like the pluckroot hasn’t worn off.
“A fae friend?” she asks, curiosity scrunching her nose. “Oh, shit. There I go again. You need not tell me if you don’t want to.”
I nod anyway. I like this girl. If she’s been here for years, talks like this to everyone she first meets, and has survived? There is hope for me yet.
“Yes, they’re fae—Sanctuarian,” I reply. I cringe at the thought of how well my amiable tactic went yesterday, but I trust my gut and offer her my open palm. “I’m Thea.”
“Oooh, I could hug you, Thea!” She shakes my hand with enthusiasm, her smile bright. “I’m Jasmeen. Sanctuarians are so uptight about their true names. It’s one thing I miss about the mortal world. Mortals don’t hide behind fake names… well, most of the time, I suppose.”
“How did you end up in Sanctuary?”
“I’m studying here! Back in the mortal world, I was a healer. But mortal medicine is so boring. It’s black and white. I wanted to study the gray in between—the unknown.” Jasmeen gestures around as if this is the unknown. To me, it is.
“That’s amazing,” I say. I never knew it was a possibility—coming to Sanctuary, another world, for study. As simple as a mortal going off to university. I point at the nearest display of potions. “So how the hell do you keep up with everything when nothing is labeled?”
“Ah, loads of practice,” she says with a smirk. “And some painful instances of fuck around and find out, I suppose. A good memory doesn’t hurt.”
I chuckle in earnest. The fates are kind today—Jasmeen is exactly who I needed to find. I think of the innkeeper’s immediate identification of the gray powdery substance. “And the fae trust you, or do they… also just have good memories?”
“Yes—there’s a lot of regulations. And severe punishments for tricking Sanctuarians with mixed up elixirs…
it’s not worth the crime.” She shudders.
“Plus, fae tend to think of poisoning as well… a mortal’s game.
Beneath them. They much rather stab each other in the back in more…
fitting ways. Word games and deals, sharp iron blades, the like. ”
Perhaps Mavick’s intention was not to sway or control me with pluckroot—maybe they did just enjoy the taste of it. Perhaps I overreacted.