Page 7 of The Witch in the Dead of Night

She nodded. “Good position, too.”

I supposed she wasn’t wrong on either count. Tall, if a bit stringy, Maxence had the dark hair and delicate features characteristic of Valen’s southern region. They might make a handsome couple, should it come to that. Still, I found it hard to believe that she might be entertaining that particular thought. “You’re not serious, right?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Maybe I am.”

“Well you’d better sort out what you’re going to do about it soon,” I replied. “He’s getting on my nerves.”

A pair of young ladies bustled past, nearly clipping me on the shoulder. A sticky sensation washed over me, one I recognized as fear. They didn’t look to be in immediate danger, but from the way they clung to each other one might think that there was someone on their tail waiting to snatch them.

“—vanished like that,” said the taller of the two in a low voice. She snapped her fingers together.

Her companion squealed. “In the middle of the Trade District? You don’t think—”

“Not here,” whispered the other. “Papa said to come straight home.”

A chill crept down my spine as they disappeared down the street. But when I turned to Niamh, her eyes were trained on a different horror.

“Oh no,” she gasped. The seamstress had just closed up shop, tugging the heavy wooden door closed before she slid the lock into place. “She never closes this early.”

I scanned the street. Normally bustling with activity, it appeared that most of the merchants and their patrons had already headed home. I flicked my forefinger and the latch clicked open. Niamh beamed at me, darting through the door as it swung inward.

The seamstress’s face appeared from behind her desk, her half-moon spectacles sliding down her nose. “What in Letlas’s name? I could’ve sworn that I locked that door,” she huffed. She regarded us warily. “What is it then?”

I dawdled by the door as Niamh chatted to her nervously about the fabrics, watching the older woman’s gaze soften as my friend prattled on. Exchanging ideas, the seamstress laid out several bolts of fabric: a colorful array of rosy-pink and orange hues, like a sunset. Niamh’s mother was once a seamstress but had fallen ill some years ago and lost her shop. She was eager to follow in her footsteps and had only taken a job at the palace in order to earn enough to buy back the shop someday. She could earn more as a maid there than anywhere else in the city. She often marveled at the finery of the courtiers, mumbling about thread counts, quilting, and embroidery as they passed us in the corridors. Of course, it all sailed over my head.

My eyes widened at the fabrics she was discussing with the seamstress. They were heavy, and clearly of high quality, even I could tell. Niamh must have been prepared to spend a fortune. Weighing them in her hands, she nodded once and retrieved a handful of coins and gave them to the woman. She folded the striking orange bolt over her shoulder and thanked the seamstress before we ducked into the street once again.

We took our time meandering through the streets, the chill nipping at my nose, and as we headed toward the city outskirts, I humored Niamh as she launched into a detailed analysis of the fabrics she had sampled and bought for a new design.

I stopped at a street vendor’s cart, where charred meat rotated on a spit, its fat spitting in the heat. I inhaled, its smokiness cut by the faintest trace of caramelized honey. “Let’s grab some for dinner,” I said to Niamh. The vendor carved off a sizable cut and wrapped it in brown paper.

“Thanks, Finn,” she said softly. Niamh’s mother, Adele, invited us to dinner often, but could rarely afford meat, so we did what we could to supplement her meals.

“You girls better head on home,” said the vendor. “The streets aren’t safe at the moment.”

I stared at him as Maxence’s warning rang in my ears. Niamh shifted from one foot to the other beside me, tugging at my sleeve. The prickling sensation from earlier grew again, her unease mingling with my own.

“Let’s get out of here,” she whispered into my ear.

I thanked the vendor, slipping a copper coin into his purse before we continued hastily on our way.

Adele Vertise pulled us each into a tight hug as we entered her home on the outskirts of town, a humble room perched above a baker’s shop. I inhaled the earthy aroma of the willow bark salve she used to soothe the aching joints in her hands. She could have been Niamh’s sister rather than mother, the warm brown tone of her skin and her still-dark curly hair identical to her daughter’s.

The only hints of her age were the fine lines that creased the skin around her eyes and mouth, which Gran would say were a sign Adele had lived a full and rich life. Granted, that was also Gran’s reasoning for being, in her words, “as wrinkled as a prune that had been left out in the midday sun”.

Adele’s home was pleasantly cluttered with pots and pans and unfinished designs hanging from dusty mannequins.

I pulled the package from my satchel, gently forcing it into her hands.

“Oh Finn, you shouldn’t—” she began.

I waved Adele off before she had the chance to scold me for buying meat on her behalf. “I’ll remind you that it’s considered impolite in the Outlands to not bring your host a gift.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, nor was it the full truth, but it was necessary. Adele was too proud for her own good.

“Let me do that, Mama,” said Niamh, reaching for the package.

“Not in my house, you don’t,” her mother insisted, wrapping her fingers as tightly as she could around it. Niamh threw up her hands.

“Now, sit down and pour yourselves some brandy from the cupboard before you freeze to death,” said Adele, before setting about plating our dinner. Niamh rolled her eyes once her mother’s back was turned, but obeyed.