Page 31 of The Threads Between

Syra turned slowly, her glamoured face composed into something impeccably respectable.

“Indeed. That is precisely why we came.”

“Just so.” His gaze moved over us—three women, unaccompanied—lingering a fraction too long. “We cater to a particular clientele. You may find a lending library more suitable.”

Syra’s smile did not waver.

“On the contrary, I had assumed this establishment welcomed customers prepared to purchase.”

The man’s mouth tightened.

“There is no need for that tone.”

“There is every need,” Syra replied softly.

She stepped closer. The movement was small, but the effect was not. Something in her posture—unhurried, assured, utterly unmoved by his disapproval—made him retreat half a pace before he seemed aware of doing so.

“My companions and I intend to purchase a gift for a young girl,” she continued, her voice smooth. “We have the means to do so, and very little time to squander. It would therefore be most convenient if we were treated as customers rather than intrusions.”

“I did not imply⁠—“

“You did not need to.” Her smile sharpened, still perfectly polite. “Your assumption was quite clear.”

Silence settled between them.

“Now,” Syra went on, “you may either assist us in selecting suitable adventure novels for an eleven-year-old of uncommon courage, or we may remain here while I explain—at some length—why discouraging paying patrons is rarely considered sound business practice.”

The shopkeeper looked between us again, recalculating. Whatever he saw persuaded him that dismissal would not be simple.

“Adventure novels,” he said at last, with visible reluctance. “For a young lady. We maintain a respectable selection of improving literature for children. Moral instruction. Educational works⁠—“

“She is not in need of improvement,” Syra said evenly. “She requires pirates, explorers, and peril. Stories in which brave people attempt impossible things and survive.”

His nose wrinkled as though she had suggested feeding the child arsenic, but he turned toward the back shelves.

“I suppose we have some . . . less conventional options.”

“Excellent,” Syra said, brightness returning to her voice as though the exchange had been entirely cordial. “Those will do perfectly.”

Adeline caught my eye, amusement flickering across her face despite the tension. This is Syra being helpful, her expression said. Imagine her disposition if she were not attempting civility.

Ten minutes later, we had three books—adventure stories about explorers and daring rescues and people who refused to give up even when everything seemed impossible. Exactly the kind of stories Marigold would devour in hours.

The shopkeeper wrapped the books with stiff, economical movements, fingers creasing the paper more harshly than necessary. He accepted Adeline’s payment without meeting her eyes, counted the coins twice, then slid them into the drawer with a snap that sounded almost accusatory.

“There,” he said shortly. “Good day.”

Syra took the parcel, inclining her head with impeccable politeness. “You have been . . . most attentive.”

He did not respond.

We turned toward the door. The bell chimed as Adeline pulled it open, letting in a blade of February air.

Syra paused at the threshold, gloved fingers resting lightly against the frame. She looked back, directly at him. Her expression shifted from pleasant civility into something colder. Focused.

And the threads around him stirred.

Syra’s golden threads slipped forward, brushing a dim tangle at his chest. A strand abruptly severed, its twin trailing away into emptiness. The shape of a bond that had withdrawn rather than been cut by fate.