I find the penthouse dark when I finish unlocking the door. There is something a bit ominous in the gloom, but it vanishes as I flip the switch set into the wall that lights up the place. The sounds of the door tapping against the backstop thumps into the silence before the air falls still once more. A beat passes with me standing in the doorway. My soul presence spreads through the rooms, diving into every nook and cranny, and finds nothing. Dovik really isn’t here.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have too long to speak,” I say, holding the door open for Mr. Mox and waving him into the penthouse. “A lot of things need to be done before tomorrow.”

  The man inclines his head, a soft smile staying ever-present on his face as he looks around the neat living space. It occurs to me that other than the workers we had install the new door, this is the first person that I have invited into my new home. The thought makes me see the space with a new eye.

  The rooms are furnished, a theme of steel and brown textiles dominating the space, but it would not strike most as homey. Dovik and I wouldn’t change a thing. While our lab spaces might be a flustered storm of discarded books, experiments, and notes, we both work to keep the rest of the penthouse pristine. Neither of us has given thought to decoration or ornamentation that goes beyond the simple bones my brother left here. There is comfort in the vacancy.

  “Meticulously maintained,” Mr. Mox says, stepping into the room and running his finger over the steel back of a chair. He rubs imaginary dust between his fingers. “You can tell much about a person from how they keep their living space.”

  “I think much might be stretching it.” I catch the deadness in my voice and have to work to inject levity. I wasn’t expecting the intrusion.

  After classes, I allow my head to drift far away from this material world and the emotions that are bound here. For hours, I puzzle over magic and the future, planning, revising, studying, and revising again. My nights have become for greater concerns than people. It’s probably not something a well-adjusted person might think. Understanding my dysfunction is better than not, no?

  “If you wish to speak about something I can assist you with, the back room would be a better spot,” I say.

  “Lead on, Ms. Devardem.”

  I take the half-elven man through the penthouse toward the back room, where one long wall is made of glass that looks out onto my balcony and the city itself. Even at night, the city of Faeth is a marvel that I never would have dreamed existed just a short time ago. Spots of metallic brass still cover some corners of buildings out in the dark, shining with a rainbow sheen where artificial lights touch them. The faethians showed great efficiency in putting up the decorations for their holiday, but in taking them down, they show the same lackadaisical approach that the people back home would display. The laziness only makes me like the city more. If only the city would like me back.

  “Tea or coffee?” I ask, pulling away one of the chairs that border the large glass table, which dominates the room. The leather of the apolstry whines as I lean back in it, but after long hours spent at the academy, the give of the chair is a godsend. With a thought, my boots and socks vanish into my vault, freeing my feet to stretch and touch the air. The back of one heel feels the thrill of the cold glass as I kick my feet up onto the table.

  “A bit late for coffee, no?” Mr. Mox asks, taking the chair on the opposite side of the table from me. The man falls into a posture I can only imagine is well-practiced. His shoulders stay high and controlled despite him leaning back in his own seat and crossing a foot over his knee. He reminds me of a salesman.

  “You came to me at this hour,” I say, motioning to the dark city just beyond the window. “I assume you keep strange hours.”

  His smile widens, but it is a gesture just as practiced as his posture. It itself is a reply to my words, and it falls away when its meaning is conveyed. “You are an interesting woman, Ms. Devardem, if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  “Do you find many women who mind being called interesting?”

  “Only those who expect other compliments,” Mr. Mox says. “Only those who need other compliments. You know, you first caught my eye in your test to enter the academy.”

  “When we first met,” I say.

  “Yes, precisely. There was something different about you from all the others. True, you were the first to enter the judgment chamber, which meant you showed a great aptitude in the infusion test, but it was your attitude that I liked, which made me remember you.”

  “My attitude caught your attention?” I ask.

  “It did. All potential students are asked why exactly they want to enter the College of Enchantment. Most speak about their love of the art, expectations, or perhaps even tradition. It is very few who have such a specific goal as you do and fewer still who have such a unique goal.”

  “To kill monsters,” I say, remembering the answer I gave. “That sounds strange to me. Even in the second-year classes I am taking, we have been tested on potential destructive uses of certain enchantments. It can’t be that rare for someone to come to learn how to make such things. There is an entire course on crafting magical swords for third-years.”

  “There is,” he says. “It is a rather old course, an outdated one if you ask me. Swords are nice, but they aren’t really the best devices to use against monsters. People, perhaps, but not monsters. That says a lot about the priorities of the school, doesn’t it?”

  “How did you find my address?” I ask. The question stops the man for a moment, but it doesn’t surprise him. I reach to the side and conjure a platter of still-hot coffee from my storage ring and levitate it to land gracefully on the glass table. That gets a minor amount of surprise from the man, making all of the black dust I have invested into the items in my inventory suddenly worth the expense.

  Mr. Mox pauses for a moment. “There was a report by the central authority that mentioned you directly as being a figure of interest. You seem to have survived the horrible explosion that took place in Booktown and came out of it unscathed.”

  “Is that right?” I take a sip of the coffee. Unlike my vault, the ring keeps items I put into it as fresh as the moment I slip them inside. There is a copy of that particular report stuck under a stack of errant notes in my laboratory. I can’t remember every detail with exact detail, but Galea can. The little spirit hovers to my side, six windows open in front of her, perfectly detailing all of the information. Nowhere in the pages does it mention my address.

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  “Yes,” Mr. Mox says. “I have some measure of pull here in the city, and I have substantial holdings in Booktown. I took an interest in the explosion, so you might imagine how surprised I was to hear about someone surviving in the center of such destruction. I recognized your name from there, and that display of fortitude convinced me that you would be the one that I am looking for.”

  “Surviving an explosion did that?” I ask. “That is all?”

  “Tell me, Ms. Devardem, how many third-rank magicians do you think are in Faeth?” he asks.

  I stop for a moment, the irritation I feel giving way to curiosity. “A city this size. I imagine there would be several hundred.”

  Mr. Mox shakes his head. “Twenty-seven. There are twenty-seven people in Faeth who can claim to have reached the third rank, and there aren’t any of the fourth. I am a businessman, an enchanter, and an entrepreneur, so I do not understand all of the intricacies of essentia magic, but my understanding is that to even reach the third rank requires an incredible amount of risking yourself in life-or-death struggles. Perhaps you noticed, but Faeth enjoyed freedom from such dangers. Within the boundaries of the city, there are no monsters, at least if you stay out of the sewers. Sometimes the authority is called to defend the walls from flying packs of beasts, and sometimes hunters go down to the lands that the city passes over, but other than that, we are free of such worries. It is not exactly the atmosphere where you could grow a strong crop of essentia magicians.”

  “I’m not third rank,” I tell him. It isn’t exactly a secret. Anyone with a providence reading device can see that clearly, and there is no way that this man has a providence blocking device while not having one that can read it.

  “No,” he says, nodding. “That makes you all the more interesting. How many rank three magicians do you imagine could have survived such a thunderous explosion? The entire building was ripped to shreds, and yet you sit in front of me without a scratch on you.”

  I actually take a moment to consider the question. If the rate at which people accumulate greater and greater attribute values stays consistent, then there is an easy enough trend to predict. If the number of attribute values continues to triple for each new rank, then that means that an individual’s power would roughly double every time they made it a third of the way through a given rank. That first third would be the same as the entire value as the previous fifty levels. A magician at level 117 would be roughly twice as strong as one at level 100. I still have quite a ways to go to even reach the top of the second rank, and then I have body tempering and the other transformations that would come from ascending the rank. The answer isn’t difficult to come to.

  “Most, I would imagine,” I tell him honestly.

  “Most,” he parrots, shaking his head. “No, Ms. Devardem. I have been assured that most would not have survived such a thing. Yet, you did at the second rank. You are what they might call a prodigy, aren’t you? I asked around after that and discovered that you regularly went down to the land below to kill the monsters there. On your own. At a rank where most wouldn’t even dare.”

  “Is there a point to this flattery?” I ask.

  “There is, and it is this. You are a powerful, young magician who has no affiliation. You can clearly handle yourself is what I am trying to say, and I was hoping that I might approach you about an issue that I have that needs to be resolved.”

  “I am guessing the unaffiliated part is important,” I say.

  “You guessed right.”

  “And what is it you would have me do for you, Mr. Mox?” My eyes flick toward the closed door of my laboratory. Already, I am feeling done with this conversation. It seems that a week can’t pass without someone trying to come into my life and interrupt it. First, it was a lack of funds. Then it was thieves. Then there was an explosion that nearly killed my friend. Then it was… People seem to believe that they can just inject themselves into my life.

  “There is a man that I need handled for me,” Mr. Mox says.

  “No.”

  “I haven’t even laid out the particulars,” Mr. Mox says. “Don’t be too hasty to…”

  “No,” I say, far more forcefully. The glass lining the wall shudders as a wisp of my will slips into the presence I have prevading the penthouse. With a breath, I calm myself. Taking another sip of the coffee in my hand, I push aside the irritation. “I don’t need particulars.”

  “I am offering twenty thousand suns. I don’t believe that there is much risk for you involved,” he says, bending forward. For the first time, there is genuine excitement on his face. He really is a businessman.

  “Ten million suns,” I say, not looking up from my coffee.

  For the second time, I catch the man off guard. “That is a bit of an extreme counteroffer. I was prepared to negotiate up to sixty thousand.”

  “I am not a thug, Mr. Mox. It is ten million or nothing. The choice is yours.”

  “Ms. Devardem, try to be reasonable,” he says. The genuine smile vanishes as worry enters his eyes.

  “No, I don’t think I will. That is the amount, and I will not move from it. If all you have to offer me is money, then you have come with the wrong currency.”

  For a long moment, the man stares at me, almost trying to look through me. I wonder briefly if perhaps he can read souls like my brother and Dovik can. Maybe I should get my friend to tutor me in schooling what emotions come through in the look of my soul.

  “I see now that you are right.” Mr. Mox sighs, the set of his shoulders dropping for a moment. “Such is the problem with unique people. They often have unique interests.” He stands, turning toward the hall that leads to the front door. “Thank you for your time tonight, Ms. Devardem.”

  “I seem to have had the time,” I say.

  There is a sense of satisfaction that comes as I show the man to the door. He leaves, not putting up any hint of a fight, exiting out into the dark of the hallway beyond my door and disappearing into the night. After, since I have already drunk half a cup of coffee, I set about preparing a genuine meal. I make two pies, one lamb, the other apple. Dovik returns just as I am preparing to remove the meat pie from the oven.

  He freezes when he sees me watching him from the still-lit kitchen. His usually clean clothes are disheveled, his shirt untucked on his right side. His hair is a mess, and the redness of his eyes has come back.

  “Are you alright?” I ask him as he walks through the kitchen and grabs a glass to fill with water.

  “Just a bit of a brawl,” he says, pouring himself a drink. He washes down the water with a gasp before returning for more. “You couldn’t really even call it a brawl. The man was too weak to actually deal any damage.” He sticks his hand in his pocket and pulls a bag that jingles when he sets it on the counter. “Should tide us over for a month or two.”

  He startles to a stop when he turns to find me standing right behind him. I look up at him, staring into his bloodshot eyes. The color of his irises has gotten worse, looking almost like a spiderweb running through them. The alcohol on his breath is easy to smell, but there is more as well. His skin is pale, and sweat pools in the nook of his collarbone. His collarbone didn’t used to be so pronounced.

  “Are you alright?” I ask again.

  “Yes, of course I am,” he says.

  “You don’t seem alright. You look sick, Dovik.”

  The cheery expression on his face sours at my words. “Are you alright, Charlene?” he asks, moving closer despite the lack of space between us. “You don’t seem to sleep anymore, and when you do, I hear you screaming through the walls. You mutter when you don’t think anyone is around to hear you. You think just because you heal quickly, that because you don’t look sick or tired, I can’t tell, but I can. So, are you alright, Charlene?”

  I’ve taken a step away and only notice when my back hits the island. I catch my nails digging into my palms, but my skin is too tough now for them to draw blood. Dovik looks me up and down very deliberately before setting his glass on the counter.

  “That’s what I thought,” he says before turning and walking out of the kitchen.

  I stand in the light watching the spot where he disappeared from until the smell of roasting lamb pulls me back to the world. All the while, I can’t stop the scratching, not even when I pound my hand on the countertop with tears in my eyes. I can always feel it now, scratching just under the skin.

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