Cathrynne glanced at Marvel, who wore the barest hint of a smile. “Proceed, Jareth,” she said to the male witch.
Mump and Crump were at the gate now, George red and wobbly, Audrey’s thin face cinched into a scowl. “You can’t?—”
Jareth brought his hands together. Receptive and projective ley joined in a crackling ball of energy. George’s furious shout faded as if it came from a great distance. The ground fell away and the world spun sideways.
Farewell, Gavriel Morningstar, Cathrynne thought sadly, as the roaring current of liminal ley seized her.
Chapter 38
Kal
Simão Gomes D’Amato nested his best set of jeweler’s loupes in a box of black velvet and secured the bundle with twine.
The tools represented thirty years of his life. Now they, like him, were fleeing. It was only a matter of time before someone came to silence him for good.
His throat tightened as he tucked the box into a shabby cloth suitcase. Don’t look rich, his mother always told him. People will try to cheat you. But don’t look poor, either, or they’ll think you’re a failure.
Not an easy woman to please, his mother, but she was right about that. He’d always kept a low profile. Prosperous, but not wildly prosperous.
He never went looking for trouble.
It found him nonetheless.
He regarded the brass scale, the set of testing acids, and the ledger—no, not the ledger. Damning evidence. He’d burn it.
“Idiot,” he muttered to himself. “Greedy fool.”
It had started innocently. A man claiming to be Consul Casolaba’s aide had visited Simão’s shop a year ago. Would he be interested in providing information about what gems were moving through the market? Nothing illegal—just early alerts about major finds, who was selling what, which rockhounds had struck it lucky.
The arrangement was easy and profitable. Every month, an envelope of crisp dragha notes would come through the mail slot. He listened to gossip, watched the trends, sent weekly reports through a courier. It was most agreeable.
Then the witches turned up.
One morning he’d arrived to find two of them waiting inside his locked shop. He’d nearly pissed himself. Not just witches. White Foxes. The man was huge with silver teeth, and the woman wore a dozen studs and hoops in her face. She looked a bit crazy.
“You have an arrangement with the consul,” the woman said. “You’ll give us the same deal for half the price. And you’ll keep your mouth shut about it.”
He had nodded fervently. “Of course, of course. I am happy to be of service to the chapter house.”
She leaned in. “You don’t serve the chapter house. You serve me.”
“Yes, yes.” He wiped the sweat from his forehead. His hand came away sticky with pomade.
“Good,” she said. “We’re looking for a gem that resembles serpent’s eye. It’ll be cold. No ley. Understood?”
“Sure. No ley.”
She dropped a wad of bills on the counter. Her gray eyes reminded him of the fish on ice at the market.
He hadn’t had a choice. Not really.
For a while, it had gone smoothly. The White Foxes demanded little, and their payments supplemented what he got from the consul’s office. He moved from his small flat in a lousy neighborhood on the city’s outskirts to a larger apartment within walking distance of the shop. Feeling flush, he sent money to his sister in Old Sarpedon, who had too many kids and a no-good husband.
Life had been good. Until those kids walked into his shop.
Simão closed his eyes, feeling sick. He should have turned them away. Said nothing.
But he’d been scared. What if they took the stones to another jeweler, and it got out that they’d been in his shop?
