I was no longer Dirva’s student in any official capacity, but we lived as if he was still my mentor. The old rhythms were still there. The old habits remained. I still picked up his mail from the shop below our apartment. On my way back from a long day of classes, I stopped into the ink shop below our apartment. The boy at the counter grinned at me. He was fascinated by both Dirva and I, curious about us, but curious in an open, unfettered way that I found a little flattering. He was the type to be seduced by danger and intrigue. His mother was the smuggler who lived below us, after all. I think he saw me in my City clothes and assumed I was up to no good. In that neighborhood, the City clothes made me look like a potentially bad influence.

“Afternoon, sir.”

“Afternoon, Mosol. Mail?” I felt peculiarly adult when I interacted with him.

He nodded. “Oh, yes. More than that, sir: a package.”

I looked up. “What kind of package?”

The boy winked. “Very special delivery. If you catch my meaning. Very hush-hush.”

“Oh.” The clothes made me look like I flouted the law, but actually flouting it made my stomach turn. “I’ll take it.”

The boy hauled a large, flat package wrapped in brown paper onto the counter. The brown paper stretched tight and clean, unmarked by official transport stamps. Wisps of hay clung to the twine that held the brown paper in place. “It came in a hay bale. What is it, do you think?”

“It’s a painting,” I said.

“Really? How do you know?”

“My father’s an artist. I’ve seen works wrapped for transport before.” It struck me as odd, this painting appearing there with no warning. I felt I shouldn’t pry, but I pried anyway. I tore the corner of the paper. The boy at the counter gasped, half in shock and half in anticipation. I peered inside, and I recognized the painting. It was by Liro, and it was one of Dirva as a young man. It was The Reader Unbound, a portrait of Dirva with mussed hair, shirtless, grinning. It was a moment of flushed youth, a frozen second of Dirva in a state of profound contentment. It was a dagger, this painting. I ripped the rest of the paper away. Tucked into the bottom of the frame was a note written in spiky, lean handwriting. It read as follows:

Liro says you’re getting married. Consider this a wedding gift. I hear there’s a blank spot on your wall these days.

Amran

“What is it, sir?” Mosol asked.

“It’s not wanted.” I looked at him across the painting. His eyes were wide; he vibrated with excitement. “Can I ask you a favor?”

“Yes, of course,” he said.