It was a cloudy, somber day. There was no wind, and the air sat heavy in the streets, stale and warm, even with October’s approach. I was still adjusting to the noise, for it seemed like the city never slept, and I tried to find comfort in the bustle of carriages, buggies, and people hurrying on errands, but I only felt more isolated and out of place.

Imonie and I took a side street. We had been walking for nearly half an hour and had already passed two bakeries.

“Are you trying to weary me with a long walk?” I drawled.

“You know I’m picky about bakers,” she replied tersely, and it only made me think of Lilac Westin in Hereswith and her renowned cinnamon rolls.

The street spilled us out into a wide thoroughfare. Thin rays of sunlight had pierced the overcast sky by the time Imonie found a bakery to her liking. I had spotted an artist’s supply shop across the street, and I planned to meet back up with her after a moment of my own perusing.

A silver bell rang when I entered. At once, I was transported by the shelves of paper, sketchbooks, and canvases, by row after row of paint tins and brushes and bottles of linseed oil. Overwhelmed, I took my time admiring everything until a girl my age with curly brown hair appeared behind the sales counter.

“Can I help you find anything?”

“No, no I’m just browsing,” I replied.

“Do you paint?”

“I draw.”

“Ah, lovely! You can find those supplies in the next aisle over.”

I thanked her and decided I should keep to what I knew best, and that was charcoal and pastels. But perhaps one day I would be brave enough to buy some paint, and a brush or two.

Eventually, I settled on a new sketchbook, and I made my way to the sales counter, where the girl was perched on a stool, reading a poetry book. I was reaching for my coin purse when the doorbell chimed and the girl’s attention shifted.

“Lady Raven,” she said, sliding off her stool to curtsy. “I have your order ready.”

I turned to see a woman of the court, dressed in a dark silk gown. She looked to be my mother’s age, with a few wrinkles catching the corners of her eyes, and her blond hair was swept up in a chignon, a net of diamonds holding it in place. Her lips were painted bloodred, and they were pursed, as if she did not smile often.

She approached the counter, her heels clicking on the floor as she rudely cut in front of me. She waited, tapping her fingers as the shopgirl set out a bundle of burlap. Lady Raven proceeded to untie it, her hands hidden beneath two lacy gloves, and she closely examined each item. Every brush tip, every tin of paint.

I glanced at the shopgirl, who had gone pale.