Even among charm casters I was different, selling to Galatines, and the Galatine elite, who didn’t frequent the Pellian market or any other Pellian businesses. I had managed to infuse the practice with enough cachet and intrigue that the wealthy could forget it was a bumpkin superstition from a backwater nation. Long before I owned my shop, I had attempted charming and selling simple thread buttons on the street. Incredibly, Galatines bought them—maybe it was the lack of pungent herb scents and ugly clay pendants that marked Pellian charms, or maybe it was the appeal of wearing a charm no one could see. Maybe it was merely novelty. In either case, I had made the valuable discovery that, with some modifications, Galatines would buy charms. When I finally landed a permanent assistant’s job in a small atelier with a clientele of merchants’ wives and lesser nobility, I wheedled a few into trying a charm, and, when the charms worked, I swiftly gathered a cult following of women seeking my particular skill. After a couple of years, I had enough clients that I was able to prove myself and open my own shop. Galatines were neither particularly superstitious nor religious, but the novelty of a charm stitched into their finery captivated their interest, and I in turn had a market for my work.

“When you finish the hem, start the trim for Madame Pliny’s court gown,” I told Penny. The commission wasn’t due until spring, but the elaborate court gowns required so much work that I was starting early. It was our first court gown commission—a sign, I hoped, that we were establishing a reputation for the quality of our work as well as for the charms. “And I’m late to go file for the license already—the Lord of Coin’s offices have been open for an hour.”

“The line is going to be awful,” Alice said from the workroom. “Can’t you go tomorrow?”

“I don’t want to put it off,” I answered. The process was never sure; if I didn’t get through the line today, or if I was missing something the clerk demanded, I wanted several days to make it up.

“Fair enough,” Alice answered. “Wait—two messages came while you were with Mr. Bursin. Did you want—”

“Yes, quickly.” I tore open the two notes. One was an invoice for two bolts of linen I had bought. I set it aside. And the other—

“Damn,” I muttered. A canceled order. Mrs. Penneray, a merchant’s wife, had ordered an elaborate dinner gown that would, single-handedly, pay a week’s wages for both of my assistants. We hadn’t begun it yet, and so, per my own contract, I would have to agree to cancel it.