An elegant woman comes to look at some of Georgie’s wares, but another woman rushes over and whispers something in her ear. The customer looks at Georgie with a mix of fear and distaste, drops the scarf she’s holding, and says, “Never mind. I won’t barter with an outsider.”

Bright spots of pink flush Georgie’s cheeks.

I’m incensed, and I start to follow the retreating woman, but Georgie holds me back. “Confrontation isn’t good for business.”

“Has that happened a lot?”

“Thankfully not too much, and only from nonlocals.”

I take the discarded scarf and fold it. “Do you ever wish you could go back?” I ask. “To your old life?”

“No.” She answers without any hesitation.

“Even after dealing with…?” I wave my hand in the direction of the rude customer.

“Even with all that, being here is worth it. The opportunities for what I can accomplish here—despite the discomfort and prejudice—are a hundred times better than anything in the provincial world.”

“The provincial world,” not “home.” Georgie has accepted that this place is her new home. And in a few months Headmaster Bloche will want me to do the same. But that’s never been a real option for me.

Michael is browsing the wares of a bookseller, and I head in his direction, but the pleasant notes of a wind chime draw my attention to a tiny stall hidden behind the others. My curiosity is piqued, and when I draw closer, I see a sign that says HELIOTORCHES. I should get myself one of those customizable multi-tools—spoons—that everyone uses. I’ve been wanting one for a while. A handy tool always available for any and all spontaneous creative endeavors.

An old man with a shiny bald head tends the stall, muttering to himself grumpily.

“Hello?” I ask cautiously, wondering if he even wants customers.

“What?” he barks.

“I’d like to get a Heliotorch,” I say.

The man sighs, then pulls out a large drawer and lays it on the table. A variety of tools are on display. “What mods are ya lookin’ for?” His knobby-knuckled hands shift through the various items. He wears an onyx ring, a large one, indicating he’s a master of the Mystic guild.

“Uh, what do you recommend?”

“Everyone needs a blade, a pencil, an’ a torch.” He plucks out the relevant mods—a sharp blade the length of my middle finger, a stick of graphite, and what looks like a sewing needle, but I know from seeing Georgie’s that the tip lights up to be a very powerful flashlight.

He looks at the diamond in my ear. “You’re a Sire, so you’ll be wantin’ a sparker.” He adds an unfamiliar mod to the tray. In the drawer, I see what looks like a nail file and glance at my overgrown nails. “I’ll take that,” I say, “and that please,” I add, pointing to miniature scissors.