“When would you be needing it, my lord?”

“As soon as possible.”

Creating a flat pane of magic, I set the paper atop it and then formed a pen of silvery blue, which I dipped in the ink. The boy’s image formed on the page beneath my hand, hair in disarray from an imagined wind, a faintly bashful smile on his face as though he’d been caught looking at a girl he fancied.

“Is the contact an associate of Trollus?”

“No, this is the first time we’ve dealt with them, so discretion will be paramount, as always.”

The boy’s body took shape beneath my hand, clothing modest but well-made, stained with clean earth rather than poor habits. The shoulders beneath still bore the slenderness of childhood, but were broadening and thickening as no troll’s would with the strength gained from hard labor.

“We could have it back to you within the week, if that suits, my lord.”

“It does.” Marc shifted on his chair. “It’s sensitive, so be certain to take care in the shipment.”

Why is he being so vague, I wondered, shading the boy’s sleeve. What is he trying to hide?

“As you say, my lord.”

“How do you wish to take your payment?”

“Regent’s mark in silver, if you would, my lord.”

My gaze twitched to the chest that floated up to Marc’s right. He counted the silver swiftly, pushing the stacks across the table. Then he added a modest stack of gold without comment. A bribe?

“Anything else you require, my lord?”

Marc shook his head, and I signed the bottom of the page with a large P, dried the ink with magic, then sent it floating across the room. The young man – Christophe – gaped at the floating page with wide eyes.

“Take it,” I said.

He gingerly plucked the page from the air, jaw dropping. “It’s… It’s me!”

Marc turned, and though his face was hidden by the shadows of his hood, I sensed the question in his eyes. Shrugging, I said, “Inspiration strikes when least expected.”

Truthfully, the expression on the young man’s face pleased me greatly, as did the notion of giving my art to someone who would value it. My work sold or was gifted to the wealthy – those who, while they might have an appreciation for art and talent, had countless pieces by artists as good as or better than me. My paintings were nothing more than additions to collections, rarely to be looked upon or thought of once hung on the wall. But for this boy, it would be special. Something to be cherished. That made it less a gift than an exchange, and one in which I came out ahead.

So caught up was I in the boy’s expression, that I didn’t hear the door open or notice the influx of power until Tristan plucked the sketch from the human’s hand. “What’s this?”

Panic crossed the boy’s face; half, I thought, because he was afraid of Tristan. But the other half was the fear of one about to have something precious taken from him, and I wanted to slap Tristan for being such a bully.