I unzip my starter bag and dig out a small bit of bark. I draw a five-pointed star on my palm. It should be enough magic to wipe away the last few hours from the cop’s memory. He’ll be confused at first over the missing time. But he’ll eventually forget that he can’t remember how there’s a small gap at all.
I place the bark in the middle of the star and envision parts of his memory being wiped clean. Like grit from a dirty windowpane, swept away with a rag.
The floor of the apothecary trembles. Heat collects in my sneakers and climbs up my legs and spreads into my hands. They grow heavy, as though I’m cradling invisible weights. My hand is on fire around the piece of bark, and the material begins to smoke just the slightest bit.
I glance up and over in the direction of the diner window to catch Baseball Cap’s eye. Only once we see each other can I drive my magic into him.
But the cop’s turned away now. There’s a waitress at his table—he’s ordering something from the menu.
Damn it.
A drawn-out casting doesn’t add to the pain that comes afterward, but it does keep me burning up until I can finish the spell, and the building discomfort makes my head sway. Heat rolls off my skin and fills the room. Scents of apothecary supplies roll back at me, set off by the drastic temperature change—licorice, roses, beeswax, sandalwood. My vision wavers and the shop goes dreamlike, not quite real.
The waitress is laughing. Baseball Cap must have told a joke.
“C’mon,” I mutter out loud. “Just finish the order and look over here.”
My veins are flooded with full magic, this vast nebula of glowing red fire that only my mind’s eye can see. It dances off my skin in swarms, circles me in a blood-tinged hug, looking for somewhere to land. The inside of my mouth is hot. My eyeballs feel singed, gone raw and red. My pulse is a thousand drums inside my ears, beating out a mad rhythm.
The waitress finally leaves and the cop turns and peers out the diner’s window.
His eyes meet mine.
Magic surges.
I pull away, breathing raggedly. Out of Baseball Cap’s head and back into mine. Immediately my skin grows cold, and where my veins were filled with magic, now they fill with pain.
Bruises bloom across my arms. They crawl out from beneath the sleeves of my shirt, patches of purple as dark as midnight, blotches of maroon as red as wine. I don’t need to check beneath my jeans to know my legs are just as bad. There’s a dull ache inside my limbs that feels close to a fever. I press my fingers all over my face. I’m lucky; only my left cheek and jaw hurt—my smog mask will cover most of that.
Five points—bruises until tomorrow, at the very earliest.
But it’s done. I stagger back from the window, steadying my breath, and go back into the supply room.
The scent of blood wars with that of rosemary, and bile rises.
I go to check Rudy’s body for signs that might give me away, grabbing a pair of safety gloves Rudy used when handling some of his more volatile ingredients. First, his wallet for any cards or whatever else might tie him to Wu Teas. But there’s nothing. I’m about to put it back when I decide to take the marks that are inside. Rudy would want me to.
I check the rest of his pockets, and they’re all empty except for his chest one.
A note. It’s written in Rudy’s handwriting, which I recognize from all over the apothecary.
Midnight
July 15th
987 Scalding Way
FC
That’s it. Four lines. Midnight tonight. An address in the Meat Sector. Nothing more to explain what it means. The FC is even more mysterious. Someone’s initials? A password of some kind?
I flip over the note and there’s a small black coin taped to it. I take off the tape so the coin falls into my hand. Its shape and weight and thinness are about right for a mark, and it has the same center hole, but everything else is different. Black metal instead of copper or nickel, perfectly blank on both sides.
I have no clue what it is or what it could be for.
“You couldn’t have elaborated on this a bit?” I gesture toward Rudy with the note and the coin. I tell myself he looks at peace. At least not sick anymore, anyway.
The note could mean something as simple as Rudy having plans tonight. Maybe it’s the address of a friend? Maybe there’s a party and Rudy had a date? Maybe it means nothing at all.
But his last words are again in my head.
Wanted to teach you more, but scared.
Meant to finish what I started.
Payback for Shire.
They’re still cryptic. I can’t tell what Rudy might have meant by them. The note doesn’t help at all.
But to have an address, and a time, for something Rudy might have meant to be at. It eats at me—him dying with all his secrets about my sister, leaving new questions behind.
I fold up the note and tuck it and the strange black coin into my starter bag.
Tonight at midnight. Scalding Way. I’ll figure out the FC part when I get there.
I touch Rudy’s cold shoulder once more. I wanted to trust you because Shire did, Rudy. But maybe she never really knew you, either.
I get to my feet, tear off the gloves, make sure my sleeves are still hiding my arms, and pull on my smog mask to cover the bruises on my face. I slip out through the back door.
Outside, there are the sounds of an approaching fire truck, but I don’t make the connection until I turn the corner.
It’s an eruption of a stretch of asphalt. Cars are spiraled across the still-flat part of the road like toys, while pedestrians ogle from the sidewalks.
I walk along, trying to blend into the crowd, convinced at least some of them must realize they’re seeing the result of full magic being cast somewhere. I’m careful to avoid meeting the eyes of any of them.
Of casters of leftover magic because they might detect my guilt.
Of casters of full because they might nod in understanding, giving us both away.
It hurts to walk—each step is like a slap on my bruises—so I take the short way home for once, cutting through the sector instead of going along the salty shore. I figure seeing the bruises will be enough to distract my parents from asking me why I smell like Tobacco instead of Tea.
My parents think I work for Saint Willow. On account of falling so behind on paying our honor marks, they think he hired me two months ago as a courier for his gang. That the marks I make doing this go toward paying our debt.
This is another lie I’ve told. And so while they think I’m going around to other businesses in the Tea Sector picking up and dropping off packages, I’m actually either at Rudy’s apothecary or somewhere else, casting full magic for marks.
My parents believing I work for Saint Willow explains Jihen’s sudden disappearance from their lives, his threatening presence no longer darkening the teahouse. That lie, in turn, rests on my lie to Jihen about being a tutor so he will stay away from my parents. Between my two fake jobs, nobody knows where I actually get my marks from—selling spells as a caster of banned full magic. Magic that if Saint Willow knew I could cast, he would make me cast for him, regardless of how I would suffer for it.
Sometimes I lie so much that I think I’ll stop knowing what’s real anymore. Or maybe it’s just being surrounded by the lies of so many others that they change what truth even means.
Even my parents have lied to me. About what they let Shire do for them. For us. A lie by omission. Don’t tell Aza. The thick scents of smoke and moss soon swirl away and the lighter ones of tea take over—images of green fields and orchards full of lushly leaved plants float across my mind. The sky’s gone a clouded, deep charcoal by the time I reach the teahouse, and cold drizzle continues. The front window of the teahouse glows gold against the rain, so warm and cheery that it seems almost impossible people like Saint Willow and Jihen and a hungry cop looking for answers that will destroy us can also exist.
For a second, my throat goes tight at how everything�
�s going wrong. Rudy’s dead, his body probably still on the floor in his apothecary. I can’t decide if I should warn my parents about Baseball Cap possibly showing up or just leave it in case I’m wrong and he was never on a trail leading right to our door. My desperation for marks is real, but no matter how many I might make, they won’t bring Shire back. Nothing is the same.
One week.
A breeze comes right then, and I imagine it’s Jihen, breathing close.
My mother pushes open the front door of the teahouse while I’m still climbing the steps. Her long black hair sweeps across her shoulders, and she places her hands at her hips. You have to really study her black silk trousers to notice how old the fabric’s gotten. That same golden light from the now-closed-for-the-day teahouse flows out from behind her.
“You’re very late, Aza.”
As always, her tone is both soft and sharp, both concerned and irritated.
And your dead daughter’s old instructor is dead, Mom. I’d tell you, but you’d ask how I know. I’d tell you, but you’d probably be glad, and I don’t think I want to see you glad over something like that.
“Sorry,” I say, taking off my smog mask and folding it back into my pocket.
“Dinner is …”
Her voice falls away as I reach the top step, and she glimpses the two bruises on my face. Her gaze immediately goes to my arms and she tugs up a sleeve, checking for more because she knows how pain from full magic works. Beneath the dimness of the sky, the blotches on my skin seem even darker. She blinks fast, as though she can’t believe what she’s seeing. Then she rushes me inside and slams the door shut.
“Casting full magic out in the open? Why? What were you thinking?”
I swipe rain off my forehead. I tug at the zipper of my starter bag, making sure it’s still secure. Forcing my thoughts away from the mysterious note, I let go of the bag and take a deep breath. The inside of the teahouse always smells like a mix of tea and forests and dried flowers—it’s the scent of legacy, of the ghosts of emperors and empresses and security. Sometimes it’s comforting, and sometimes it’s smothering.
“I’m okay, by the way,” I say as I walk through the tidy retail area with its display cabinets and tall shelves. “They’ll fade by tomorrow.”
“I’m glad you’re okay, of course,” my mother insists as she walks alongside me. Her eyes flicker to my jaw and then flicker away. “It’s just—”
“You worry.”
“Every day.”
On my other side is the teahouse’s small dining area, with its main window that faces the sidewalk. During the day, customers sit here and order tea and pastries and buns.
Once it was a lot busier, not just with customers but also with family. We used to eat out here every night, after the teahouse closed and the space was ours again. But that was before Shire died, and now it’s a rare thing for my parents and me to bother bringing dinner out here. Now we just sit around the beat-up wooden island in the cramped back kitchen and pretend we’re really talking.
My father is already seated at the island in the kitchen, hunched over paperwork, a plate at one elbow and tea at his other. His face falls when he peers up at me. “Aza, what—?”
“Nothing happened,” I lie. “I cast magic and the price is some bruises. A car was about to run a light and I had to help it slow down, so don’t freak out.” I pull out a stool, sit down, and start piling food on my plate. It’s Thursday, so it’s pork dumplings and broccoli salad and lemon rice. The stool beside me still feels huge in its emptiness.
He pours tea into a cup and pushes it toward me. “Is this why you’re so late? Maybe we should finally get you a new cell so we can at least reach you while it’s working.”
I shake my head and take a sip of tea. It’s our Conversation blend, which I think is ironic. “My last delivery was on the other side of the sector. It just took me a bit to walk back.”
“You could have taken the train.”
“Pass is used up, and I didn’t want to spend any marks.”
My mother sits down beside my father and picks up her chopsticks. But instead of eating, she just holds them over her plate. “That doesn’t explain why you’re casting. Why did they need your help so badly? That car would have likely stopped in time on its own.”
I shrug. “Some people were slow to finish crossing.”
My parents exchange a look.
“You’re not ready,” my mother says.
The food in my mouth turns dry, and I take a minute to wash it down with tea, wondering why I’m suddenly bothered. My mother always says I’m not ready. She says it as often as she says she just worries about me.
“I’m not eight anymore,” I finally say. “I don’t actually hurt someone each time I cast.”
“And your surroundings? Did you check to see what you broke or just not bother?”
“Some asphalt fell apart. I might have done the city a favor—I’m pretty sure that road needed an upgrade anyway.”
“No one was hurt?”
I shake my head again. There were no ambulances.
My mother slowly stirs her food, while my father just watches me. He’s still holding the paperwork. I can see now it’s the teahouse’s files on our suppliers and distribution systems that we have in place in the city.
He points at my arms. “So maybe not hurt someone else, but what about you getting hurt?”
“This is—” I nearly laugh. “This is just part of it. You know there’s a cost. It’s nothing new.”
“And your sister is dead from casting full magic. Have you thought about that?”
“It’s pretty much all I think about, okay?” I stab apart a dumpling with my chopsticks. “Just like it’s all you guys think about,” I add under my breath.
“Aza,” my mother starts, “we just—”
“Worry, I know. You worry because you don’t want the same thing to happen to me, and that’s why you won’t let me cast to help out with all the bills.” I break open another dumpling, hoping my face doesn’t show how my stomach’s gone tight.
“We don’t want you getting hurt, and we’re thankful you want to help. It just means we shouldn’t ever forget how lucky we are that you get to work for Saint Willow.”
“So you really sleep easier knowing I’m spending each day as a courier for the sector’s gang leader instead of casting full magic?” The moment I say it, it hits me how furious I am with my parents for feeling this way. It’s like they’re okay if something bad happens to me, even if it’s because of someone as evil as Saint Willow, as long as it’s not because of full magic.
How much do they care about me staying safe, then?
My parents exchange another look.
“We know you’re angry with us for not letting you go to Rudy,” my father says, “but we just think you need a bit more time.”
“Time for what? Saint Willow says we’re nearly out of it.”
“How can you learn how to control magic if you don’t understand that magic in the first place? Can you ever be sure you’re using magic and it’s not using you?”
I eat salad to hide how my eyes are prickling. I’m not eight anymore, I want to scream again.
My mother clears her throat and casts to turn on the television we keep mounted to the front of the fridge. One of her favorite dramas starts playing. It’s a Pearl of the Orient production, the kind she watches the most because she likes their tropes. Liar’s Lair first came out when I was a kid, so I’ve seen it a bunch of times already. It’s about two casters from rival gangs who each go undercover to infiltrate the other’s in order to find secret intel.
It’s always reminded me a bit of Lotusland just because of the gang thing, but my mother says Lotusland isn’t nearly so brutal. We’d argue about it, about the rumors that spread throughout the city the way poisonous fungi pop up in the dark.
I heard that Earl Kingston demoted one of his own cousins the other day for trying to conspire against him. And you know what “
demoted” means.
I’ve heard the stories, Aza. Just because a businessman operates with a firm hand doesn’t mean he’s a monster.
Well, the stories are true, Mom. A nice little drowning for poor Milo Kingston in the good ol’ Sturgeon River.
That is not what “demoted” means. And Earl Kingston would never do that. He takes care of families in the Tobacco Sector as though they are his own. Just like Saint Willow takes care of all of us here in Tea.
It was only Earl Kingston’s third cousin, twice removed, if that means anything.
Oh, Aza.
Paperwork rustles as my father looks away and starts once more to read the file, as my mother turns to watch her show.
So many ways they don’t see me. How I’m not a kid who can’t control her magic anymore. How, in the end, it still wasn’t me who killed Shire.
I keep eating and drinking more tea, trying so hard not to think back to that day. But I fail, and soon my mind is no longer in the kitchen but instead in the workroom.
I’m eight again. And I remember it all.
I was holding fragrant branches in my arms—chrysanthemums, jasmine, rhododendrons, wisteria—each carefully dried under very specific conditions so their fires wouldn’t smoke too much. Shire and I had been put in charge of drying the buds for our mother, who would be mixing up new teas that day.
It was also the first time my parents trusted us to build the red fire for the drying. To do it all on our own, without their supervision.
Watch for signs of yellow in the flames, girls. You must cool the fire a bit if it turns close to yellow. And if there is any blue at all, suppress the fire and start over again. Blue is too hot and will destroy anything.
Shire went around the workroom and opened the vents in the wall. Sunlight filtered in and danced off the smooth, unmarked skin of her face.
“Aza, want to check on the fireplace? Do we have enough of everything?”
I set the branches down on the counter and peered down. “Yes, there’s lots of kindling and tinder.”
My sister came over and moved some of the tufts of shaved-up wood around. “Okay, I’m going to start the fire now.”
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