The Ghost of Adsophel

Three.

My fifteenth birthday came on a new moon, three weeks after Thea's nineteenth. She hadn't wanted a celebration for hers, but I'd made her favorite stew anyway: a patchwork of what little fish and vegetables we had, mixed with hearty grains. She'd cried when she saw it. "I told you not to do anything," she'd mumbled, but it was the most she'd eaten in one sitting since the funeral.

For my birthday, before she left for work, she slipped me a pouch of gold pieces. "Go down to the market and pick something out for yourself," she told me, grinning at my wide eyes, then handing me a knife. "For hustlers."

"Hustlers?"

"The market is crawling with assholes. Just be careful, please." She coiled a long strand of my hair around her finger and kissed my forehead. In her boots, she was almost as tall as me. "And it's supposed to rain later, so wear a jacket."

Perhaps I should have been irritated by her protectiveness, but my chest was fluttering with excitement. I bathed quickly, putting on one of the nicer dresses I'd brought with us: white velvet, flared sleeves, falling to mid-calf. I paired it with practical boots and a hooded black overcoat. I looked strange in the grubby washroom mirror. Warmer. I asked the spider what it thought, but it was busy knotting up a fly.

I trotted down the stairs, each step whining in protest beneath my boots, and shoved open the heavy oak doors. The building sat on a wide, pit-filled cobblestone street. People bustled up and down the walkways, and old rain pooled along the ground beneath them, carrying bits of trash. Here and there, weeds burst from between the cracked stones, reaching toward the rusty sunlight. A breeze carried the scent of saltwater, and beneath it, tangs of machine oil and fish blood. My ears perked to passing conversation and the whirring of factories. I stepped out onto the walkway and followed the flow of the crowd, as innocuous as the wind.

Adsophel walked a delicate line between haphazard and meticulous. The bay, a crescent-shaped wall of tumbling cliffs, housed our mariner's district and, more interesting to tourists, the entertainment district. If one was entertained by seedy, incense-riddled brothels, or gambling dens, or spindly hotels, they were certain to find everything they wanted without leaving sight of the ocean. Beyond the cliffs was the lower living district, where our apartment huddled among dozens of others. The market and manufacturing districts filled up the rest of the city's grid until tumbling gracefully into the upper living district, where I had lived just a few months before. And at the beating heart of the city, cradled by the forest and the faraway Black Jaggeds, far from the tourists and factory smog, was the glass palace. Current home to the king and the king's son.

I reached the open market, a cacophonous fringe along the proper market district. Booths stretched out for several blocks. Some were basic wooden tables piled with wares, while others demanded attention with billowing tents, elaborate signs, or young hawkers twisting through the crowds andshouting sales pitches. Anything could be bought or sold, from fresh food to filthy weapons and hand-me-down clothes. People dressed up in fake robes and sold lies as magic, tattoos as protection, fake potions as impossible cures. Neon lights hung in threads across the sky, and the air reeked of incense and spice. I coughed, dizzy at once, and crept along the rows.

After just a few minutes of wandering, though, a raindrop splashed against my cheek. I glanced up, surprised at how quickly the sky had turned from milky beige to a snarling dark grey. Another drop splattered onto my hand. The rain quickly billowed into pouring, and the crowd scattered. Merchants scrambled to put up umbrellas and protect their goods. I ducked beneath an unused tent - long tables were arranged in neat order, but they'd been stripped bare - and listened to raindrops clatter against the canopy while I picked at my nails. No need to fuss.

But in a shock, a black bird swept under the tent's low archway, perching on a table. It was one of the biggest ravens I'd ever seen, oily black feathers puffed up against the rain. Its talons clacked against the wood slats of the table, and it chattered softly to itself as it studied me with bright eyes. I thought of the ravens from my mother's stories. "Come to drive me insane?"