Nero.
Tes felt her fear uncoil, her limbs relaxing until she saw that he had poured himself a cup of her finest tea.
“You know,” she said, “people put locks on doors for a reason.”
Nero leaned his elbows back on the counter and blew a lock of hair out of his eyes. “To make things more interesting?”
She set down the satchel of dumplings and fished the dead owl from her coat, returning him to his perch on the counter.
“Who’s a good dead bird?” cooed Nero, digging a few fried seeds from his pocket.
“Don’t do that,” she said as he fed them to the owl. “You know he can’t eat.”
Sure enough, the seeds clacked and clattered through Vares’s bones, and landed in a pile between his feet.
“Aw,” said Nero, patting the bird’s skull. “But look at how happy it makes him.”
Vares clicked his beak in delight and ruffled his featherless wings.
Tes rolled her eyes. Even the damn bird was charmed. That was the trouble with Nero. He was charming. His black hair had a life of its own, from the widow’s peak it made over his brow to the tendrils that curled against his cheeks, and the rest rose like a cloud over his head. As if that weren’t enough, he had eyes that were gold at the edges and green at the center, and the kind of smile that made Tes blush, even though she didn’t fancy him.
Charming wasn’t the only word that came to mind, not by a long shot, but it was usually the first, followed by criminal, con artist, and ne’er-do-well, though those words conjured images of scowling brutes, and he was always surprisingly cheerful.
And then, there was friend. That one was a warm stone in her hand, and she was torn between the urge to hold it close, and cast it away. Friends were dangerous, and she’d never planned on making one, certainly not with someone like him.
Nero pushed off the counter and looked around. “How is Master Haskin today?” he asked, knowing there was no such person, and never had been.
“Hungry.” Tes took the bag of dumplings with her as she rounded the counter, putting the boundary between them, if for no other reason than to remind Nero that there was one. “How did you even get in?”
“There are two doors,” he said lightly, though she’d never shown him the second one, tucked like a secret in the back of the shop. “You only spelled the first.”
She swore softly. “Aren’t you clever.”
“If only I had magic,” he mused, “I wouldn’t have to be.”
Nero’s mouth gave a bitter twitch as he said it, as if the world had marked him as lesser for his lack of power. And it would have, if he’d truly been born without an element.
But they both knew he was lying. Tes could see it written in the air around him, the shocking violet of his power, a color so rare it stood out, even against the cluttered threads of the shop. And even if she hadn’t been able to read it there, in his threads, she had seen it once, and only once, in action. He had helped her out of a scrape when she first came to London, and used his power to do it. So she knew, and he knew that she knew, and they both knew well enough to lean into the lie.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, setting the kettle back on the stove and snatching up the mug he’d left on the counter.
Nero spread his arms. “I’m a customer.”
“And you couldn’t wait outside?”
“It was cold in the street.”
“It’s still summer,” she said, lifting Vares to sweep away the mound of seeds.
“It looked like it might rain?” he ventured.
She looked around with a sigh. “Did you steal anything?”
Nero recoiled. “From you? I’d never.” He then proceeded to pluck a dumpling out of the bag, and pop it into his mouth. “Honestly,” he said around the mouthful. “Wow—that’s good—I’m hurt that you’d even ask. But since we’re both here now, I could use your help.”
The trouble with Nero was that she knew he was trouble. He wore it like a brand, from that hapless grin to those green-gold eyes. It was like seeing a trap, and stepping into it anyway.
She just couldn’t help but like him.
Perhaps it was the way he treated her: not like a mark, but a little sister.
She was a little sister—but not his. And if he ever asked, she would have lied and said she was an only child, and her parents had died horrible deaths at sea, so there was no one to miss her and no one who might come looking and that was that.
But Nero didn’t ask. He never asked, because they had an understanding. They were allowed to know each other as they were now, not as they’d been sometime before. Pasts belonged right where they were, so he didn’t ask what a girl her age (not that he knew it) was doing alone in the city, running an often-illegal repair shop, and she didn’t ask him about the magic he pretended not to have, or why he always looked like he’d been on the wrong end of a fight.
Sure, over time, they’d traded small, and largely useless, details. He had a sweet tooth. She lived on strong tea. He had a smile that could charm a shadow into the light. She had a glare that could send it back. They both had a habit of talking to things that weren’t really there, Nero to himself, and Tes to her owl. But the only reason Nero even knew her name was because he made her bet it in a round of Sanct, one letter for every losing hand, and by the time she realized the entire point of the game was to cheat, he had those first three letters, the only ones she used.
“Don’t be cross,” he’d said with a laugh. “It’s only a name.”
But he was wrong. A name was like a strand of hair or a hangnail—something people shed too easily, no concern for where it went. But since opening the shop, she’d seen spells woven with names at the center, curses spun out around syllables, charms folded over letters.
She’d seen names used to bribe, and to threaten.
Seen a man knifed for the name he’d given.
A woman arrested for spitting on the name of the king.
Names had value. And her father taught her never to give a thing away for less than it was worth. Especially something you couldn’t buy back.
On some level, even Nero knew it. After all, he’d given her his first name, or at least, those four letters, N-E-R-O, tossed them out like bits of burning paper on Sel Fera Noche. But he’d never parted with the rest. If there was more, he’d cut it off, cast it away.
He was just Nero.
And she was just Tes.
He was just a thief.
And she was just a fixer.
“Show me.”
Nero grinned, and pulled a necklace from his pocket. A gaudy, gilded thing, set with stones. He held it out to Tes. “Not really my color, is it?”
“I suppose thieves can’t be picky.” She plucked it from his hand, but as she did, her eyes went to his fingers. There was white paint on them. Her stomach clenched. She told herself she shouldn’t care. It was none of her business.
Nero followed her gaze, and recoiled, wiping his hand on his trousers.
“I didn’t,” he started.
“I don’t want to know,” she said.
“I touched the wall,” he insisted. “I didn’t realize it was wet.”
“I don’t care,” she said. And she meant it. That was a kind of trouble she didn’t need or want. The Hand was faceless. Nobody knew how many there were, or who had joined. If anyone knew a Hand, they didn’t live to tell anyone, and if a Hand did go around bragging about being one, they didn’t live long enough to do it twice.
“Let me guess,” she said, turning her attention to the necklace. “You liberated this from a ship, or it fell off a merchant cart, or the wind just blew it into your hands.”
Nero crossed his arms. “For your information, I won it fair and square in a game of Sanct.”
“There’s nothing fair or square about that game.” Tes cleared a place on the counter and set the necklace down on a piece of black cloth.
“Well, I won it. Though perhaps a little too easily.” He leaned forward, into her space. “I just want to make sure it’s not cursed.”