I remember that he is dead. And that if that fire at Jeamo's studio did its work, there will never be any sign of Alvar again. Stupid punk. Had to listen to the harpy's song of rebellion. Now he's dead and I am on a quest for vengeance.

Except that quests are noble journeys made by heroes across fantastic lands. There won't be much nobility in sneaking through the dark alleys of a grimy slum. An olive oil warehouse concealing the risen dead isn't exactly a faerie castle. And I am no hero. 

Maybe, like the dockworker said, it would have been a hero move had I run into Jeamo's studio to bring out a trapped child. But that's not what I was doing there. I was carrying a lost child's body into the fire. I didn't save Alvar's life yesterday. The best I could do was keep his lifeless little body from the unnatural indignities of the scuttlers. That's not a hero move.

A sharp rap at the door twists my hunger. And raises my hackles. Who in the salty hell could that be?

The voice that calls through the door is harsh and adult. And uncertain.

"Arquë?" It is Jet's new messenger boy, Triel.

The way my thoughts and the events of this morning parallel those of yesterday morning is disturbing. Did yesterday reset itself like a moon cycle, dooming me to relive the day? Or offering me a chance to correct the mistakes I made and save Alvar? Right. Like I would ever have a second chance at anything.

"Yeah, this is Arq," I answer abruptly, reaching for my cutting sword. "I thought Jet wanted me to lay low today." 

"He does."

"And he felt it necessary to send you along to remind me of that?"

"No."

"Then why did he send you?"

"He didn't."

That is troubling. "Then who did send you?" I ask. There is a pause.

"No one."

That is even more troubling.

"Well, then," I say curtly. "Why are you here?"

"Ummmm . . . Could I come in? I'm getting soaked out here."

"I'm not dressed," I reply. "Here's a deal. You go to the bakery around the corner and bring back a fresh loaf and light my lamp, and I will let you in and pay you for the bread."

I can hear the messenger swearing under his breath. But he agrees.

"Yeah, sure."

I open the door just enough to hand him my lamp.

"I'll be right back," he says, as I close the door in his face.

I should have hung up my clothes last night. They are still wet. I have another tunic and set of footwraps, so I retrieve them from my chest and hang the wet ones to dry. I have no other trousers, though, so I pull on the cold damp ones. I finish dressing and wait. 

Triel doesn't have far to go. But I know from experience he'll have an ogre of a time getting the lamp back without the rain dousing it. Only the basest olive oil from the third pressing is sold in Elftown. Its flame is not the hardiest.

I open the door a crack and peer out. The messenger boy is already on his way back, moving slowly but deliberately down the alley. I open the door wider to glance in the other direction. There are no suspicious figures at the end of the alley. I ease the door back to a crack and wait.

When Triel approaches, I open the door and gesture him in. He moves in gratefully, bread in one hand and burning lamp in the other, carefully shielded from the rain under his cloak.

"Put the lamp on the table," I say, closing the door and barring it. He moves carefully to comply, placing the lamp down on the tiny square of wood next to my bed that serves as my table. I glide up behind the elf and, as he turns to hand me the bread, I bring my sword blade up to his neck. He freezes, not moving, eyes widening. He shows no signs of doing anything stupid. Good.

"Now," I spit out through gritted teeth. "Why are you here?"

He starts to sputter. The slight movement presses his neck against my blade and he recoils. A thin red line smiles from the center of his throat. I pull my sword blade back a half digit.

"No, no, no," I say coldly. "That won't do. I suggest you take a deep breath and think very carefully before you answer my question. Then we'll find out if you live long enough for me to repay you for the bread."