Barnabas woke up not dead the next morning, and the one after that, and figured he probably hadn’t been poisoned. It was another dreary day, and the shop was empty. Vincent was reading.

“Vincent.”

He shut the book quickly and looked up. “Hello! Do you need something?”

“Just the order.”

“Right. Of course.” He scrambled to fetch it.

“Actually,” said Barnabas. “I’ve been wondering.”

“Hmm?”

“Are you—interested in languages?”

“Yes! Someday, I’ll get out of this dump and travel the land, and I’d like to be able to speak to anyone, anywhere.”

“I have a book you might be interested in.” Barnabas pulled a very thick tome out of his bag and placed it on the counter.

“The untitled masterpiece of the Coalition? How did you get a copy?”

“The wizard has a lot of books. Do you want to borrow it?”

“Yes.”

“You can keep it as long as you’d like. I don’t think it will be missed.”

“I can finally learn to speak Galvish!” Vincent seemed genuinely excited. “Have you read it?”

“Parts. I used it to learn a couple fairy languages. And Aravese.”

“Cool. Well, thanks. Let me know if you end up needing it back.”

“Sure.”

“Oh, hey, um, do you like oranges?”

Didn’t everyone like oranges? “Yes.”

“We got some in last week; would you like some?”

“Um. Okay.” The last time Barnabas had had an orange was two winters ago, when he’d traded a potion to a traveling merchant in exchange for three. Vincent handed him a sack of blood oranges and smiled.

They were some of the best oranges Barnabas had ever had. Sweet, juicy, and tart, no doubt staining his lips red. There were seven. Seven was a good number for spells. He sighed. The peel would be useful, he supposed. He took a needle and pierced each piece of peel, strung a thread through the holes, and hung them up to dry. Maybe he could think of something bright and hopeful to do with them, though probably not.

Barnabas didn’t want to be evil. But he did like the dark. And he didn’t know where to go. He’d always thought the wizard would keep him around until he was tired of tormenting him, then use his apprentice in some sort of awful dark magic, and that would be the end of Barnabas. Of course, the young sorcerer had fantasized about offing the old fucker, rescuing the dragon, and leaving Cottageworth, but he knew he never would. He could never win.