The alley behind the orphanage was narrow and shadowed, muffling the city’s late morning bustle. The scent of yeast and woodsmoke drifted faintly from a bakery two streets over. Elira moved with quiet precision, her steps measured, the hem of her cloak whispering against cobblestones slick with last night’s rain.

In her hurry, she nearly passed the girl. A shifting of shadow, no louder than a breath, drew her eye. Half-tucked behind a stack of empty crates sat a girl of perhaps ten or eleven. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, arms locked around them, chin resting atop. Her clothes were threadbare but layered with purpose—stolen, perhaps, or handed down from the kind of hands that didn’t ask questions. Dirt streaked her jaw and knuckles. One boot was laced; the other barely clung to her foot. Her hair was a nest of snarled black curls tied back with what looked like a fraying ribbon of lace. It was the look in her eye that halted Elira mid-stride. Sharp. Defiant. Alive. She did not look away when their eyes met.

Elira tilted her head and spoke without considering what opening conversations in a back alley could mean. “You always lurk in alleys, or is today special?”

The girl didn’t move. “What’s it to you?”

Elira stepped closer. Slow enough not to threaten, steady enough not to insult. “It’s something. You’re watching the orphanage door, and most children don’t look like they’re weighing whether to knock or run.” A pause. The girl’s eyes narrowed. Elira continued, unbothered. “What’s your name?”

“Don’t have one,” the girl muttered.

“I doubt that,” Elira said coolly. “Or are you a spirit, risen from smoke and silence?”

“I might be.” The girl jutted her chin out.

Elira crouched, cloak pooling around her boots like spilled ink. “If you were, I’d expect better posture. Sit up, ghost.” The girl huffed, startled by the dry humor—and then just as quickly scowled. She straightened a little just the same.

“You’re not from the guard,” she said, wary now. “You talk too nice.”

“Observation and flattery. Impressive. Now tell me your name before I call you something dramatic like Ragged Wraith of the West Alley, and it sticks.”

The girl gave a reluctant snort—barely a laugh, but not a refusal. “It’s Sorrel.”

Elira nodded, satisfied. “Well then, Sorrel. Are you hungry?”

“Maybe.”

“Are you cold?”

A beat.

“…Maybe.”

Elira’s tone shifted—still polite, but sharpened to a blade. “You can keep playing this game, Sorrel. Keep that fine little edge to your voice. Know this though—if you die in this alley tonight, it’ll be with that same attitude and nothing else. No coat. No name. And no one to bury you.” Sorrel’s mouth opened, but Elira held up a hand, the gesture clean, regal. “Or you can take the moment I’m giving you, and live.”

The silence stretched long enough for a bird to cry out overhead. Finally, Sorrel spoke, her voice rasped but subdued. “You're not like the others.”

“I rarely am.”

“…You gonna turn me in?”

“I’m going to offer you something to eat. Then we’ll talk.”

Sorrel stood slowly, her legs stiff, eyes narrowed with lingering suspicion—but she moved. And that, Elira knew, was everything. Sorrel’s boots scraped against the alley stones as she fell into step beside Elira. She kept half a pace behind—close enough to follow, far enough to bolt. “You walk like someone waiting to be chased.” Elira commented.

“I am someone chased.” Sorrel replied in a tone that plainly said she was reconsidering Elira’s intelligence.

Elira gave a faint hum of acknowledgment. Not pity. Not disbelief. Just understanding. It was the first sound Sorrel didn’t instinctively bristle at.

They emerged from the alley into the narrow back lanes of the lower quarter, where paint peeled from shutters and laundry lines fluttered like warning flags. People moved around them in loose, tangled flows—bakers' apprentices with flour on their elbows, a courier girl dodging carts, a blind man selling charcoal sketches from a wooden crate. Sorrel’s eyes tracked everything. Exits. Threats. People who looked too long.

“You don’t ask where I came from,” she said after a while, suspicious.

“I don’t need to,” Elira replied. “You’re here now.”

Sorrel frowned, as if trying to figure out whether that was a trick or not. The clatter of a smithy rang down one street; the sharp laughter of dockhands echoed down another. Here, the air changed—saltier, busier, louder. A world with more coins and more eyes. Elira didn’t shield Sorrel or slow her pace. They wouldn’t be entering the busiest areas anyway.

Finally, Sorrel asked, “You rich or something?”

“I have enough,” Elira said.

“That means yes.”

Elira allowed a small smile. “It means I don’t flaunt it.”

“You talk different. Even when you’re not trying to be fancy.”

“I was raised to be fancy.” Elira sighed.

Sorrel’s brow furrowed at that—an expression like she'd been handed a puzzle with one too many missing pieces. They turned a corner and the scent hit them—roasted vegetables, meat pies, warm bread. Sorrel’s stomach growled so loud it startled a nearby bird into flight. Elira pretended not to notice.

“There,” she said, pointing toward a weathered stall beneath a peeling awning. “Eat first. Then we talk.”

And for the first time, Sorrel didn’t argue. The scent of roasted root vegetables, fried dough, and meat pies drifted thick on the summer air. Growing stronger as they got closer. Just beside it, the bookstore crouched like a secret—narrow and nondescript, its windows fogged with dust and mystery. Her end destination, and the only reason she chose to walk so far for dinner.

Elira approached the stall with Sorrel trailing half a step behind her, eyes darting from merchant to alley to passerby with a street animal’s wariness.

“One meat pie and a cider,” Elira said, then glanced down. “Sorrel?”

“…Same.”

Elira gave the vendor a curt nod. “Make it two.” She pressed coin into the man’s hand with fingers that bore no rings, no crest. Her wealth was hidden, like her motives. The two stepped aside to wait. Sorrel watched the crowd like she might bolt. Elira watched her.

“I assume you’ve done more than lurk in alleys,” Elira said. “What can you do?”

Sorrel didn’t answer right away. Then: “I can lift keys from belts. I can find bread in places people swear are empty. I can climb like a spider, and I don’t talk when I’m told not to.”

Elira arched a brow, accepting the food from the vendor and handing Sorrel hers. “Useful. But I meant real skills. Things that might earn coin.”

Sorrel narrowed her eyes, but spoke around a mouthful of hot crust. “Sew, a bit. Ran with a seamstress once, 'fore she caught the fever. I can clean. Keep a schedule in my head. Listen better than most.”

Elira smiled slightly at that. “That last one will matter more than you know.”

Sorrel looked up sharply. “Why’re you asking?”

Elira took a slow sip of cider before answering. “Because I’m hiring.”

“…Hiring?”

“As my personal maid. You’d be clothed, fed, protected. Taught things you don’t know yet. Trusted with things you can’t imagine.” Elira smiled softly. Sorrel stopped chewing. “But,” Elira said, tone turning cool, deliberate, “you should know something before you answer.”

She leaned in just slightly, her violet eyes glinting with something both terrible and true. “The house I live in is burning. Not with fire, but with secrets. Treachery. And I’m the spark they don’t see coming.” Sorrel started chewing again, almost aggressively though her pie was forgotten in her hand.

“If you say yes,” Elira said softly, “you step into that blaze with me. If you’re clever, loyal, and diligent, I will protect you to the end. But I won’t lie—it will be dangerous. You’ll be a pawn in a game few understand.”

“And if I say no?” Sorrel’s eyes held a sadness that told Elira she thought the choice was a do or die offer.

“Then you walk away with food in your belly and five silver pieces.” Elira reached into her cloak, producing a small velvet pouch. “It’s enough for a few new outfits if you chose to come. If you chose not to, then it could get you a new outfit and a couple nights at an inn for you to have a good start at finding a different position to support you from there.” She held the pouch out.

“If you choose to come, meet me in front of the orphanage. Three hours. No sooner. No later. Be clean. Be ready. The offer won’t come again.”

Sorrel took the pouch with fingers that trembled, just a little. Elira turned to go but looked back after a step. “For what it’s worth,” she said over her shoulder, “you don’t look like someone who was meant to stay small.”

And with that, Elira vanished into the bookstore, leaving Sorrel behind, staring at the coins and the slowly cooling pie in her hands.

The bell above the door gave a dull, unimpressed chime as Elira stepped inside. Dim light slanted through rippled glass panes, casting everything in soft sepia. The air was thick with the scent of old pages, melted wax, and a faint trace of dried herbs—rosemary or sage, she guessed. Dust hung lazily in the stillness, but the store was surprisingly clean. The shelves, though bowed from age, were orderly. The floors swept. Even the spines on the shelves gleamed with recent care.

Elira let the door close behind her with a soft click, taking a moment to absorb the quiet. It was the kind of space where thoughts could be heard breathing.

“Looking for a love story or a revolution?” came a voice from somewhere near the front counter.

She turned and saw a man leaning on the desk, half in shadow. His shirt sleeves were rolled to the elbow, fingers ink-stained, a pair of round spectacles dangling idly from one hand. He was tall, lean, and deceptively casual in his stillness—like a cat who hadn’t yet decided if you were friend, prey, or neither. His face bore the tired sharpness of someone who had stopped aging politely.

Elira answered smoothly, “Ideally? One that ends in both.”

That earned her the flicker of an amused brow. He slipped the spectacles on, finally looking at her properly.

“You’re new.” He remarked.

“I am.” Elira agreed.

“Name?” He asked lazily.

She offered a neutral smile. “Wren.”

“Full name?” He pressed.

“Lady Wren, if you’re feeling formal.” Elira didn’t fold.

“I usually don’t.” He admitted.

“Then Wren will do.”

He gave a thoughtful little hum, fingers tapping once on the counter. “Why this shop, Wren? You don’t look like someone who stumbles.”

“I don’t.” Elira agreed firmly.

“And yet you’re here.” He let the sentence hang with the unasked question.

“I’m here because I need information. Not flattery, not fiction. Truth.” Elira answered.

“Truth’s expensive,” he said solemnly. “Not always in the ways of coin.”

“I can afford it.” Elira’s eyes flashed with determination. She would endure anything to change her fate.

“Mm.” He tilted his head slightly. “What kind?”

“History. Business. Economics. A current read on politics.”

The clerk leaned back, lacing his fingers together. “A noble’s daughter—judging by your accent, education, and posture—asking for a tradesman’s education. Curious.”

“Not so curious,” she said, tilting her head. “The nobles keep falling.”

He studied her a beat longer then, without a word, he disappeared into the shelves. Elira waited. The bookstore seemed to hum softly around her, alive in its own way. A tabby cat leapt down from the upper shelves, stretched luxuriously, and wound itself once around her legs before vanishing into the back room. Somewhere above, a floorboard creaked like someone shifting their weight, but no footsteps followed. Then the clerk returned, arms full.

“I don’t sell gossip,” he said plainly. “But the commoners' paper will give you more honest politics than anything printed on royal parchment. It’s in the back corner—copper a copy.” He set down the first book in his stack. “The Stone and the Scale—economic collapse cycles and trade law. Dry, but it'll teach you how to spot rot in a contract.” He set another on the counter. “Thirteen Thieves and a Kingdom. Parable. Pretends to be fiction. It isn’t.” Another book joined the stack. “Salt and Coin. Merchant guild failures, case studies. Every good idea gone bad. If you learn from failure, yours and others, you’ll go far.” He tapped the third before adding a fourth. “The Golden Spine. Infrastructure, trade routes, and how nations die when roads collapse. Dry, but makes you dangerous if you learn it.” And the last, a slim green volume, joined the stack. “Ledgers & Lies. Written by a disgraced accountant with a sharp tongue and sharper eye. Blackballed from every guild. He’s not wrong, just inconvenient. You’ll like him.”

Elira shifted the stack into her arms. She reached for her coin pouch, but the clerk had already turned away, vanishing behind a tall shelf with the same quiet finality as a book being closed. She paused only a moment, then stepped back to the counter and placed the payment down—neither excessive nor short.

“I’ll be back,” Elira called to the stacks. “Twice a week. For the paper.”

“Then you’ll know more than most nobles in a month,” he replied in an amused tone. “Assuming you can read past the ink.”

“I’ll look forward to it. I’ll see you again.” Elira walked toward the door.

“Don’t expect me to greet you warmly.” The clerk warned.

“I’d be disappointed if you did.” Elira smiled to herself. She hadn’t expected to enjoy this banter so much.

“Then we’ll get along just fine.” The smirk the clerk wore barely making it into his reply.

Smiling, Elira stepped back out to the road and wove her way back toward the orphanage. The weight of the books barely noticed with the excitement of possessing them. Elira circled the block, her boots quick on the cobblestones, ducking into the narrow alley that ran behind the orphanage. The sun had shifted westward, casting long shadows between the brick walls. She passed two crates, a laundry line strung with lopsided tunics, and the chipped stone stoop she’d left through earlier that day. A quiet knock—three quick taps—on the back door. A moment later, it opened.

“Back in one piece,” Matron Cindrel said, peering out with a flour-dusted hand on the frame. “And earlier than expected. I take it no one died of misadventure?”

“Not for lack of opportunity,” Elira replied, stepping inside with her satchel of books. “But I got what I needed.”

Cindrel took in her slightly wind-tousled hair and the satisfied gleam in her eye. “I don’t suppose you came back because you missed the smell of vinegar and old onions?”

“I came back to work,” Elira said, slipping past her and into the rear corridor. “Which room is screaming loudest for attention?”

“The pantry,” Cindrel answered immediately. “Gods know I’ve been pretending not to hear it for three weeks. Floors need scrubbing. Shelves too. And the back corner smells like something died, though I haven’t found a body.”

“Excellent,” Elira said, already unfastening the cuffs of her sleeves. “My specialty.”