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The streets of the port city hummed with the drone of needles as landlocked sailors added to their already impressive collections of tattoos. Vibrant ink made of crushed sea glass colored their tanned arms and backs with crew flags, ship names, and particularly memorable oceanic battles. Culpepper always told Abby that one could tell most everything about a sailor just by the tattoos on their bodies.

The few Laosians not getting inked hobbled back to the housing district, their hair slicked with sweat, their bushy beards made limp by Laos' notorious humidity. Abby didn't mind it though, as she careened through crowded alleyways, jumped over trash cans and darted between men and women clad in light weight cottons and little else.

Lucy and Sebbi kept on Abby's heels and she did her best to ensure neither of them ended up with sandal imprints on their heads. Then, with one last turn, the narrow, stuffy roadways opened up onto a wide expanse of sandstone pavers, surrounded by a row of trimmed Burla trees. Hundreds of colorful stalls, sporting canvas roofs to offer shade from the sun, filled the space. 

Mandarren Square in Laos carried all kinds of goods from across the continent. There were spices from the isles of Lo, exotic birds and feathers from the south, sheepshir cheeses from Moffat and crockery from Ean-  some of the finer and more expensive plates marked by the Hudginns' three-headed boar crest. Lush fabrics from Triad graced the stalls furthest from Abby, the garments of stuffy royal navys and purples making her arms and legs itch out of reflex.

An old man with hair as white and puffy as the clouds overhead, spotted her among the sea of vibrant chartreuse, violet, and tattooes and waved her over. Abby smiled, while fighting off the internal cringe she felt and headed over to a stall draped in turquiose cotton, bottles of pickled eel heads lined up in regimented rows on the table.

"Mr. Applebraum," she said as she gave him a little nod and plucked up a small bottle of spotted grey eel heads. She flipped over the little, red tag attached to the bottle. Aphrodisiac, muscle relaxer, stimulant.

Abby placed the bottle back down on the table. Something about Mr. Applebraum's wares always made the girl feel wrong. Oh, what was it Mimi had called the old man? Fantasy peddler?

Mr. Applebraum parted his thin lips, showcasing each of his crooked, yellowed teeth and blood red gums.

By all the gods, Lucy meowed, this man has teeth more yellowed than the ancient texts. He nipped Abby's ankle. Love, get him to shut his mouth. Please, for all our sakes.

"How are ye, child?"

He spoke with an eclectic accent, put together from the man's decades at sea. A silver dragon earring hung from his left lobe, a titan rising from the surf expertly inked on his right bicep.

"I'm good," Abby said, her eyes wandering over the stall of sea glass two tables down. The Fragillian stones shone, as if each one contained a mini rainbow. Abby thought of Poppy, the rainbow hidden beneath layers of expensive silks, and smiled. "How are you?"

"Fine. Would be better if that ole maid of yers were around. Tell me that fine lass is here?"

He leaned over his table, grey chest hairs peeking out of his dirty tunic. He licked his lips like a dog who's got a tasty bit of food left on his face. Abby cringed. Mr. Applebraum's adoration was a very gross, very adult affair.

"She's here." Abby poked at one of the eel jars. "You know she doesn't like you, right?"

Applebraum snickered. "She's just playing hard to get. I see the way she saunters away from my watchful eyes. The way she shakes, it's fer show."

Abby stuck out her tongue in disgust. "Mimi doesn't saunter or shake. She trudges away from you swearing under her breath hoping the gods curse you for staring at her ass."

Placing a liverspotted hand over his heart, Abblebraum feigned shock. "Why Miss Tells! I'ver thought such a word could spill from your lips. What a full-blooded Laosian in the making you are."

Abby rolled her eyes. Applebraum chuckled and slapped a hand against Abby's back, the force of which threatened to topple her over and face plant into a row of milk-eyed Plascic eels.

"Fine then," he said once his laughter subsided, "here's a reward." He reached into his pocket and produced a cherry sucker and a crumpled cigarette. He held the cigarette toward Abby.

She shook her head. "I'm too young to smoke. And a reward for what?"

Applebraum's lips parted again. "For being the undisputed nutcracker in all of Laos. That's quite a feat for someone so young."

Abby sighed and leaned against the corner of his stall. "So you heard?"

The man nodded. "Aye, I heard."

Abby grabbed the squashed cherry candy, undid the wrapper and plopped it into her mouth. She puckered at the unexpected sourness dripping down her throat.

"So what's got the daughter of a trade councilman visiting us lowly peons? Need another pair o' shoes?"

Abby shook her head. "No. I needed the air. Mimi needed some things for my birthday party."

Applebraum leaned forward, a smile peeling back his parchment-thin lips. "Birthday, eh?" he said, raising an eyebrow. "Old enough to drink?"

"I'll be thirteen."

Abblebraum shifted and ran his fingers across silver eels' heads bobbing up and down in some kind of black ink. "I'll tell you a secret," he said, leaning in close, the stench of peppermint and smoke making Abby grimace, "Any age is drinking age once you've got a cold pint grasped tight in yer hand."

Abby shook her head. What was with all the adults in her life giving her poor advice? Still, Applebraum was true Laosian, wrinkled, rough around the edges, honest and even if he was a pervert about Mimi, she couldn't help but admire his openness.

"It's your birthday, girl?" A gruff voice asked.

Abby turned in the direction of the speaker and found a man of mocha skin and crimson eyes staring at her. Behind him and his tented stall of strange wares, she spied the tops of Margo and Mimi bobbing through the sea of vibrantly dressed Laosians as they strolled along the stalls of produce. Applebraum must have seen them too, because Abby caught him straightening himself up and running a dirt-caked hand through his greasy locks.

The Mayweathers strolled ahead of the maids, their long noses turned up as high as they could go. Polly Mayweather was the exception, as always. She walked behind her snotty siblings, her eyes glimmering with excitement.

Polly, Abby thought. The only good Mayweather.

"I'm sure you'd find a good gift from my stall," the voice called again, a hand the size of honey melon, waving Abby over. 

She felt unsure about the stranger. Sure, he was dressed in Laosian attire—leather pants dyed an expensive black with a white tunic, loose-fitting and low-collared—but something about him seemed off. His eyes were a harsh shade of red. Abby'd never seen eyes that color. Perhaps he was from the south.

Though the crimson-eyed man was interesting enough, it had been his booth that'd caught Abby's attention and propelled her feet forward. This man sold stones, ones starkly different from sea glass.

Where the common sea stone was pebble-sized and perfect for jewelry, embellishments, and ink, the man's stones were huge—the size of Abby's palm—and multi-tonal. The stones sat in direct sunlight, though they didn't sparkle or glisten. They remained dark, darker even than the shadows, as though they rejected the light.

"Are these magickal?" Abby asked.

She turned an orange and purple stone over in her palm, inspecting it for any sign of alchemic augmentation. None. The color was pure, undiluted by that eerie blue.

"They might be," the man said, hefting both elbows onto the table. At eye level with Abby, she couldn't help but step back. The man's gaze was unnerving. "Legend says they're from another world."

Abby's mouth flopped open. No where in any of the books she'd read had their ever been any mention of other worlds. She'd dreamed plenty about different worlds, but never thought they could possibly exist. The man chuckled, his canines popping out between his lips. They were sharp, like a bird's talon or an animal's claw.

"Don't tell me you're so small-minded you think this world is the only one that exists?" The man sighed and straightened himself as he ran a hand through his straight black locks. "And here I thought a girl about to turn a year older would be a year smarter."

Abby straightened herself and jutted her chin at this strange man's insult. "I am smart!"

The man chuckled. He had a month's worth of black stubble peppering his neck and jaw giving him an almost furry appearance. "Aye," he said, his eyes flitting toward Lucy and Sebbi. "What lovely cats."

"Th-thank you!" Abby said. "The one with the bow is Lucy and the one with the wild fur is Sebbi."

"Are they brothers?"

Abby smiled. There was nothing more she enjoyed talking about than her cats. "Yep. I think Lucy's a bit older, though I wouldn't know for sure. They were abandoned outside our house one night."

The man's smile grew and Abby could almost count every one of his teeth. "I bet it was a stormy night. Lots of lightning, eh?"

Abby stood stunned. How did this man know that? Was this another magick?

The man must have noticed her surprise because he chuckled and scratched his chin. "It's a gift." He narrowed his eyes and looked at Abby. She shied back, disliking his intensity.

"I bet you were born on a storm," he said.

Abby looked away and shook her head. "You're wrong. Mimi said the day I was born it'd been sunny, not a cloud in the sky." She grabbed the end of her knit and pulled. "Though it should have rained. Would have been more appropriate."

The man raised an eyebrow then glanced at his table. He plucked up one of his stones and held it out to her. "Here." The blood red stone was dappled with black spots that almost looked like liquid smoke the way they squirmed through the stone's insides. "Take it," he added, thrusting it toward her. Abby couldn't believe it. That stone had to be rare—she'd never seen anything like it before—and expensive, too expensive than what she'd saved and brought with her.

Abby looked from the beautiful stone to the man. She shook her head. "I couldn't possibly," she started, flashing the man an appreciative smile. "I don't have that kind of money."

The man shook his head and placed it Abby's hand. She jumped when she felt the stone pulse.

What in the world?

"Free of charge," he said. "Consider it a gift. Happy birthday, Miss Nutcracker."

Abby blinked. This man had overheard her speaking to Applebraum? Heat flooded her cheeks.

How embarrassing.

And just when she thought things couldn't get any more embarrassing, the last voice Abby wanted to hear weasled its way into her ears.

"Why Abbernathy Tells! Get away from those lie peddlers this instant." Any merchant who dared to trade in Mandarren Square's small magickal section was branded a lie trader in Mimi's eyes. Mr. Applebraum lied about the abilities of his pickled eel tonics. The red-eyed man, Mimi would think, lied about the nature of his stones. Magick itself was a lie; such feats couldn't possibly be real.

Abby pocketed the stone and turned. Mimi huffed toward her, basket swinging in a threatening manner, the Mayweathers in tow. Margo, red-faced and sweating, trudged behind the main group, her baskets weighed down by several honey melons and bundles of silverware.

Mr. Applebraum perked up as he watched Mimi approach with gross intensity. He stiffened, curled a few chest hairs around his finger that peeked out over his tunic, and beamed.

"There she be!" he yelled. "The most beautiful lass in the land, come to grace us with her presence."

Mimi froze to the spot and frowned. She sighed and motioned Abby over. "Come along, Miss Tells. Your father's treating us to lunch at Pemberly's."

Pemberly's Pub? Abby perked up. The pub on the northern side of the city had, hands down, the best fish stew in all of Mirea. Her stomach gurgled its approval.

Abby shrugged and turned back to the red-eyed man. "Well, bye," she said, patting her pocket. "Thanks again for the stone."

He smiled, teeth like fangs peeking between his lips. "May your birthday be one for the books."

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