Blythe's walls rose in my vision. The walls before had made the city snug, but now it was a loathsome barrier to our safety. We raced through a legion of campers comprised of those who couldn't afford the inn, or had arrived too late in the evening to enter the city on this day, or those who preferred the moon light. Their small campfires passed in blurs on either side of me, the savory smell of their cooking fires combined with the sickly scent of human occupation. Shouts and pointing fingers followed us. Some stood, staring into the darkness behind us imagining a horrid threat urging us forward. They would find nothing. Terror melted into confusion and gossip, Flatchert barely outpacing the rumors as they sprung from campsite to campsite like fleas.

The gate was closed, the moonlight highlighting its unforgiving iron bands. I remembered the guard's warning about letting visitors into the dungeon after sunset. I remembered the night I camped outside the city walls in my carriage. Blythe was a cautious city, but Thessa hadn't been safe despite that.

The real threat came not as a marauding army, but as an invited guest. I was sure they hadn't had to grab and steal Thessa away like someone had Mallow. They hadn't stolen at all. Like me, they had probably given Thessa tempting lies, empty flattery, promises with no foundation. It wouldn't be hard. She trusted people. She had many friends. And if a sorcerer paid attention to her, then she'd be sure to listen to whatever he said, such was her infatuation with the Enchanted. They were supposed to protect her, provide for her, not mangle her. Winsor spasmed with frigid coughing against my spine.

"Let us through, let us through!" Thessa screamed, her tiny voice buffeting against the wind that slapped against her as Flatchert hurtled forward. It rose above the clatter of the hooves, the cacophony of the curious crowd, more powerful than I imagined such a small, injured girl being capable of. The guards, already watching us with weapons drawn, gaped at each other in surprise upon hearing her voice.

"Thessa?" One called out, his sword arm going limp as he squinted.

"Yes! Open the door!" Thessa screamed, I felt her stomach muscles contract beneath my grip with the force of the shout. The guards scrambled over to the windows that led to the other side, shouting at the guards on the inside. The sound of the chain clicking under the stress thumped methodically with the guards grunts. Impatient, we did not stop. Flatchert ducked her head low to fit through the man sized opening. Shouts and cries came from the people in the street as they dove and darted to get out of the way of the barreling animal. I felt Flatchert jostle as her hoof clipped a too-slow man carrying a basket of cheeses, sending them scattering everywhere. I heard the guard call after us, woe instead of outrage in his voice.

"Thessa? What happened to you?"

"Where to now?" Thessa cried. Winsor's narrow fingers were limply entangled in the folds of my fabric instead of actively clutching. Each breath on my back was a small flurry of winter cold. My mind raced. I needed to get Winsor back to the manor where his parents were. They'd heal him. The other sorcerers, the many tourists and visitors in town, might hurt him now that he couldn't defend himself. Ricardo had convinced me that Winsor wasn't unpopular; he'd been tormented in some deeper, darker way. But his family was here. The manor was our destination for him... But what to do with the girl... they might not have time for her...

A glittering pool of water in the distance highlighted the Avalonry. They could help, if any of the icicles were home. The windows were dark. Ripples in the water caught my eye as a fish skimmed the pond's surface... Oh!

"Stop here," I ordered as we reached the ivory colored building. Thessa's small arms tugged on the reins and Flatchert gave a snort, coming to a sudden stop. I moaned from the shock, irritated that I wasn't numb to the pain yet. I used my good hand to untie the sash, and then shoved Thessa.

She cried out and flailed her arms, spilling from the saddle and into the small pond, no legs to wrap around the horse to stop herself. The water exploded upwards, and it felt good as it hit my hands and face and soaked through my pants. I was tempted to climb into the pool with her, to let the fins glance over my injuries and make me better.

The fish took to her, sliding against her. If Winsor's magic failed, there was a good chance she'd be healed. I sight counted all of my familiar fishy friends. There were less of them than before, but still enough to surround her, kissing the wounds. They were curious, and Thessa began to giggle. What a sweet child. Not horrified. Not blaming the fish for what became of her when they intermingled through forced magic.

"Winsor?" I touched his hand. It was like a stone unburied from beneath a snow drift, the cold trembled from it in waves. "Winsor, you can stop casting, she's with the healing fish. They're taking care of her."

"Ayhav," Winsor rasped. "Frost shock." He managed, forcing himself.

Ayhav? I have! He had stopped casting? And was still growing colder? Frost shock... I'd never seen a sorcerer experience it before. I wondered if I could shove him into the water too, but then... he wasn't injured. He was cold. This was different. I needed a sorcerer's expertise. I scooted forward, wincing, and took the reins up with my good hand.

I fixed my sights on the manor once again, urging Flatchert forward.

"Just a little bit longer. A little bit more and then we'll be good, okay? You saved Thessa. She's with the healing fish."

"Not casting..." Winsor's words slipped around my collar and ran down my spine like a drop of water off a hanging icicle. His hands were cinched loosely across my aching stomach, each point of contact on my body burning with the bruises of the mob's earlier beating, every single muscle throttled with pain with each bounce of Flatchert's hoofs against the pavement.

We were at the door the manor before the smell of the flowering trees registered. A small garden party was in the front lawn, colorful bands of celebrants arranged around dainty wrought iron tables. They were well illuminated, floating orbs swaying between the parties, casting flattering diffused light on them. A table near the path stopped mid-chatter as they gawked at us. Flatchert came to a stop, unsure of what to do when confronted with the closed door. I recognized Shician Lars, Wishid Fatima, and Azeria with her friends. Was everyone here except for Winsor's parents?

"Divinis?" I wheezed. An older man with fair skin and dark eyes walked up to me, obviously a sorcerer, but he was unfamiliar.

"Which one? I'm Divinis Dalus of the city of—"

Winsor's grip gave out and he slid off of Flatchert. I twisted and lunged after him, my hand getting tangled in the billowing fabric of the dark sleeves. A choir of gasps rose up. Winsor hit the ground with a soft thud, and I was yanked with him. I hit the ground much louder since I screamed as every injury was reignited. A larger crowd gathered, noise escalated as they all talked at once, but none of them cast.

"...is that Divinis's Wenrick's boy?"

"Mister Azark?" Lena hurried over, and then gasped, her pinkie finger grazing the bottom edge of her monocle. "And, Winsor. Oooh the Divinis is not going to like this!"

"What happened, did he die again?" An unfamiliar voice spoke, choked and clipped with wealth. All I saw was the stars spinning around, the moon like a milky center.

"No, no, he's alive but bitten with frost shock."

"Someone absorb it!"

"Not me, I'm chilly already. I've been eating all night without utensils because you all were doing it. I said it was foolish but nobody listened—"

"I'm providing the lights, someone else should be helpful for a change."

"I can't; my magic's all being used up on my horses. We rode three straight days to get here. If I stop casting, they'll fall dead from exhaustion."

"I'm already assisting the Reglar family by handling floors 10 through 13 of the inn. I'm trembling with chill even in this summer heat."

"I'll help—"

"I heard he's cursed; what if it transfers?"

"He's cursed?! Uh..."

"His Assistant is dying too, normal injuries." Someone chanted a spell and my wounds healed again. As they did, I heard a familiar voice, although less scolding than before.

"Let me through, let me through curse you- Winsor! He's freezing!"

A... Azeria? I saw her ample body now at the front of the crowd, which had backed away warily from the young sorcerer. She fell to her knees, not minding the grass and dirt that marred the black silk dress draped around her body. Her arms swept beneath Winsor's small frame, and she lifted him closer to her, pressing her face against his.

"Enchanted One, no! He's cursed. You can't afford any afflictions so close to your Proving." Her Assistant Tyas wrung the bow at the front of her dress in anxiety.

Azeria didn't release Winsor, but rather pulled him tighter in a panic.

"I have to risk it. I failed to help him last time. I have to help him this time." Her words grew quieter. "He's lifelessly cold."

The sharp angles of Winsor's face pressed against the soft flesh of her cheeks as she tenderly pulled him close. She was the opposite of the cold and distant woman outside the cabaret. In this instance, I saw selflessness in her body language. So it was not Winsor himself that repulsed her from him, but some outside circumstance. When there was no risk of his fixation with her deepening, she was intimate and openly caring. The others were all willing to let him die; she stepped forward and took action despite the potential risk.

"Restore the heat of life to Winsor's body, let the healing be not shoddy!" She rubbed a hand on Winsor's face, her own cheeks burned pink. She shuddered, but the flakes of icy white that crusted on Winsor's skin melted away. Her large arms wrapped around him tighter, and she chanted again, intensifying the effect.

"Were you able to take some of his unwarmth?" Lena asked, resting her hand on Azeria's shoulder, crushing the puffy ruffled fabric of her sleeve. Azeria's teeth were chattering. Winsor's chest rose and fell softly beneath the thick dark fabric, and his hand twitched. It was working!

"I feel like... like death is crawling down my throat." Azeria unfolded her arms and lay Winsor back onto the ground, a hand coming up to cover her mouth. Her painted nails twitched. "I... queasy." Then she spun and crawled over to the flowering bushes. Her head, adorned with precious jewels, silken scarves, and fresh cut flowers woven throughout the meticulously styled locks, disappeared behind the foliage. Retching sounds followed.

"See, told you it was transferable. You're probably cursed, just like him now."

"Quiet you cowards," Azeria's miserable voice wavered from the bushes. "We can't -urk- let him die," Her argument was cut short by another wave of violent retching. Lena stayed by her, saying soothing things but not casting to help the situation any. Azeria's other friends, the elven women about her age with the armor accessories, were laughing. Great friends. Her Assistant tittered nervously like a frantic hummingbird.

Winsor groaned on the ground and curled into the fetal position. He was more lively than before, though still not awake. Azeria had stymied death for at least a few more moments. No one at the party was even seeing me anymore. I was essentially invisible compared to the interest level of a freezing heir and a vomiting elven sorceress. What should I do? I pulled out the map again. The napkin was blank. All of his spells had fallen, even those he had forgotten about. That included the one on me that kept me out of the manor. I could utilize this distraction and escape to search Reglar manor unbothered. Which is what I should do.

"I don't understand," Azeria wailed. "I used to absorb my siblings frost all the time when they were Proving training. This should be... hhhhurrrkkk." Words cut off again. "No... problem."

"Enchanted Ones, help me escort Winsor to his room. He has a hearth and a warm bed there. He will recover quickly!" I said. The others considered the proposition dubiously. The stomach-emptying spewing the last person who helped Winsor was engaged in wasn't doing much to dissuade the entire 'Winsor's cursed' rumor, which bubbled through the air on snippets of gossip. After a second of gaze and responsibility averting silence, Azeria tried to get to her feet. She quickly collapsed. Lena handed her a handkerchief. Azeria scowled at her.

"If you really want to help, Lena, get Winsor to his room."

"But I—"

"Do it!" Azeria barked.

"But the curse—"

"You think Divinis Wenrick is going to want to keep running this city with no heir? Are you stupid? If Winsor dies, you'll have to move, and you won't be welcome in my town." Azeria's voice was still weak, but no longer interrupted by retching. Pale and shaking, she stared down Lena.

"You're quite right, Azeria." Shician Lars decided to join finally. Was he taking responsibility? "Rorona, I believe you know Winsor's Assistant. Please help escort the young sorcerer to his room. Be quick about it."

"Yes, Shician Lars." Rorona emerged from the crowd, her flowery garb bouncing in the ambient magic light. She stepped up. "What shall I do?"

"We'll pick him up. You get the arms, and I suppose that leaves me with the legs," I said. She nodded and crouched down, sweeping Winsor against her body from beneath his armpits. I did the same. He wasn't too heavy, even for someone who wasn't notoriously strong, like me.

We hurried through the door, which another Assistant held open for us. I didn't need to give Rorona directions to his room. It was unlocked, and Rorona bumped the door aside with her bottom. Dogs churned around our legs, yipping and crying for attention eagerly. Their swinging tails kept rhythm on my calf as we navigated to the cave-like bed. I slipped Winsor down onto the soft feather-down mattress, nestling him in the sheets. Rorona grabbed another robe from Winsor's wardrobe and ran it over his body, swiping up the last of the snow and ice that clung to him. Then we wrapped him up. She took Winsor's hands into hers and rubbed them.

"Get his toes, the extremities are vulnerable. Lars lost a pinkie once."

"Right." I peeled off one boot. I took a small peek at the tongue of it, and noticed that Bernard had signed it like he had Mallow's. A gift? Or had Winsor begrudgingly acknowledged Bernard's talent and asked for a pair? I tossed the fine shoe aside and rubbed the pale toes, which were still stone cold in my hands.

"This is worse than Lars got yesterday when he was showing off for that Charmster woman," Rorona said, her fingers working each of Winsor's digits to warm them. "What was Winsor doing? Was he showing off for a girl too? I thought the only lady for him was Azeria; at least that's what the gossip says." She was joking but her voice was tense. She didn't want a sorcerer to die under her care.

"He was in a way. He got like this healing a young girl," I said. "She was dying, and he tried to keep her stable until we could heal her."

"Did she die? She's not here with you..." Rorona's eyes widened in concern. I noticed they were bigger than before. Enchanted lashes? For the garden party, to impress Lars friends that he had such a pretty Assistant? She also was wearing much more make-up, the dark lining making her eyes comically large rather than alluring. Her painted lips were a parody of a frown. It was hard to tell the specific colors in the dim light of the room, the windows all closed and the hearth more embers than roaring fire, charring everything orange or black.

"No, no." Relief washed through me finally, making me giddy. She wasn't dead. She wasn't dead and that was amazing. Pride actually inched its way past the miserable layer of self-loathing I'd been fortifying the last few days. Is this what legitimate healers felt like? The Mediceum graduates? I envied them.

"We dropped her off along the way at the Avalonry."

"The Avalons aren't there. They're partying like everyone else." Rorona frowned..

"In the Avalonry pond. With the healing fish." Good to keep pride in check.

This made Rorona laugh. It was a goofy, snorting laugh that made me smile. Lars could dress her up but she wasn't an Arcanacrat, she was an ungifted from a small town.

"That's one way of doing it. I suppose you didn't have many options with him in this state." She rubbed a hand on his nose, and Winsor snorted irritably. "Oh quiet you baby. I'm making sure it doesn't fall off." Like a sleeping dog, Winsor twisted a little to try and get away from the fingers that worried his nose. He tucked his chin to his chest. Rorona grabbed at the hood on the back of his cloak. She teasingly tucked it over his head and popped it around his nose. He squirmed and unstuck it, and it fell back to his forehead.

"I'm going to go stoke the fire, get it roaring in here. We won't know if his core has reheated to normal or not until he complains about it being too hot. That's the only way I can tell with Shician Lars anyway." She rose, the petals of her skirt unfurling and fluttering behind her as she moved the wood from the pile beside the hearth to the red embers. She breathed on it, coaxing the heat out of the ashes like she had from Winsor's body.

Winsor's toes felt lukewarm now. Azeria really had taken off the worst edge of it, but he'd needed more attention to stabilize. I crossed the room to his overstuffed wardrobe and riffled in a drawer until I found two thick, wooly socks. I slipped them onto his feet, before wrapping him again in a sheet.

"So..." Rorona looked at me from her position beside the fireplace. The bouncing light made her usually light brown bangs orange. "...Fushon of Merode isn't making it, is he?"

"Rorona, it's been a long day," I said, busying my hands tucking Winsor in properly. My heart ached. I used to tuck in Mallow, when she was little. I used to tuck her in nice and snug, and she'd coo her clumsy, childish thank yous. What was I doing here? Why was I helping Winsor? I knew he had her. I knew this Manor had her, alone and scared somewhere.

"Azark, I heard... some gossip at the inn. Potions?"

"Rorona, no. Not now, please."

Rorona lurked by the fireplace worriedly.

"When... I healed you the first time, was it because you lied to people? Because you hurt them and they hurt you back?"

"Rorona, I..." I trailed off. I took her in, standing by the fireplace. I imagined if I really had been an Assistant. If I worked honestly with Shician Lars, and every day I got to see her smile. But if that was a reality, she wouldn't smile every day. Sometimes she'd frown. Sometimes she'd cry. I couldn't have friends like her. Women and men had wanted to travel with me before, like Winsor had wanted with me. For a fraction of a breath, I desperately wanted to go with Rorona. To ask her if Lars needed one more Assistant. But the fantasy passed quickly. I was struggling to even tell her the truth this once. To do it every single hour for every single day for the rest of my life.... I could do it this once, though. Just this once.

"No. Not that time. It really was a fight that broke out at the tournament. I was knocked over and hit my head on the benches, and then either a Boeren or an Avalon stepped on me. I really can't remember."

"And... other times? This... last time? The time the Potioneer was talking about?"

"I did sell some fake potions. And some customers did get angry. And they did hurt me, " I said. She was tense, her shoulders rose as she inhaled. And then she exhaled, her shoulders dropped, and she laughed into her hand. I rose an eyebrow.

"What?"

"I thought you were going to lie to me," she said. "I don't know. I guess I'm really relieved that you didn't lie to me, that's all. I was so sure you were going to. You lie to everyone. Does... he know?" She gestured to Winsor.

"Winsor? Not the specifics, but he knows I'm not 100% on the up and up. He's always calling me a liar and a fraud." Oh, and stupid, but that didn't seem relevant to the current conversation. "I think he kind of likes it." We both exchanged amused distaste, like when a friend calls you over to look at something intentionally gross or awkward and you're a breath away from breaking into laughter. "My shady, mysterious past makes him feel like he's living dangerously."

"He certainly is, if this is how the both of you end up." I heard the warmth on her voice. "It's none of my business, but I'd recommend an immediate break up." Rorona had successfully urged a tail of flame out from the embers, and it was spreading across the wood. It smelled good, better than usual campfire. I wondered if they had seasoned the logs or had aromatics already in the ashes.

She moved back over to the bed, now even more of a silhouette with the fire billowing behind her. She settled down on the edge of the mattress, and petted one of the narrow black dogs as it wriggled for her attention.

"So... I guess the only important question is, are you going to do it again?"

"What?"

"...sell fakes?"

"Why do you care?"

"I defended you." She took one of the dog's heads into her hands and played with its ears. It's tongue lolled happily at the attention. "From the accusations, but the evidence is irrefutable when it comes from the source."

"Why? Why defend me?"

"I don't know. You're funny and cute." She paused her petting. The dog whined softly until she resumed. "Uh, maybe not cute, too old for cute. Not handsome either though, that pointy jaw of yours..." She contemplated the dog. Then she freed a finger from worrying the floppy ear and snapped. She grinned at me. "Funny and weasel-like. There we go."

"I think I preferred handsome, even cute. I would accept the indignity of cute."

"You don't get to pick." She petulantly stuck out her tongue, and then went back to playing with the dog. "So... in the future, are you going to do it again?"

"It's what I've always done," I said. That wasn't a good answer. I wondered where Winsor's parents were. I wished they were here, bursting through the door. I'd never really considered my potion selling a choice before. It was the only thing that made sense for me. Lying was the only way not to starve. Except... except...

"Winsor offered me a job, even though I am a phony."

Rorona's head popped up in surprise.

"You actually can read?"

"Hnn, not much. A little. I can navigate a Mediceum manual, follow recipes for tonics. I use them as a base for my fake potions." Self-consciously I glanced up at the books loading the shelfs around us. The titles were snippets of sound, some of the words incomprehensible to me. "I imagine he'd mostly have me doing practical things. He wants to travel, see the CMA from coast to coast. He thinks I'd be a good guide since I've been pretty much everywhere."

"Oh that's great. I take back the breakup thing." She scratched one of the dogs behind the ear, and its foot kicked the floor. "An end to criminal days, a colorful past put behind you."

"Except."

"Except?"

"I'm not popular, the places I've been."

"What you did was despicable. Still... there's always disguise magic," she said. "This flawless skin? This is Lar's adjustment. I have acne scars like you wouldn't believe. I was the pimpliest girl in the village for a while..."

"I believe it. You don't have the charm or grace of a natural beauty."

She grabbed one of Winsor's smaller pillows and chucked it at me. I caught it and slipped it under my elbow, reclining triumphantly. She rolled her eyes.

"But seriously, I'm sure it'd be easy for a Divinis's kid to disguise you. Lars is really weak compared to Winsor and he keeps up illusions on us all the time. Sometimes he changes my skin color, or my hair, or my—" She stopped and I stared at her. The earlier conversation about Winsor marrying his Assistant scampered through my mind and I struggled to keep a frown off my lips. Lars may be Enchanted but was driven by the same simple urges that drove men like me. Rorona smiled and broke off my thoughts. "And people love a good reform story. You'll be fine."

"But..."

"But...?"

I couldn't talk about Mallow. Despite all this, the map had said that what I sought was in the Manor. Mallow was here. Winsor had kidnapped her and he was my enemy. Whatever duplicity I was capable of, he was enacting tenfold.

"I just don't think it'll work out."

Rorona frowned, sad. Not angry. Just... sad.

"That will happen sometimes too." She stood. She was trying too hard to sound casual. "Lars is probably wondering what happened to me. I better return to the party and tell everyone that the Age Day boy isn't dead quite yet."

"Why did Lars offer help?" I asked.

"Nn, it's not because he suddenly became a nice person. There's this absurd rumor that Winsor's inheriting Blythe. I mean, he is, someday, but not anytime soon." She waved a hand through the air. "The Divinis still has a few decades left at least. Shician Lars just wants Winsor to owe him one."

"Not a bad plan." I grinned. "I guess Lars isn't as foolish as I thought."

"No, I suppose not. " She lingered in the doorway, her hands fussed around knee height to keep the dogs from slipping out the room around her. "Will... you be at the dance tomorrow?"

"I'm not sure." Hopefully I'd have Mallow and be out of town by then.

"If you are, and Lars is suitably distracted, I'd really like it if we danced together."

"I don't really know any formal dances. Phony, remember? Don't attend a lot of Arcanacrat balls."

"I'll teach you. Just dress nicely, and I'll take care of the rest. It'd be nice to meet when you're not covered in dirt and blood." She laughed again, and then she was gone, the heavy door slamming shut behind her. The whining of the dogs kept the air lively, but it felt too quiet all the same.