We don’t steal from the river.


    The banks are hushed in their hour of reverence. Heavy clouds roll in, their underbellies bruised with coming rain. No wind stirs the mist resting above the water.


    From the old stone bridge, I flick a faded silver coin over the half-wall. The faint glow of the hungry depths swallows it. I lean forward on my elbows, shawl damp from the mist, watching as it joins thousands of others at the bottom, all shimmering in the fading dawn. A pleased chill winds through the untouched mist, threading through my lengthy hair before it dissolves. The scent of rain clings to the air. I breathe it in, smiling.


    A group of children play by the water’s edge. The soot-covered matron watches, hunched near her coals, brow creased, hands busy. She slaps dough on the smoldering embers, flipping the half-cooked pieces with deft, time-worn hands. My belly groans.


    The children do what they always have. They shriek and chase and laugh, crafting their own world from nothing. A small boy who knows better, one less interested in rocks and sticks, kneels down, the river lapping at his toes.


    He dips his arm into the shallows.


    Cold air hangs in my throat. The matron stiffens and cranes her neck, mouth firm. I lift my eyes to the clouds, and she does the same. The boy reaches for a handful of coppers and the matron starts toward him, calling his name. The coins slip through his fingers. He tries again. And again. Finally, he huffs and sits in the rocks, pulling his arm out empty-handed.


    Good boy, leave them.


    The water stills. The other children’s laughter drifts away, fading under the soft murmur of the breeze.


    Then, a ripple. A single copper rises. My heart drops and the matron freezes, eyes fixed on the boy.


    He takes it happily, a joyful smile streaking across his face. We both let out shaky sighs and she rushes to his side. She bows her head to the water, pressing a kiss to her fist. I do the same. With a sharp tug, she pulls him up, scolding him all the while. The other children are called home, giggling quietly.


    A swollen cloud smothers the sun and the matron hurries the children inside a leaning cottage. Its door slams shut behind them.


    As the light withers, blackness devours the ethereal glitter. In its place, hundreds of pale, bloated husks unmoor themselves, drawn toward the warmth beyond the glassy divide. The living above, the dead below. One grins, lips peeling back over rotting teeth, my coin pinched tight in its fingertips. I stare into its engorged, clouded eyes.


    We don’t steal from the river.


    And the river leaves us be.


    I clamp my eyes shut and turn my back to the hideousness. A familiar face joins me on the bridge with a mud-squelched step and outstretched arms.


    “Catherine, darling?” A rhythmic pulsing flares in my temples as she continues. “Two days I’ve been wading through mud. Were you hiding from me?”


    She closes the distance between us, an oiled-leather cloak draped around her petite but sturdy frame. I give her a tired smile. “Not well enough, it seems.”


    Copper-dark hair spills over my face as she draws me in, the strands steeped in sage oil and lemongrass. Part of me wants to bury my face in it, but I pull away.


    “Fornthveit’s a shit-hole,” Izzy says, a local frowns at her as he passes. “Oh, do stop pouting. World needs shit-holes. Otherwise, how would we know how good we have it?”


    I cross my arms over myself, ignoring her antics. “What did you want, Izzy? Must be important if you couldn’t write it down.”


    Izzy glances over the bridge, then recoils. “Well, that’s fucking unsettling.” She scowls, stepping back. “Charming. That normal?”


    “Izzy…” I insist.


    “Fine. We should find somewhere private. Away from the…” She gestures at the river. Then, to the rest of Fornthveit.


    I nod toward the other side of the bridge. “This way.”


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    The pulsing grows heavier as we walk toward the city proper. I tighten my threadbare, lavender shawl, bones pressing against cloth, and the chill finds me anyway.


    Izzy steps in close to my side, her shoulder brushing against mine.


    “You don’t have to stand so close. I’ve got things under control now.”


    She raises an eyebrow and offers a lopsided grin. “Maybe I’m feeling nostalgic.”


    “Well, don’t.”


    Izzy sniffs the air. “Fish and shit. What a lovely welcome.”


    I roll my eyes. Nostalgia, indeed.


    Ramshackle storefronts and sagging cottages jut from the earth like splintered ribs, holding the market together. Vendors and stalls sprawl out into a bazaar, its relative chaos controlled by the regulars. Haggling, hawking, laughing, shouting, it is Fornthveit’s lifeblood. And no place for someone like me. An angry throb replaces the pulsing, spreading from my temples through my crown.


    I clench the pendant around my neck tight enough that my knuckles burn. It is a simple thing, a twisted metal knot—a gift no one would want. A small act to calm my nerves. I weave in between fishmongers and crafters, focusing on my breath. I feel Izzy’s concern boring into me, but I keep my shoulders back, chin high.


    I turn my head for just a moment and a broad shoulder slams me into a stall. My grip draws a groan from the driftwood. I struggle to regain balance. Briny slivers dig into my nails. The brute mutters something—but the words are lost.


    The throbbing is a drum now, pounding in my blood vessels. She is beneath it, waiting.


    “Swine!” Izzy snarls, before turning to me. “Is it happening?”


    I suck in air and my vision strains. “I’m alright.” The words grind out of me. “Was my fault.”


    Izzy takes my hand, giving me a reassuring wink. Always that ridiculous wink. She tugs me through the tangle, “breathe,” she mouths. And I do, feeling the crookedness of her broken fingers in mine, noticing that they cannot hold me tightly. They haven’t, for a long time. I snap away and find the long uneven scar at the base of her neck glaring at me. It was an accident. More unwanted gifts. The crowd presses in and my muscles lock, pushing back against the chaos. I grit my teeth and force through until we emerge on the other side of it.


    I swallow hard against the beating invasion of my skull. “It’s not far. The tree line, just past it.”


    We leave the city behind, our boots sinking into the waterlogged field. The pain subsiding the farther out we go.


    Lightning calls, thunder answers, and the rain follows. We hurry into the trees to my little shack, my solace. It is a few nails and a strong gust from squalor. Tattered old fox furs line the cracks, trapping their musty aroma inside. The last dregs of oak smoke waft out from the precarious slant of my stone fire-pit.


    With trembling hands, I feed the last hot ashes some kindling, a dull clack echoes in the small space as I pile more wood. The flame exhales and rises back to life, warming our bones. I light a few candles. Their glow flickers over Izzy’s freckles, the fire snapping between us.


    “You live in this?”


    “It suits me.”


    “Why here? Why Fornthveit?”


    Matted coal-like threads cling to my face and I brush them away. “Because nowhere else would have me.”


    The throbbing in my head wanes and I settle into an aged chair, its frame muttering into the floorboards. Izzy rolls her pack off her shoulder. A thud. Then the shuffling of glass, parchment, and other necessities.


    “That river isn’t natural.” She digs through her pack, shoving aside vials and rations with a grunt.


    I study Izzy, wondering what she hopes to gain here. “Neither am I.”


    “Spare me your brooding, Cat. I haven’t the stomach for it.” Izzy snaps, looking up through her lashes. She sits upright and sighs, eyes lingering on the deep grooves cut into the table, the broken furniture, the holes in the walls. “This is your control, then?”


    “Yes, Izzy.” My throat tenses, heat spreads into my ears. “Tell me, how’s the hand?”


    She tucks her left hand behind her, but it conceals nothing, I recall the moment her bones snapped in my grip.


    I continue. “Had it under control then, too. Or, perhaps—


    “Shut the fuck up, Catherine. I get it.”


    “Do you?” I raise my voice, standing now. “If you really did get it, you wouldn’t be here.”


    “Oh, my—done with your little tantrum yet?” Her body is rigid, unflinching. Daring me to say things I want to, but shouldn’t.


    The drumming returns, kicking behind my teeth. The rage dulls it just enough to ignore. My nails pierce into my palms.


    “Tantrum?” I step closer, voice low. “You’ve seen my tantrums, Izzy.” I tap my neck in the location of her scar.


    “If you’re looking for fear, love, you won’t find any.” Izzy pulls out a great leather-bound stack of papers and shoves it into my chest, hard. “I have seen your tantrums. That’s why I’m here.”


    “What’s this?”


    “Maybe nothing, but come to that Silver-place tomorrow. We’ve got a client to meet.”


    “The Silver Scale? Izzy, I don’t—


    “Just speak with them.” She taps her scar. Our scar. “You owe me.”


    The documents hit the floor with a dull thunk, I sit back down, flicking my gaze between them and her.


    I do.