One by one, the grizzled man set the coins down on the stained counter, laying them out in a line. Her ears rang with the satisfying clink of each piece echoing off the dingy storeroom walls. Not just coppers and silvers either, but real gold pieces too. Vera licked her lips with anticipation. Not bad for a day's work, she had to say. 

"There's your take," the man said, putting down one last copper and pushing the pile across the table.

Vera leapt to her feet and slammed her hands down onto the old table. "Are you trying to cheat me, Brun? You know I know my numbers just fine, and I know damn well that gold pocket watch alone is worth twice that!"

The old smuggler scoffed, folding his arms over his muscled chest. "You'd be right if it were new. But it's a custom job, monogram an' coat of arms an' all. The gentleman you nicked it off would have me dancin' a jig by week's end if I tried sellin' it like this. I'll have to get it reworked before I can sell it, and that's comin' out of my pocket."

Grumbling, she sat back down on the stool, black hand-shaped scorch marks left behind on the rough wood next to decades of beer stains.

"You best learn to keep your temper in check young lady, or they'll have you rounded up for witchcraft some day," Brun chided. "Especially with those fell eyes o' yours."

"Hah! I'd like to see them try!" When Vera saw wasn’t going to get him to budge, she started gathering up the coins, tattered sleeves protecting her skin from the splinters as she swept her arm across the table. 

Brun looked down on her and shook his head. "You're hardly the first witch this town's e'er seen. They know what to do with your kind. Won't have so much lip when you're collared and branded I bet."

She opened up the money pouch on her belt and slipped the pieces in, scowling. "Bet you'd like that, wouldn't you, old man? You don't think they'd be able to torture your name out of me?"

He rolled his eyes. This isn't the first time they’d had this conversation, and he was well aware there was no real bite to her words. "You know I don't want to see anythin' happen to you, Vera. You know damn well you're one o' my most lucrative suppliers. But you also know that you're a thrice-damned fool struttin' about showin' off like you do. One o' these days you're gonna get yourself into a right mess that your blood can't get you out of."

"Yeah, yeah, I get it. Something something careful, something something you're just a kid." Vera tucked her belt in carefully above the hem of her top to hide the bulge of the coins. She figured that It’s much easier to hide things away like that as a scrawny girl than a fat man. Thanks to that, along with the fact that she definitely didn’t look rich with her ratty old blouse and mud-stained trousers, she didn’t have to worry much about having her money stolen away by someone else. Satisfied, she hopped off of the stool and made her way to the exit. "See you next week, old man. I've got a big job coming up, so make sure you have enough money waiting for me!"

She thought she could almost taste the exasperation rolling off of him as she strode out victoriously, the comforting weight of wealth held tight against her body. For all she gave Brun a hard time, she was fond of him and he hadn't crossed her yet. Vera had decided years ago that somewhere in his shriveled heart, he must actually really give a shit about the kids who filled his pockets, the sentimental old bastard. ‘One of the only ones who treated me right, that’s for damned sure,’ she thought. She’d have thought that would have gotten a knife in his back by now, being so soft. But somehow he'd managed to stay alive despite his business of choice, and nobody had given him up. There'd be a damned lot more dead kids on the streets without Brun putting food in their mouths, and there's not a one of them who would turn on him, torture or not. Vera absolutely wouldn’t. A reliable fence was worth more than gold.

The moment the door swung open, the foul stench of the docks hit her in earnest: horrible and revolting and familiar. Brun seemed to fancy himself some sort of nob, burning imported spices or something to try and keep the smell out. Not that it did him much good, with his storehouse backed up alongside the fish plant and all. It was the perfect place to hide his business. The alley out of the back entrance was blocked up by crates to hide all the comings and goings, so you had to scramble up and over the pile to get in or out. It was a narrow squeeze at the top for Vera, as the young woman was a good bit older than most of Brun's suppliers by several years. Another of Brun’s tricks, of course. There's no way a guard in bulky armor could make it through over the top. More than enough time for Brun to hide the evidence if anyone came to clear it out.

She had made it about halfway out of the docks, twisting and turning through the maze of back alleys created by the haphazard growth of the docks district, before she ran into trouble. She had been more than a little bit distracted at the time, idly running her hand along the brickwork and fantasizing about what she was going to do with her haul. She was thinking about getting a new pair of shoes when she turned a corner and nearly ran headfirst into a familiar gang of thugs hanging in the alleyway. She cursed herself mentally. ‘Damn it, look at me stumbling about like a half-blind feckless halfwit distracted by her first silver.’

Unfortunately, they all noticed her before she could make a stealthy exit back the way she came. The men’s faces took on disgusting leers as they moved to block the path. ‘Should have known better than to feel good about something, that's just my luck,’ she thought. Her hand went for her knife before any of the overgrown boys had a chance to do anything more.

Vera could see the ringleader opening his mouth, like as not to say some smug nonsense, so she cut him off. "No, Hann, no. We're not doing this." Seeing the expression on the insufferable git’s face, seemingly thrown off his stride when she stole his opening, she kept going. "Just let me through. We both know you don't have the balls for proper robbery, which is why you mess with Brun's kids. And if you can't take a coachman, you know you can't take me."

"And you know you could never make it as a whore, no matter how you dress like one, so you're still thieving for the old man like a little brat," he fired back, and his gang all laughed. Vera gritted her teeth, trying not to lash out, trying not to give him any satisfaction. Hann saw it anyways, the bastard, and he grinned that same awful grin he’d wear when he used beat her senseless for her dinner. He’d always had more height and muscle than her, and the difference had only grown over the years. She used to be an easy target, back then. Not anymore.

“Doubt the sailors would have much coin for you once they saw what you had under your skirts,” Hann continued. “Unless some of them have a taste for boys too.”

Vera had her knife up and out before she knew it. Oily wisps started leaking between her dark-skinned fingers, twisting and coiling around the blade. She let her hair dissolve a little more too for the intimidating effect, her tangled black strands fading into an indistinct, smoldering haze pouring over her shoulders. A few of the newer members of his gang were reaching for their own weapons, but the others faltered. The ones who recognized what was going on. The ones who had a chance to taste what she could do first-hand when they were all snot-nosed street kids. “Not another word, if you know what’s good for you,” she warned.

Hann laughed and stepped forwards, made bold by either his mates or the alcohol on his breath. "What's wrong? Can't you take the truth Vic-"

With a shriek of rage, the power inside her boiled over, releasing a roiling black flood towards him. It struck with solid force unlike any smoke of this world, crushing his body against the wall and squeezing the air out of his lungs before he could finish that hated word. The rest of them scattered, running down the alley and away, unwilling to face an enraged witch to free their leader. Wide-eyed, his confidence running down his leg, he looked at Vera with terror as she stalked towards him.

"What's wrong, Hann?" she cackled, turning his own words back on him. "Did you think that you could take me now, because you have a few more inches on me? Did you forget what I could do? Your memory must be pretty terrible, because you keep forgetting my name." Her grin turned predatory as she got in his face, raising her knife to his throat as he tried to squirm free from the fell magic's grasp. She squeezed the smoke tighter, and thought she might have heard a bone pop as he groaned breathlessly in pain.

Before he could react, she raised her knee upwards sharply up into his manhood, then stretched a bit further to whisper into his ear. "My name is Vera. Remember for next time, alright?" She finally released him then, the smoke dissipating into the air as he fell limp onto the ground, gasping in pain. She stilled her hair and stowed her knife as she strolled off, not waiting for a response. 

‘Better make myself scarce in case any guards turned up,’ she figured. ‘Not that they'd ever given any care for street rats getting beaten before.’ Her skin was crawling and her stomach churned at his words, but she had not a scratch or bruise on her this time. And even better, she hadn’t had to give up a single copper. ‘Definitely better to be on the winning side.’

***

The tempo slowed as she moved into the final movement of the piece, delicately plucking the metal harp strings with her perfectly trimmed nails. Looking up from her sheet music, Adeline caught sight of her tutor idly nodding his head along with the beat in the manner of a conductor. She wasn’t entirely sure if he consciously realized he was doing so, but it made for a convenient guide. 

Velasco, her tutor, was overall a quite personable man despite his numerous eccentricities. She recalled when he first arrived at the estate and how, on account of his being a foreigner with little familiarity with the local customs, he seemed initially rather bewildered by the seeming conflict between Adeline’s interest in learning the harp and her outright refusal to allow her fingers to be marred in the process. He didn’t understand how improper it would be to allow her skin to become calloused like a common labourer, even while engaging in appropriately feminine pursuits such as music. However, after only a modicum of explanation, he quickly proved himself to be worth his stipend by adapting a style from a distant isle he had crossed in his travels, one which used carefully sculpted fingernails to pick the strings. 

Adeline hoped that the peculiar choice for a woman's instrument, coupled with her well-practiced skill in its playing, would allow her to compensate for her advanced age and nevertheless stand out amongst the teeming masses of mediocre flautists and violists when the Comte de Châtillion deemed her to be presentable in court.

She stumbled on the arpeggio in the next measure, distracted by thoughts of that man. A nearly imperceptible mistake to which she was careful not to draw any more attention, but a quick upwards glance revealed her tutor had noticed by the slight wince around his eyes. ‘Damnation,’ she cursed internally. She had been flawless up until that point to her own reckoning. Doing her best to set aside her external frustrations for the moment, she returned her focus to the piece.

The third movement was solemn and contemplative, albeit periodically subverted by the occasional touch of whimsy in the eclectic rhythms. Having shed itself of the trepidation of the first movement and the frantic energy of the second, it emerged as a thoughtful reflection upon itself as a whole, incorporating novel variations on the motifs of the first two movements to produce something entirely new. It was a shining example of the Eastern style of his own composition, or so Velasco claimed. Of course, in his typically peculiar fashion, he had refused to name the piece he had written for her. Instead, he insisted that pieces written in the East were named by their players upon prolonged meditation on their meaning. To be perfectly honest, Adeline could never tell with certainty whether he was telling the truth or constructing elaborate jokes at her expense, but the courtiers would hardly know any better. It would be a fascinating piece of trivia even if false, adding to the novelty of the performance.

The final measures of the piece resolved into an uplifting harmonious chord. She allowed it to ring freely, resonating in the small room and fading naturally as the strings stilled. Velasco rose to his feet with almost rowdy applause, loudly exclaiming his compliments to her chagrin. "Wonderful, wonderful! To think that it has been only half a year of teaching you! Your progress has been simply astounding."

"Sir," Adeline said, hesitantly, "you do know that it has been nearly a full year since you arrived at our estate and began my instruction." The fact was so entirely self-evident that she knew full well that he had some jest in mind, but she was not entirely certain what form it would take. Perhaps it was a veiled critique of her skill, that he thought she should have made double the progress in the same period of time?

"But you see,” he retorted, the cocky grin not budging, “though it has been a year, you have not truly spent a year of time learning the harp, have you Adeline?"

Ah, of course. Heat rose to her cheeks unbidden as she understood the true meaning of his words, her pale skin surely betraying her embarrassment. “No, sir.”

“Ah, mademoiselle,” the bard shook his head dramatically in dismay. “How many times must I entreat you to simply call me Velasco?”

“At least one more, I should think,” she replies, smiling. He was so averse to any sort of title that Adeline never tired of his amusing protestations, and insisted upon calling him ‘sir’ purely to elicit them. It was only fair to give him a measure of his own medicine, she felt.

Velasco had been brought onto the estate's staff to make up for the deficiencies in her feminine skills. Normally, such education would have been passed on from mother to daughter, but given that was not an option in Adeline’s case, the Comte turned to a foreigner who would not shame him for her inadequacy or sabotage her studies to bring the house of Châtillion into disrepute for some political scheme. Though somewhat improper for a man to teach a woman in matters of the arts, it was the only remaining option for him to remedy her deficiencies before she was completely unmarriageable, given that Adeline was already well into her 17th summer at the time. It also allowed him to publicly claim to have retained a famous foreign musician in his employ and, through the extravagance, elevate his social standing.

As Adeline began collecting up the sheet music, Velasco followed up with another question. “And your father, has he responded to your request?” 

“The Comte has not yet deigned to grant me a reply, though I have faith that he will send word before the festival begins proper,” she replied, stowing the pages neatly and in order within their case.

He sighed loudly. “Such a shame. It’s not right to keep a girl locked up. A pretty girl like you should be out experiencing the world, experiencing new things, people, romance!”

Adeline carefully lifted her beloved harp from her lap before stowing it away in its velvet case, safe and secure. “The life of a sole heiress is generally not one of freedom, sir, much less romance. The Comte will have the final say on my suitors regardless of my own fancies, and I must be kept secure until the exchange is complete and his investment is secure.”

“Perhaps in this gloomy land it is so, but across the sea to the South, there is a desert queendom where women are the only ones permitted to own land. They say that a ruler bears the weight of all future generations on her shoulders, that men are too impulsive to plan that far ahead. Young Prince Martin was terribly offended when we visited, of course, but as for me? I took a look at myself, and at my life, and I found it rather hard to disagree!”

Adeline laughed, and not purely for courtesy’s sake, as she set her music stand down in the corner of the practice room. When the Comte hired Velasco, he failed to take into account that a foreign instructor would not be so constrained by the local notions of propriety on the matters of what is and is not feminine enough for a well-bred girl to pursue. In fact, he frequently flaunted his disdain for the entire notion that responsibilities should be divided among the sexes, though not to the Comte's face of course. While some degree of ignorance or impudence was expected, it would be a step too far for even him to arouse the lord's suspicions regarding how he might handle his daughter.

Behind closed doors, however, was another matter entirely. In truth, Adeline had been fascinated by the flamboyant man’s extravagant tales of heroism in distant lands. Supposedly, he had been an adventurer of no small renown in his youth, performing and dueling his way around the world. Her confinement to the manor left little opportunity for her to verify the truth of his rather outlandish claims, but he insisted that each and every word of his tales was 'mostly true,' usually accompanied by a roguish wink. That demeanor of his certainly seemed to captivate the attention of the servant girls who doted upon him like unusually coquettish horseflies, but her attentions were captured by the stories themselves.

Having grown up isolated within the walls of the estate, with only servants for company and diligently curated selections of scripture and poetry from the Comte's library for idle entertainment, she scarcely had the means to ponder the notions of such boundless freedom and self-determination. To be able to simply set upon a road on a whim, with nothing to restrain one's direction but desire and skill? It was more than she had been capable of dreaming of, though her dreams had become far more vivid in the year hence.

Velasco had set himself to unlocking and opening his large leather-bound trunk he kept tucked away in the corner of the room. “Ah, but you know my thoughts on all of this nonsense of your father’s. You can be so much more than a trophy for the next Comte.”

“I am afraid that, as I am here and not in some distant southern land, I have no choice but to obey the Comte’s wishes.”

“Really now, Adeline?” He looked at her and raised an eyebrow. “If you truly intend to obey the count in all things, then shall we cancel the next half of our lesson?”

“Of course not,” she huffed, striding across the room as he laughed at her reaction. With undisguised and rather unfeminine relish, Adeline seized her prizes from within the trunk. ‘It is  hard to say which half of the lessons I honestly prefer,’ she mused to herself. ‘The music is lovely and I enjoy every moment of performance, being able to weave beautiful melodies and harmonies… but delightful as it is, it does not make my heart race so.’ Turning about in a sweep of embroidered skirts, she glided almost giddily back to her habitual position across the room. Hastily, she donned her mask, raised the foil in a salute, then dropped into a practiced guard awaiting his advance. ‘And now, to wipe that insolent grin off his face.’