It was ironic, or perhaps very fitting, that Tip’s father, Dallan, should have found his end in the sea, of all places. He’d loved the vast waters. They’d been the source of his family’s next meal, but also his playground and his shrine. 

Dallan had been one of those few men who chose to spend his little free time at the beach — swimming, exploring, frolicking, regardless of the weather. He’d set out among the waves and currents, along the numerous coves, secret beaches and submerged reefs and often returned home with gifts. A palm-sized shell he’d fashion into a comb for Larkspur or a long tooth from some mysterious marine monster he’d carve into a pocket knife for Tip. 

Dallan had worshiped the sea, its forces and life, and the sea had repaid him for his devotion.

Before the Alchemists’ Guild had seized ownership of all underwater currencies and started marking them, Tip’s father had used to dive for pearls too. He’d been able to hold his breath for as long as fifty thousand heartbeats, in the tradition of the ancient pearl divers. 

Dallan had tried to teach Tip the old techniques but even as a little boy, to his father’s great disappointment, Tip had been wary of the sea. Still, the five-year-old had gone along with the lessons, eager to please his father, his one hero at that age. 

Tip still remembered the wooden bucket, first filled with rainwater, then with saltwater. His father had claimed the two were different beasts and should be conquered separately. Tip remembered Larkspur’s anxious gaze from up on the shack’s rickety porch just before he’d plunge his head into the bucket. 

The gentle pressure of Dallan’s hand as he’d held his son underwater.

The hissing in his ears as he’d counted out the beats of his own pulse. 

48… 49… 50…

The most Tip had ever managed, even as he’d grown out of the bucket exercise and joined his father in the sea, had been 225 beats. 

170, 171, 172,… he counted now from inside the fish waste crate. 

He was reaching his limit fast and the two men were still stomping around, just above his head. They hacked up phlegm and spat loudly, all the while cursing the unbearable stench. 

Once they’d opened the lid, they’d quickly lost interest in the shiny, stinking mess. The “hound” had sniffed around a few times but had dropped the lid with a cry of disgust. 

Tip tried not to think, to focus his mind on the yellow glow that pulsed quietly underneath his garments. His eyes and lips were tightly shut and still he felt the slime slither its way through his defenses. A moment longer, and he’d have to come up for air and give himself away or drown in rotting fish heads and entrails. 

“He’s not here.” Another blow rattled the crate.

“Damn him!” the other man growled. “We’ve been outsmarted by a Hollow rat!” 

“How are we going to go back to Highcastle? They’ll chop us up for the morning pigswill.”

“Let’s move. We’ll check the Hollow. The rat must have left a trace. You’ll pick up his scent again or I’ll make sure you get your useless nose cut off and fed to Lady Ariana’s nasty birds.”  

 

***

 

By the time Tip reached the first hovels of The Hollow, the reek had either worn off his clothes and skin, or he’d grown used to it and stopped noticing. 

Soon he spotted his own stilt shack among the tilted, rugged silhouettes towards the western edge of The Hollow, nearest to the Bog. As far as he could tell, he hadn’t been followed. He waded through the mud towards it.

His heart still hammered in his chest and his mind reeled. 

Who were the men who’d chased after him and who’d sent them? Highcastle? The Lady Ariana? And how had a real magic card ended up in Nort’s secret basement? Why had the old shopkeeper pushed him out of sight and offered himself voluntarily to the town Guard? Where was Nort now?

But above all, Tip was mystified by the odd sensation that coursed through his body. The subtle but unmistakable pull of the card…

Then he noticed the light and stopped short. Bright blue and streaming out through the cracks in the shuttered window of his shack. Home to the lowliest and poorest ranks, this part of the Hollow was usually steeped in darkness. If anyone could scrape together enough copper to purchase a glow vial, they saved it for festival nights, holidays and special occasions. 

Tip and Larkspur had received a few glow vials as gifts after his father’s death but they’d used them up already. One had a bit of purple glow left but Larkspur only allowed herself the luxury of working by glowlight when she had an urgent, well-paid job that a required fine needlework. The rest she completed in darkness, relying on the years of threading string through needle-eye to guide her fingers. 

Tip bristled. For a moment, he forgot all about the chase, the card, Nort. Someone was in his house. 

It couldn’t be a neighbor. They were all as dirt-poor as Tip’s family. Bored with the darkness and lulled by the rain’s constant patter, most of them were probably asleep by now. 

What if his pursuers had somehow learned who he was and where he lived?

Tip listened but heard no signs of distress, just the never-ending pecking of raindrops over wood. He rounded the house. The back ladder, which led directly into the loft above the main room, might be a safer bet than the front entrance. 

Slowly, he climbed it and pulled the door. The wood had swollen with dampness and the door had jammed in its frame. Should he backtrack and try the front door instead? Or risk making himself known by pulling harder? 

There was no time to hesitate. He was the man of the house now and it was his job to protect Mother. If she was in danger, his stalling only made things worse. 

But how hard it was to know what the right thing to do was, even if the decision was only which door to pick to enter the shack. How he wished his father with his eminent confidence could guide him, whisper the answers into his ear somehow or send him a sign from wherever it was he’d gone to now. 

Tip swallowed, dug his heels into the rotting wood of the narrow landing and pulled. The door cracked, the hinges squeaked and it opened. 

Far from stealthy, Tip thought. 

Blue light washed over him and Larkspur’s peaceful murmur reached his ears. Tip exhaled and relaxed his stance. Whoever was on the house, Mother did not perceive them as a threat. She was safe. 

“Tip? Is that you?” Larkspur called. “Where on earth have you been in this foul weather?”

The question would sound almost nonsensical to an outsider. The weather was always foul and a bit of rain never stopped a twelve-year-old boy set on business. However, Tip read into the slight emphasis she placed on foul weather and knew he should be on guard. 

Ever since the two of them had been left on their own, they’d devised little strategies to protect one another, including an elaborate system of code words that allowed them to say much more behind seemingly innocent comments. 

“Just running an errand for Nort,” he replied in an equally casual tone, then winced. 

Should he admit he’d met with Nort tonight in front of a stranger? 

For someone was surely in the room with Mother. Apart from the telltale blue glow, there was now the rustling of expensive fabric, the creaking of a bench and the chink of a ring against the only ceramic cup they owned, the one reserved for guests. 

“Don’t mind me,” Tip added quickly. “I’m going to bed.”

He roughed the straw mattress and took off his muddy boots with as much noise and fuss as possible. 

“Have you had anything to eat?” Larkspur called again. 

“A piece of boiled squid at the Treasure Chest.” His stomach squeezed at the thought of the delicacy. His mother would be horrified if she knew that the last thing he’d eaten had been the half-finished bowl of raw eel at breakfast. 

“That must have been a treat!” she said. 

It was. Too much of a treat. You only ate cooked food in Raintown if you could afford boiling salts and those came at a steep price. 

“Alright then.” Larkspur didn’t say anything about his suspicious replies. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

The visitor now cleared their throat daintily and Tip realized it was a woman. A client probably. But a rich client bringing their own glow vial and coming all the way to the Hollow to seek out Mother’s services? Larkspur didn’t get many of those. 

Tip waited a reasonable amount of time before he issued a few loud, expertly feigned snores. He longed to take off his soaked-through clothes but knew that if he as much as parted his cloak, the card’s yellow light would drown out the blue in an instant.

He shivered miserably and waited. Soon the conversation downstairs resumed. 

“You know, Larkspur,” the visitor said, “they still talk about you at Highcastle.”

Why would anyone talk about his mother at Highcastle, Tip wondered briefly before the voice continued. 

“Your work’s a marvel. I knew it’d be worth the trouble coming all the way down here.”

Mother kept her silence, humbly accepting the compliment. Snip snip, went her tiny scissors, uninterrupted. 

Tip judged that it was safe to crawl over to the edge of the loft and peer at the room below. He held his breath. How many times had he done this in the course of a few hours? Lie low to avoid detection. 

Now he looked at the woman and his eyes widened. He’d seen the likes of her at festival processions, games and public executions, but always from afar and from amid the tall backs of the jostling crowd. She wasn’t a girl, but she wasn’t old like Mother either, and she wore the elaborate hairstyle, dress and jewels of a Highborn. The blue glow danced and shimmered over her smooth face, giving her the air of a creature of the sea. 

To Tip’s eyes, she was a princess. Perfection. 

“It will surely be a worthy dress for a feast as grand as this,” the woman said, casting an upward glance towards the loft. Tip hoped he’d withdrawn in time. Just un case, he supplied another loud snore. 

“Their is bound to notice me,” she continued, undisturbed. “Thanks to you, once he sets his eyes on me, he’ll forget all about some silly card.” The woman giggled. “Of course, he claims it’s Bonfire Night we’ll be celebrating, but I’m not that dim. He hasn’t as much as looked in my direction ever since that damned wreck washed up and it’s been all talk of cards and recipes since then. But a man is a man, after all. Give him something new and shiny to stare at and—“

Tip didn’t hear much after that. His thoughts were racing again. 

Thior?

Did the woman mean Thior, the Archalchemist of the Guild? And… silly card? Could it be…?

He patted his chest where the card lay snuggly next to his heart. If it was the same card the woman had mentioned and the Archalchemist was throwing a grand feast to celebrate its acquisition, no wonder the two assassins were after him. Soon the whole Town Guard would be alerted to his escape, if they hadn’t been already. 

Instantly, Tip knew he must get rid of the card. How foolish he’d been to think he could hide yellow light in the Hollow. There was no telling how many spies Thior Archalchemist had in the Hollow and sooner or later he’d be found out, the card tracked, and he and his mother either killed or sent away to the Salt Caves. 

He treasured the card already. No, not treasured exactly. The unfamiliar sensation was much stronger and at the same time hard to describe. He felt he’d suffer a physical weakness if he were separated from it. 

What Tip knew with fierce certainty though was that he loved the yellow glow. 

But he loved Larkspur more. 

A knock on the door startled the two women and they fell silent. Tip drew back and out of view. 

It was time for him to go.