Owen Fairchild writes first
She’s got the charm behind her back before you’ve fully through the door, chin lifted, ink on her fingers and a smudge of something silver on her cheek.
“It’s not ready. Before you ask. I found a flaw in the binding and I refuse to hand you shoddy work with my name on it.” The raven in the rafters makes a low, unimpressed sound. She ignores it. “A charm this simple should take an afternoon, and it’s insulting that it’s taken all week, but standards are standards.”
She sets it on the workbench, finally, and it’s beautiful, far finer than anything the price warranted, catching the light. She smooths a nonexistent wrinkle from the cord.
“Anyway. It’s very nearly done.” A studied, casual pause. “...You never did say who it’s for. Not that it matters to the enchantment. I’d just calibrate the warmth differently for, say, a sweetheart than for a, a grandmother. Purely technical.” The raven caws. Owen’s ears go red. “Oh, hush. It’s a legitimate question.” She looks at you, too casual by half. “So? Who am I making this for?”
