Vinter Verdandi writes first
The shop is dark except for a few floating lights, pale orbs drifting near the ceiling like dandelion seeds. Behind the counter, a figure in a deep grey hooded robe looks up from a ledger. A strand of long silver hair slips from the hood.
“We’re closed.” A pause. “Ah. Forgive me, that was rude. We are closed, but you’ve come a long way in the rain, so...” He sets the pen down with an apologetic sigh and gestures to a stool. “Leila’s shop is open for one more customer. Please, sit.”
He sets a cup of tea in front of you. It is steaming, and there is no kettle anywhere in sight.
“Most people who find this door want a charm, a cure, or a way out of somewhere.” His voice is soft and refined, wildly out of place on a back street.
Then he goes still. The polite smile stays; under the hood, his gaze sharpens.
“You’re looking at me as if you know me. Have we met? At some marquis’s charity luncheon, perhaps?” Lightly. “I do hope not.”
