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“Show respect. I’m a potioneer,” the rogue corrected with a glower. “Everything in this room is fair game. You see any unlawful ingredients in our midst?”

“Only the mushrooms.” I motioned to the batch of mottled red fungi.

“If you know how to leach ’em right, they’re harmless, not forbidden. My brews don’t rob people of sense or poison them. Farmers want their crops to grow lusher? Damsels want blue dye for a gown only nobles can afford, that’ll also shimmer more than silk ever could? Egomaniacs want flawless hair that’ll last a year without upkeep? Overachievers want a mixture to boost their intellect? Sure. So long as the customer’s got a fat purse and the desire’s harmless, I’ll do my best.

“Now some wretched soul asks for something that stinks of drudgery? I sayno. I’m what you’d call a chemical sorcerer, but none of my brews are nefarious, tainted, or addictive. Got it?”

Aire inspected a flagon of wine. “Are you sure?”

“A spoonful at a time won’t hurt anyone. Besides, the alcohol burns off when heated. I know what I’m doing.”

“Granted, it smacks of the cheater’s way to achieving such charms.”

“Yeah? Tell me, Sir Knight. What’s it like to walk on air?”

“If none of this is criminal, what had you in such a tizzy when we got here?” I asked. “Hiding your face and pulling a dagger on someone doesn’t scream of innocence.”

“You want vagabonds on your turf? Touching your stuff? I protect my own, and whensomebodycomes along humming a ditty about thieves, I tend to get edgy.”

Nicu bit his lip, masking a wily smile. So now he thought it was funny.

That’s why Lyrik had called him a wren earlier—a songbird. My friend had strayed while Aire and I had our little spat. Wandering off, heedless of direction, he’d carried a tune and detoured right into Lyrik’s arms.

“When I serve people, I do it outside these walls,” the rogue-squatter-prick continued. “Easy enough when they shun this place, freaked about being cursed by nature. I make my trips like any peddler, sell what I can, and come home with more orders. Whenever travelers do pass through here, I sell them what they need—but not all of them want to pay, and not all of them are nice about it. The acorn hunters have been the worst.”

My nut heart pumped. Though most people had given up searching for those fairytale charms, it made sense if a few stragglers existed, hoping to try their luck, venturing here despite superstitions.

The hiccup was, people assumed that two acorns were left. The public didn’t know about my heart or the Crown’s possession.

At the mention of the fairytale, Aire gravitated through the open door. Outside, the wind greeted him, pawing at his blond hair. Standing at the balcony’s rail, he blended into the boughs, his falcon eyes roaming.

His departure might have seemed rude, except for two things. One, it wasn’t rude. Two, he was still listening to the conversation.

Actually, three things. Three, he was keeping watch for us. Although he’d deemed it safe, he didn’t know Lyrik or this place, and that natural inclination to stand guard gave him purpose. Also...

Any talk of fantasy or fairytales bothers him.

So, four things total. And huh, I remembered our debates on the way here, our banter about the subject.

“A handful of acorn stalkers still think there’s a chance of finding one here,” Lyrik said, wrenching my attention from the knight. “When they don’t succeed, they get a hankering for consolation prizes and try looting my stash. Some uninvited guests are as good as Autumn. Some, not so much. Strictly speaking, I’ve had one too many experiences with the latter. I’m less hospitable these days.”

“To be fair, this colony doesn’t belong to you,” I said. “It belongs to Mista.”

“Call me a squatter, but this place would be neglected if it weren’t for me.”

“How long have you been here?”

“A while.”

“That would make you how old?”

“Seventeen.”

“Me, too,” Nicu piped, though Lyrik didn’t acknowledge him.

From the ledge, Aire asked a question that didn’t sound like a question. “Are you of Autumn?”

Lyrik dodged that arrow. “Whadda ya think?”