Page 38 of A Tower of Half-Truths

The flatbread’s smell alone—warm and earthy—was a refreshing change from the boarding house’s usual fare of potato mash, onion gravy, and stale bread.

Mavery took a bite, and her eyes widened at the deluge of flavors: the savory and slightly gamy lamb, the curry’s subtle sweetness, the heat that lingered pleasantly on her tongue.

Though Alain’s teas hadn’t quite refined her palate, she could now appreciate spices more exotic than cinnamon and clove.

All the picnic tables were occupied, so they continued to walk and peruse the other merchants’ offerings while they ate. They passed by a busty woman carrying a tray of wineglasses.

“May I tempt you with a sample?” she asked.

They each took a glass containing barely more than a mouthful of red wine.

Alain considered his with a swirl and a sniff before taking a slow sip.

Though both the wine and the woman offering it appeared trustworthy, Mavery still waited until Alain encountered no ill effects, then threw back her own wine.

She realized at once why he’d sampled the drink with so much care.

It was good wine. No, it was excellent wine, and it paired wonderfully with the flatbread.

It was velvety on the tongue, with flavors too complex for Mavery to appreciate.

She wouldn’t have been surprised to learn this was the kind of wine the nobility drank with their everyday meals.

Alain, however, was not as impressed.

“It’s adequate.” He shrugged, and the wine merchant’s smile stiffened. “The blackcurrant notes are too strong for my taste.”

Mavery rolled her eyes. “Don’t mind him. He’s Dauphinian, so being a wine snob is in his blood—even when the wine is free.”

Though she would have loved an entire bottle, she suspected Alain would argue it wouldn’t be “within reason.” They placed their empty glasses on the merchant’s tray, then continued onward.

“What do you know of my family name?” Alain asked.

She considered his question as she swallowed her final bite of curried lamb. She wiped her hands on the insides of her coat pockets.

“Like most Dauphinian words, it has too many letters,” she said.

He chuckled. “I won’t argue with that. But beyond spelling?” He polished off his own flatbread, then produced a handkerchief to clean his fingers.

“Not a clue.”

He gestured for her to follow him. “Let me show you something.”

He led her out of the market. As they passed through the warding magic, the chill in the air returned, forcing Mavery to button up her coat again.

She followed Alain around a corner and down a side street, where the botanical garden loomed in the distance, perched atop the slight hill.

Mavery didn’t have to ask where they were going; she knew it the moment she saw the storefront that was painted deep violet and glowing with warding magic.

They stopped beneath a lamppost directly across from Tesseraunt’s Boutique.

Its front window displayed mannequins dressed in exquisite gowns in the current fashion: ankle-length, form-fitting, with cinched waists and voluminous bustles.

All were made from fabrics that were vibrant even at night.

Mavery could only admire them from a distance, however; the shop was closed, all the windows were dark.

“I assume the wards are your doing,” she said. Whereas the surrounding shops had only blue and gold auras over the doors and windows, the full spectrum of warding magic rippled across this building’s entire facade.

“So long as my mother lives in the apartment above the shop, I’ll ensure this is the best-secured building in the district.” He pointed up. “See that tiny window on the third floor? That’s my childhood bedroom.”

“Huh, I was certain you’d grown up in one of those manors a few blocks over.”

Alain shook his head. “Far from it. I may be a wine snob, but ‘Tesseraunt’ is a peasant name. ‘Weaver’ would be the closest translation.”

“Fitting, considering your mother’s line of work.”

“Yes, she comes from a long line of weavers, tailors, and the like. She started working in a textile mill when she was only eight years old—that was decades before Dauphine outlawed child labor—and when I was born, she was an apprentice seamstress.”

In the midst of the revolution across the border, plenty of Dauphinians had fled to Osperland.

But they tended to be nobles seeking refuge from the executioner’s block; commoners like Alain and his mother tended to be the ones calling for those executions.

Mavery watched him curiously as he continued to speak.

“When I was about nine years old, she befriended a customer who happened to be an aspiring wizard. Together, they developed a poison-warding fabric that earned the mage her wizard rank. One of the Elder Wizards was so impressed with the fabric, she paid my mother handsomely to design an entire Social Season’s worth of ball gowns.

With her newfound fortune, my mother opened this boutique and eventually sent me to Barcombe, in the hopes that I would one day become a wizard myself. ”

“So, we both come from working-class families,” Mavery said. “That’s the last thing I thought we would have in common.”

“You come from a family of farmers, correct?”

She stared at him. When had she told him that? She struggled to recall a single time she’d mentioned her upbringing; it was a topic she rarely spoke about.

“The day we first met,” Alain said, apparently sensing her confusion, “you mentioned something about a family farm.”

“Right, I did.” He’d remembered that little detail from so long ago? Her face burned despite the cold night air.

“What sort of farm was it?”

“An apple orchard, though we also raised hogs and chickens.”

He grinned. “Ah, no wonder you were staring daggers at that one merchant.”

“Fifty coppers for one apple!” she huffed. “That’s worse than highway robbery!”

“Yes, I imagine highway robbery would be within your repertoire.”

“Very funny.” She crossed her arms, and his grin broadened.

“In any case, I’m already picturing our next project.” He raised his hands and mimed an exaggerated ritual. “An incantation to ward off overpriced produce.”

Seeing him struggle to contain his laughter at his barely half-decent joke, she held her hand to her mouth and failed to hold back a giggle.

Surely she wasn’t…giggling?

She cleared her throat and came back to her senses. “What about your father?” she asked. As Alain stiffened, she added quickly, “Sorry, if that’s a sore subject, you don’t—”

“Not sore, just…delicate. All I know is that my father was a parish priest in the Church of the Dyad. In Dauphine, the Church outranks everyone—even the nobility. So, for a priest to have a child out of wedlock with one his parishioners…well, you can imagine the scandal that caused. That’s why, shortly after I was born, Mother fled across the border with me.

As for my father, I’m not sure what happened to him. She’s always been mum on the details.”

“That must’ve been difficult, growing up without a father.”

“The earliest years were, from what little Mother has told me, and from what little I can remember.” He gestured to the boutique.

“But, as you can see, things eventually worked out for the better.” With a shiver, he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Let’s hurry back to the market before we both freeze. ”

They turned away from the shop. Though only the crest of the Night Market’s dome was visible up ahead, the din of the crowd—and the music cutting through it—carried all the way down the moonlit street.

“Who was the wizard you mentioned earlier?” Mavery asked. “The one your mother helped?”

Alain came to an abrupt stop. “It was…Nezima.”

“Let me guess: being the reason for your mother’s fortune is something she’s always lorded over you. That’s why you hate her so much.”

“I don’t—” he began. Mavery threw him a pointed look, and he sighed. “You’re right, I do dislike her, but that’s not the reason. The real reason is a story for another time, and one that would dampen the mood.”

“Fair enough,” she said. Her curiosity was far from quelled, but she would set the matter aside—for tonight.

Despite the cold, Alain continued down the road at a leisurely stride, and Mavery had to slow her pace to match his.

“So, if both your parents were Dyadists, are you also one?” she asked.

“Not in the slightest, despite my mother’s best efforts. Besides, one can only return from the dead so many times and still believe in the afterlife—or higher powers, for that matter.”

“Right, I’m sure you would’ve collected calling cards from the entire Pantheon by now.”

He laughed. “Oh, I doubt any of them would be thrilled to see me, the number of times I’ve denied them another soul for the Beyond. But what about you? When you were a child, did your family also force you to weekly temple services?”

“Not weekly, but we made pilgrimage to the Temple of Messun at least once a season, to ensure the God of the Harvest protected our crops from demon-blight.”

Alain scoffed. “Of course your crops would be protected from demons—they were driven out centuries ago!”

“And any Messunist would say that was proof that our prayers had been answered.” Mavery shook her head.

“One summer—I was thirteen at the time, I think—the last of my grandparents fell ill and passed away. Between the funeral and keeping up with the farm, we had no time to make our seasonal trip to the temple. When we still had our best harvest in years, I realized that all of it—the wassailing, the prayers, the pilgrimages—was a load of rubbish.”

“Hold on, did you say ‘wassailing’?”

“It’s when you sing to the—”

“Oh, I’m familiar with that custom.” A smile teased at the corner of his mouth. “I just can’t imagine you singing to anything, much less trees.”

She laughed. “Another reason why Messunism was never a good fit.”