And then… nothing happened. For nearly three days, Anton and I looked at houses for sale. The brisk, sharp-eyed old man the tavern-keeper had recommended as an agent kept trying to offload the most expensive and unsuitable properties. The houses in the center were fine, of course, but I had no intention of paying three times their worth. The hovels on the outskirts, in the poor quarters, were also out of the question. That left the merchant and artisan districts; that was where we were headed today. I had great hopes we would finally buy something.

  I already had my first clients, mostly traders and labourers impressed by my market heroics. The cases were petty—finding a stolen cart of goods, discovering who was pilfering from a shop, or, for one client, learning if his wife was unfaithful. It didn't bother me. The more people who knew of me, the sooner I'd get my first clients from the gentry. And then, I wouldn't let my chance slip. Stealing from the poor working folk, or even from well-off merchants—that was beneath my dignity.

  We were inspecting houses listed for sale in the merchant quarter. The street was old, rather narrow, but it opened onto a square and was almost deserted. The houses were faced with white stone, which had darkened with time to a brownish hue. The entire city resembled a giant seashell—white at the centre and near the wharves where the nobility lived, and pinkish-black on the outer edges.

  One house, old and dilapidated, three storeys tall, caught my eye. Its outline seemed to swim, as in a heat haze, and for a second, a vision of it appeared before me: a well-kept facade, a baker's sign on the ground floor, heavy curtains on the upper floors, a warm, welcoming light glowing within, pedestrians bustling along the street, even the smell of fresh-baked bread wafting toward me. I swallowed, shook my head, and tugged the old agent's sleeve.

  "Tell me, my dear, was there once a bakery in this house?"

  "What? No, of course not! This is the house of Baron Galitsky. The poor man went bankrupt a good ten years back, and the city council still can't sell the place. But I wouldn't recommend it to you, the house is neglected, needs repairs, and besides—"

  "I'll take it!" I cut him off sharply. So, it wasn't a vision of the past, but of the future. That suited me perfectly.

  The little old man tried to inflate the price, seeing my obvious interest, but backed down when I asked pointedly what, precisely, was wrong with the house that it had remained unsold for so many years.

  The deed was registered with the city council that very day. I also provided family jewels as collateral—a fortunate circumstance, as they were unregistered, and the initials on the signet ring matched my new name. No one noticed the small detail that the initials were in the wrong order—first the family name, then the given name. People, as a rule, notice very little. It's truly astonishing! How many times had I tried to explain to Anton that one only needs to look carefully to see a great deal? It isn't magic. So, the deed and the seal were issued to me without delay.

  The city prefect, a stout, balding little man named Mr. Vargas—a full head shorter than I—mopped his sweaty brow throughout the entire proceeding.

  "And how long does my lady plan to grace our fair city with her presence?"

  "Your city is indeed wonderful," I smiled at him. When necessary, I could recall good manners and be the very picture of charm. "I am considering establishing a venture here."

  "Interesting," the prefect's beady eyes gleamed. "Might it be in trade, or something of the sort?"

  "No," I paused for effect. "I intend to open a private inquiry office."

  The prefect was surprised, even shocked.

  "Such a lovely young lady, and private inquiries? Whatever will you be looking for? Other women's husbands?"

  "Them too, on occasion. By the way, might I obtain a license today?"

  Vargas clearly hesitated. He wasn't sure such a license was even possible, but he didn't want to let a potential profit slip through his fingers.

  "I believe certain forms must be completed first. Shall we say... tomorrow?"

  "I'm afraid I cannot tomorrow. Pressing matters, you understand. Though, I suppose I could obtain a warrant from one of the Voevodes... Which one would you recommend?"

  The prefect grew agitated, his eyes darting nervously. "My lady, there's no need for such haste! If you need it today, then today it shall be done."

  "A pleasure doing business with understanding people," I said, making a show of drawing out my purse and jingling the coins within. "I think that..."

  I stopped short. A large, vile rat sat on the prefect's desk. It was gaunt and brimming with malice, twitching its whiskers as it watched me with bulging red eyes. I closed my own.

  "Are you unwell, my lady?"

  "Yes, unaccustomed to your southern heat..." I accepted a glass of water offered by the flustered prefect, my hand trembling.

  He couldn't see the rat. Another phantom, then. The rat began scuttling toward me. I clutched the glass, shut my eyes again, but the scritch-scratch of tiny claws drew nearer. If the rat sank its teeth into my hand, the wounds would be real—wounds others could see. I knew that from bitter experience.

  I leapt from my chair. I needed that license. Today. I snatched a massive ledger from a shelf and hurled it with all my strength at the rat. The prefect yelped and gaped at me. The rat squealed and scrambled into a decanter. Its whiskers twitched from the neck of the decanter.

  "My apologies, Mr. Vargas. I thought I saw a cockroach skitter across the desk."

  "A cockroach? In my office? I assure you, there are no such vermin here! How terribly nervous you are!" The prefect picked up the decanter and poured himself a glass of water—rat and all. He raised it to his lips and took a greedy gulp. The rat went with it.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  A fresh wave of nausea hit me. I could hear the rat squealing from within Vargas's throat, its tail dangling from his mouth. How disgusting!

  "Please issue me the license. I will wait in the corridor. It is unbearably hot in here."

  "Yes, yes, of course. It will be ready in ten minutes."

  I bolted from the office and sank into a chair in the hall.

  Last night, I had woken from a nightmare. A sudden, terrifying thought seized me: what if Anton wasn't real? What if I had invented him, and he was just another of my maras? I had scrambled for my journals, frantically rereading the notes. But here, look—other people saw Anton. He bought our food, and now he was cooking in our new house. Our long, arduous wanderings had taken their toll on him. And truly, it had turned out that while I had promised to care for Mari's brother, it was he who had ended up caring for me. I as future voivodessa was utterly useless at the mundane tasks of ordinary life. But what if Anton wasn't the only one? What if none of people around me was real? What if this entire city and its people were just the fever-dream of my sick mind? What if I had already gone mad, like my father, and was lying in a bed somewhere, staring sightlessly at the ceiling while my grandmother leaned over me, wiping clammy sweat from my brow?

  My cries had brought Anton running. He'd calmed me, given me a herbal tincture. Valerian and mint, steeped with honey, usually settled my nerves. I would need to replenish our supplies.

  In the morning, I read through my notes once more and felt steady again. To hell with it all. Even if this was all a mad delusion, it needed to be seen through to its logical end. As my famous great-great-grandmother used to say, "If I am out of my mind, you will be out of your skin!" Though she usually added something like, "Die, you wretch!"

  That morning, I tasked Anton with putting up notices to rent out the ground floor of our house. We had moved in yesterday, as soon as the repairs were finished. The workers had lightened the facade to a pale cream, fixed the internal floors, and replaced the shutters. A chimney sweep had come to check the flue and clean it out. We had no furniture yet and slept on the floor. There was too much to do and never enough time. I also needed a painter. Yes, a painter would be best. Though if I couldn't find one, a scribe would do. So, I needed to draft another notice, seeking employment for a painter. Anton had never learned to write. I was a wretched teacher, impossibly irritable. I would have to hire a tutor for him. What else? Ah, yes, the painter. I needed one urgently. I could feel another bout approaching.

  During my bouts, I remembered nothing—not what I did, nor what I said—and that was important. Anton tried to remember and recount it to me, but it was difficult for him. I would babble incoherently at great speed, could fight, scratch, strike out, break things. Bitter experience had taught me that almost every manifestation of my madness held a hidden meaning, and it was both foolish and perilous to ignore it. Besides, it infuriated me that I could remember absolutely everything, even the things I longed to erase forever from my mind, yet I could not recall several hours of a bout... Therefore, I simply had to know what I saw during my bouts. It could be written down, but sketches would be better. That was Anton's idea. In despair at trying to remember everything I uttered during my bouts, he had begun to make schematic drawings of certain moments. He would never be an artist, of course, but I liked the idea. I wrote a dozen notices and set out to post them. With any luck, we would have new tenants soon.

  Three days passed. I’d already had to turn down several applicants for the ground floor. Anton was puzzled and even, I think, a little upset. But I was waiting. Waiting for the one who could bring my vision to life—the thriving bakery in this house, the heavenly aroma filling the street, the crowds of customers clamoring for fresh bread. And finally, yesterday, he appeared.

  He was a lanky, awkward young man of about twenty, pimply and ungainly. He loitered timidly by the door, not daring to enter. I was just returning from the docks, having just wrapped up a simple case of warehouse arson. The merchant, who had nearly lost his fortune due to the fraudulent schemes of a city official, was exceedingly grateful, and the weight of his gratitude now rested comfortably in my purse. True, it had soured my relations with prefect Vargas, who’d been taking a cut from his subordinate's shady dealings. No matter, I’d survive. Our finances were still precarious, barely keeping our heads above water. Petty theft was beneath me, and a major score was impossible without preparation and reconnaissance. But now, at least, we could order proper furniture instead of the second-hand junk Anton had haggled for.

  The lad stood before the door, hesitating. As I passed him, I stumbled, and darkness swam before my eyes. Clutching the doorframe, I called out to him.

  "My good fellow, would you be so kind as to help me?"

  "Of c-course," the boy stammered slightly. I looked into his eyes. They were a muddy hazel-green, but that wasn't what interested me. It was the faint, still-flickering spark of madness—a tell I had learned to recognize unerringly in others.

  "Are you here on business, or just taking the air?"

  "I w-w-want to r-r-rent the g-ground floor w-with the c-c-cellar," talking to a stranger was clearly difficult for him; he was painfully shy.

  "And for what purpose, may I ask?"

  "I w-w-want to open a b-bakery," the boy flushed as if he'd confessed something indecent.

  “Nice!” I concealed a smile. I felt a strong urge to rub my hands together in sly satisfaction and shout, “Gotcha!”. In the window’s reflection appeared a venerable-looking old man, and my mood instantly soured. A mara in the guise of an elder—a living reproach to the memory of the illustrious Master Solmir. I hadn’t seen him in a while. The old man had appeared in many forms: the rags of a beggar, the cassock of a clergyman, the coat of a merchant, once he even showed up completely naked. And he never spoke to me. Not once. Usually, maras would immediately dump a heap of chatter on me, so much that I had to plug my ears. This one was silent. Sometimes he would shake his head reproachfully, sigh in disapproval, frown, or even curl his lip in contempt. Well, fine. I seized the boy by the arm and dragged him inside the building.

  "Anton!" I roared so deafeningly that my stammering victim flinched. "Don't be afraid."

  I smiled and gestured for the young man to make himself comfortable. The mara of old man had settled in the corner of the room, crossed his arms over his knees, and gone still. Anton came running from the kitchen and looked at me questioningly.

  "Meet our new tenant, uh... sorry, what's your name?"

  "M-m-m-martin," the guy was clearly surprised and bewildered. "And you're the landlady?"

  "Yes," I nodded. "Martin is going to open the best bakery in town here, right? Tell us about yourself."

  Martin timidly sank onto the old sofa; he was clearly nervous.

  "I... I d-d-don't even know... M-m-my father, he... was a baker in Asad, near the monastery, on the eastern coast... W-we had to leave when..."

  "When the war broke out there," I finished for him, finding it hard to listen to him stumble through the words. "And where is your father now?"

  "He... W-we took a room at an inn. You see, w-we don't have m-much money at all..." Martin looked on the verge of tears. Long sentences were clearly a struggle.

  "That's no trouble. We'll draw up a promissory note..."

  "No!" The boy was clearly frightened. "I... I'd b-better go, forgive me..."

  "Why are you so afraid?" I was puzzled. "We'll have a solicitor come, arrange favorable terms, a minimal interest rate... Unless you don't want to start your own business? I think you have great potential."

  “And then into the d-debt pit and slavery? N-n-no, I’m leaving.”

  I intercepted the boy by the door.

  “Martin, wait. Tell me, do I look like someone who would sell anyone into slavery?” I looked him straight in the eyes.

  “I d-don’t know…”

  “Step by step. Are you literate?”

  “Yes.”

  “So you can read a promissory note yourself? We’ll add a clause stating that in case of non-repayment, the debtor is under no obligation to settle the debt with their freedom. How does that sound?”

  Anton looked clearly bewildered.

  “Lidia, we’re up to our ears in debt ourselves. Why do we need a tenant like this?”

  “Just a moment, Anton. So, do you agree?” Without waiting for an answer, I steered the young man back to the sofa and sat him down. “Calm down. We’re counting every penny ourselves just to get by. So, just tell us: what will this future bakery be like?”

  Pushing through the grating stammer, Martin began describing his future venture. He was doing a wretched job of it, and for a moment, a flicker of doubt crossed my mind—had I been wrong? That spark of madness I’d seen earlier, the mark of a person’s passion, their Gift, was nowhere in sight. Without that, it would just be… a bakery.

  But then Martin reached the technical details, and as if by some spell, he transformed. The stammer vanished entirely. His dull eyes turned bright, blazing with intensity. He lovingly described his invention—a mechanical dough kneader—spilling out intricate details before leaping to his plans for an automated spice dispenser. His eyes burned. They burned with a steady, reliable flame. In love with mechanics. Interesting.

  I cut off his outpouring of words.

  "Martin, I need to speak with your father before I make a final decision. Anton, tomorrow, invite a solicitor from the commune for ten o'clock."

  "Lidia, tomorrow is Sunday," Anton was embarrassed by my ignorance.

  "So? Promise him a nice bonus. And you, Martin, come here with your father a little earlier, say, by nine."

  "B-b-but..."

  "Goodbye, Martin," I ushered the bewildered young man out the door.

  "Chrys, I don't under—"

  "Lidia! Even when we're alone. And don't argue with me. The boy clearly has a talent, though for mechanics. As for his father, I'm not entirely sure, of course... But madness is usually hereditary. The father will have the Gift for baking." I smiled at Anton. "Now off you go to the commune."

  Anton left, sulky and displeased. Let him be. A soft cough sounded behind me. The elder was still sitting in the corner.

  "Be gone from here!" I stamped my foot at him. No effect. There was a knock at the door. Damn it.

  On the threshold stood her. I knew immediately it was her. My golden goose! A noble kreta, or even a baroness. Around thirty, with a pure, aristocratic face, large blue eyes brimming with tears, lace and velvet, expensive jewelry, a beautiful, exquisite topaz ring on her finger, and a delicate scent of lavender.

  "Do come in, your ladyship," I swung the door open wide for my first noble client.