Marinette rubbed her eyes and tried her best to resettle herself in the present. She didn’t remember setting up her booth at the Midnight Market, but she must have finished it out of habit. She’d laid out red velvet to display some of her original works, like hand-mirrors that helped extend glamors, purses with trick openings, and a few charms for luck. She had a shelf of neatly labeled potions next to a pricing guide for custom brews, and finally, she had put up a sign advertising repairs.

She dug into the box of finished repairs at her feet and pulled out the pocket watch she had repaired. She’d finished it to the best of her ability, and Marinette was rather proud of the work she had done on the glamor charm, but she wouldn’t complain if Alya improved on it.

Alya whistled to herself as she fussed with the glamor charm. She’d been working at the Midnight Market longer than Marinette had been, but she didn’t have a stall of her own. Alya made her living entertaining visitors to the Midnight Market with tricks and glamors. But the pay wasn’t particularly reliable, which is why by day Alya worked in her mother’s boarding house kitchen, serving hot food to boarders and travelers.

Most of the people who operated stands at the Midnight Market had day jobs, and many dreamed of one day opening permanent shops for their goods, or catching the eye of a wealthy patron, but those stories of success were rare. Marinette’s grandmother had worked the Midnight Market for her entire life, and only ever made enough to renew her stall each year. Marinette had been lucky enough to inherit her grandmother’s license, rather than pay for a new one. While she did dream of opening her own shop one day, she knew she would be lucky to have enough within the next ten years, and it was unlikely she would ever be able to afford a proper apprenticeship under a master.

And as for a wealthy patron, well, those people simply did not come to the Midnight Market. Artisan’s Alley was the daytime, more professional sister of the Midnight Market, staffed by properly trained artisans and guild masters, and could service the wealthy’s magical needs. And if a person of such considerable means did indeed require something more discreet, well, they certainly wouldn’t visit the Midnight Market themselves.

Alya slid the pocket watch across the table. “You did a good job. I tweaked it a bit, just to extend the life of the glamor. Now tell me what’s bothering you. I know you get lost in your own head, but you’re rarely this bad.”

Marinette carefully tucked the pocket watch back into her box of completed repairs. “Don’t you have a performance to get to?”

“It’s the mid-evening lull. Not quite enough folks to draw a crowd.” Alya tugged on the fingertips of her black evening gloves and pursed her lips as she surveyed the row of booths.

While most of the tradesmen wore their work clothes, Alya dressed in a fine evening gown. Marinette had embroidered the pink silk with orange foxes and charmed the pockets to allow coins in from the outside, but the coins could only be removed from the inside of the dress. It was a simple protection against pickpocketing, one that let Alya collect as much from her audiences as she liked without worry that someone was slipping a coin away without her notice. As payment in kind, Alya helped Marinette out with the occasional glamor repair.

When Marinette still did not volunteer an explanation for her inattentiveness, Alya asked, “Did you finally meet someone?”

“N-no—why would you—of course I wouldn’t—how would I even—”

But the sputtered denial was a clear confirmation to Alya. “Oh, good. It’s about time you moved on from Luka. Tell me everything.”

“I’m not—I don’t need—There’s nothing to tell!” Marinette protested. “I—I bumped into him while I was working at a party. And then he came to the bakery, and he was so rude it was ridiculous. Besides, I’m never going to see him again, so it doesn’t mat—”

Marinette broke off, stunned into silence by the sight at the end of the street. She had to be hallucinating the boy at the end of the lane. He couldn’t be here.

But, as Alya had said, the crowds were small tonight. Marinette had no trouble, even at this distance, catching the bit of golden hair peeking out from his tophat and the black cat perched on his shoulders.

She tore her eyes away and tried to convince herself that it was some other blond young man with a cat, that it would be ridiculous to see him here. That surely he was not the sort of person who did his own shopping, let alone shopping in a place largely run by entertainers and amateurs, so there was no reason for him to be at the Midnight Market. And, at any rate, she did not want to see him. She had had enough of his rude behavior.

“It doesn’t matter,” she finished, hoping Alya had not noticed her slip.

But her friend was far too clever for that. Alya scanned the guests milling about the stalls. “He’s here, isn’t he?”

“No.”

“It’s not that dandy, is it?” Alya laughed.

“No—what? He’s not—”

“Oh my god, it is! You sure do know how to pick them. Look at that coat. Not sure it’s ever known a winter before.”

It wasn’t even the same coat he’d been wearing in the bakery. Where that one had been solid black, this one was pine green. She wondered if it would bring out his green eyes, then berated herself for even thinking about his eyes.

“He’s rich enough to attend one of Lady Tsurugi’s dinner parties,” Marinette sighed. “And besides, he’s terribly rude. He didn’t even say thank you when I repaired a stain in his shirt.”

“Maybe he’s come to say thank you now.”

“He’s not—stop. Don’t look so smug.”

“I’m only going to point out that a nice purse can make up for a lack of manners—and other things, if the size of that hat is any indication that he’s overcompensating for a lack of something else.”

“Alya!”

But Alya did not look the least bit scandalized. “If you’re not interested, then you won’t mind if I try my charms?”

“Aren’t you about to get married?”

Alya shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I have a ring in hand. And since I have no ring at the moment…” She raised her eyebrows expectantly, as if waiting for Marinette to give her permission for this particular hunt.

Marinette threw both her hands in the air in exasperation. It had nothing to do with her if Alya wanted to talk to this stranger, this boy whose name Marinette still did not know—and did not need to know, because she could have nothing to do with him. She pointedly opened up her ledger to review her projects, determined not to stare.

“Oh, he really is coming this way,” Alya squealed, and Marinette was forced to look back up.

There was no denying it. It was the same boy from the drawing room and the bakery. The same boy who had held her hand and told her not to speak ill of herself, and then, hours later, cursed in front of her bread.

The green coat did bring out his eyes.

Alya intercepted him, cutting off his steady progress down the lane. She spread her arms wide as she curtsied.

“Welcome to the Midnight Market, Monsieur!”

Alya whistled softly and snapped her fingers, and a shower of sparks burst from her hand and into the sky.

The boy looked surprised and took a step back. The cat on his shoulders sank low and flattened its ears, but the young man and a few other patrons nearby clapped politely.

“Thank you, thank y—” Alya sneezed loudly. “Oh, pardon me sir—” She sneezed again. “I must be allergic to your cat. Do you have a handkerchief I might borrow?”

The boy, still startled, readily dug through his pockets. A few of the artisans at their stalls and regular attendees of the night market chuckled softly, familiar with this routine of Alya’s.

“Here you are, Mademoiselle,” the boy said as he pulled a handkerchief from his pocket—but it didn’t come out, at least not all of it. Or, rather, there was more of it than he had accounted for. As he pulled on the handkerchief, several came out of his pocket, one tied to the next. He continued pulling, unable to find the end of it.

“Oh dear,” Alya said, and clicked her tongue. The audience laughed.

Finally, the length of handkerchiefs came to a sudden end, and the boy stared at the comically long rope of silk in his hands. “Er—a moment—” He struggled to undo one of the knots, but Alya snatched the entire line from him. The cat on his shoulders swatted at the retreating rope of silk, but his claws failed to make contact with Alya’s glamor.

She chose one handkerchief and loudly blew her nose, then sneezed into the next one, and blew her nose again into a third. She wiped her face with a fourth, then stared at the chain in a mimicry of concern. The crowd laughed, and a few more onlookers gathered around. The boy, however, merely stared, wide-eyed.

Alya sniffed again and said, “I suppose I’ll have to clean them before I return them.”

“You don’t have to—”

“Or, I have a better idea!” Alya took one end of the handkerchiefs between her fingers and began to loop it around her hand until it was a tight ball. She closed her hands around it, pressed her lips to her thumbs, then threw the handkerchiefs into the air.

Instead of a rope of silk, a pair of doves burst from her hand and fluttered away into the night sky.

This time, the audience clapped in genuine awe—except for the young man. He was no longer watching Alya. He had found Marinette, and he was staring at her, as if she were far more interesting than any glamor or illusion.

The moment Marinette’s eyes met his, she disappeared under her table. She didn’t want him to see her, didn’t want to put up with his attitude again—though he had been polite enough to Alya so far. Cautiously, she lifted the hem of the red velvet cloth that she had draped over her table and watched him from below.

As a feather from one of the dove’s wings fluttered down and brushed his nose, he sneezed. His cat, unable to maintain his balance on the young man’s shoulders, leapt to the ground. But he did not bolt like he had in the bakery. Instead, he circled the boy’s ankles, wary eyes trained on the crowd like a protective familiar.

“Oh,” Alya grinned as the boy pressed the back of his hand to his nose, “perhaps you’d like to borrow a handkerchief.” She reached into her dress and pulled out a white silk handkerchief. She displayed it for all to see, the silver and lavender butterfly-shaped crest of the Agreste family embroidered into its corner, and the initials “A.A.” beside it.

Marinette frowned. This boy had insisted—quite violently—that he was not Monsieur Agreste’s son. Was he a nephew, perhaps? Or a cousin?

Alya handed the handkerchief to him and while the audience laughed, he merely took his handkerchief back with a distracted, “Thank you,” eyes already drifting once more towards Marinette’s stall.

Sensing she had lost her primary audience, Alya whistled a few notes and waved her hand over her head to release another shower of sparks. “The main show begins at the third strike of the witching hour!” She snatched one of the large sparks from overhead then brought it down to her chest and blew on it, sending a series of small twinkling stars down the lane to the east. “Just follow the stars to your destiny.” She winked at her crowd, then snatched the hat from the young man’s head. The cat swiped at her ankles as she did, but she danced out of his reach easily and held the hat out to her audience.

The young man, with eyes still trained on Marinette’s stall, placed two coins into his own hat distractedly then hurried past Alya to his destination. Reluctantly, the cat followed.

As he approached, Marinette attempted to stand quickly, fully intent on simply running away and abandoning her wares until he had gone, but instead she banged her head on her table and fell back to the ground with a yelp.

The young man bent over the table and looked down at her. “Are you all right?”

“Fine!” She rubbed the bump on her head, realized he was still staring, and scrambled for an excuse. “Just—dropped something—a coin—I think it’s—found it!” She pretended to tuck something into her pocket and pulled herself up to her feet.

“So,” she tried to take in a deep but subtle breath to calm her racing heart, “charm, potion, or repair?”

“A potion to start, I think, if you don’t mind.” He smiled pleasantly, and Marinette wondered if the brusque young man from the bakery really had transformed once more into a gentleman, like perhaps the evening made him personable and polite.

His cat leapt up onto Marinette’s table, which wobbled as if it were uncertain about the added weight. He perused the lucky charms with a cat’s uniquely disdainful curiosity. Marinette watched him for a moment to make sure he was not going to bat anything off of the edge, then realized her customer had not elaborated on his request.

“Er—Did you have a particular potion in mind, or just an inkling to try something new?”

“No, I—well, it’s a little embarrassing.” His hand went to his head, where his hat ought to have been, and he frowned, as if only just realizing it was gone. He glanced around and saw Alya still collecting coins with it, but he didn’t seem bothered. He turned back to Marinette and murmured, “I developed a bit of a dry scalp this week. It’s never happened before, and I’m not entirely sure what to do about it.”

“Oh.” Marinette did her best not to look panicked. Had he been rude to her the other day because he had realized it was her fault? Was he at her stall instead of someone else’s because he expected her to fix her mistake? If all of that was the case, then why hadn’t he said something to her when he was in the bakery the other day? Was he planning to cause some sort of scene here instead?

She made a show of looking through her box of potions to buy herself some time to calm down. If he really was having a mild reaction to the snowdrop addition to the dessert the other evening, then the issue should clear up in another day or two no matter what she gave him. She just needed to hand him something small, something cheap enough that he wouldn’t balk at the price or accuse her of swindling him, and this would all be over.

There was a sudden crash and Marinette looked up to see that his cat had decided to knock over one of her lucky charms. The small glass bauble encasing a dandelion head, preserved just before losing its seeds, shattered on the ground. The seeds dispersed almost instantly, leaving behind only the broken glass and the pink ribbon Marinette had written the charm into.

“What is wrong with you?” the young man hissed at his cat. He lifted the creature off of the table, but the cat refused to stay put in his arms. He wriggled out of the young man’s grip and settled back on his shoulders. Marinette could not help but feel like the cat’s eyes were glaring at her and that his flat ears were somehow her fault.

“It’s all right,” she said, and fished a broom out of her collection of supplies. Broken glass was a hazard of the trade, particularly given her own clumsiness. “I think black cats are immune to bad luck anyway.”

“If only that were true,” he laughed.

“Is he your familiar?” she asked.

“Oh—no. I’m not… I mean, would I be here if I was magical myself?”

“Everyone has different talents,” she shrugged as she finished sweeping up the cat’s mess and reached across the table for her potions box.

“Here,” she pulled out a bottle of red poppy oil. It wasn’t especially magical in any way, but it had a subtle earthy, pleasant aroma. It was a useful flourish for any grounding or protection spell and, as an added benefit, red poppies were associated with apologies. It was the closest Marinette could get to asking for forgiveness without admitting to her mistake. And though it wouldn’t cure his allergy, certainly, it might alleviate any itching he felt as a side effect of the snowdrop until the allergy wore off on its own. “Just put a bit of this where it annoys you, and it should ease any discomfort and clear the problem up in a few days.”

“Excellent. How much?”

“Oh—well—er—you don’t need to—I mean—first one’s free.” She thrust the bottle at him, unable to name a price at all. His problem was her fault, after all.

The young man frowned at the bottle in her hand, and his cat took advantage of his master’s distraction to leap down to the table once more and stick his nose into the potions.

“Nonsense.” He took the bottle from her and read the neatly handwritten label with the price scrawled on it before Marinette could snatch it away. He reached into his pocket again and dug out a few coins, which he placed on the velvet covering Marinette’s table.

She stared at the pieces beneath his fingers, still unsure whether it was right for her to accept them, when she noticed something odd about his hand. He was wearing the same ring she had noticed during their dance, that he had fidgeted with while she had repaired the bloodstain in his clothes, but his hand was missing something else.

“I don’t understand,” she said with a frown.

He furrowed his brow. “You run a stand at the Midnight Market and don’t understand how goods are exchanged?”

“No—I just mean—you said you weren’t magical.”

“I’m not?”

“Then how else did you heal that cat scratch so quickly?”

“Cat scratch?”

“Your hand.”

He stared down at his hand, bearing the ring of his station, but the back of it was perfectly unmarred. There was not even a pink line in memory of where his cat had scratched him in the bakery just days ago.

Suddenly, he shoved his hand into his pocket. “Right. My cat. The scratch from my cat. Look—about what happened in your kitchen—”

“You can use the poppy oil on your cat,” Marinette blurted out suddenly. “For his—you know, he looked like he was a bit flaky, too.”

The boy gave her a wry smile. “Did he?”

The cat rumbled a low growl in protest. To the cat’s credit, his coat certainly looked healthy and sleek tonight.

“Is it er—a glamor?” she asked.

“My cat’s coat?”

“The scratch.”

“Oh.” He glanced around, as if he were worried someone else might be listening in on their conversation. Indecision flickered in his green eyes, but he finally whispered, “It’s—well, it’s a bit difficult to talk about.”

Marinette frowned. “You can’t talk about your cat?”

The cat, perhaps sensing he was the object of their conversation, batted one of Marinette’s potions off of its shelf and it, too, broke against her table, spilling its contents all over her red velvet cloth.

“Oh—” She scrambled through her crate of supplies for a rag to clean up the mess, but the young man had already pulled out his handkerchief and was doing his best to soak up the potion.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologized. “He’s not normally this rude.”

“No, I’m sorry—” Marinette yanked a rag from her crate and pressed it down on the velvet next to his hands. “I wasn’t trying to be rude about your cat’s coat.”

“You weren’t.”

Marinette was not sure the cat agreed with the boy, for he swished his tail and eyed her imperiously as she cleaned up the mess that he had made. He cast the same disdainful look on the boy, too, as he pressed his handkerchief into the velvet.

She wondered, briefly, if the boy had ever cleaned up a spill in his life, but told herself she was being ridiculous. Everyone had the occasional spill, regardless of class, and knew enough to put a napkin to a spot.

He lifted his now soaked handkerchief and stared at the dark spot on the velvet, no longer spreading but certainly not gone, and said, “Let me pay for the cleaning.”

“Oh—you don’t have to—”

“I insist,” he said, and handed her his handkerchief. “Get this cleaned when you do, and return it to me with the bill.”

Marinette swallowed. “I couldn’t—”

“Please.”

Reluctantly, she folded the damp handkerchief up along with her rag, then used a fresh rag to wrap up the broken glass.

“Thank you,” she murmured, “though I can’t say for sure when I will see you again.”

He scratched behind his ear, either to assuage some nerves or because his dry scalp was bothering him. “I—” He started and stopped suddenly, like he was running out of air. He swallowed and tried again. “I did have an idea. Or a thought.” He glanced nervously at his cat, like he worried his cat might not like the idea. The cat merely stared back, face blank.

Marinette waited for him to explain his thought, but no explanation came. “Well—congratulations, then. Was it a particularly complex thought?”

“No—it—it’s quite simple, actually. I saw this notice when I walked into the market about a public dance coming up, and I thought it might be a nice way to—to practice.”

She laughed. “You want to attend a public dance?”

“Is that funny?”

“Well—you’re—you know… It’s not the sort of thing you go to.”

“How do you know what sorts of things I go to?”

“People who go to dinner parties with Lady Tsurugi—whoever their fathers are—don’t go to public dances. I think she’d officially disinvite you from all future events if she knew.”

“Are they so scandalous?”

“Not to me, but to you—”

“Will you be there?”

“What?”

“If you’re there, then it’s the sort of place I want to be.”

Marinette didn’t know what to say to that, nor what to make of the mischief tucked into his smile. Just days ago, he’d been so eager to get out of her sight he hadn’t even thanked her for her work. Now he wanted to go to a dance with her?

“I can’t go,” she said, her heart skipped a beat as his face fell. “I promised my parents I would help with the delivery order for Lady Tsurugi’s party that night. I think it’s her daughter’s engagement celebration. Were you not invited?”

The disappointment on the boy’s face turned into a grimace. “I was invited. You know she hasn’t even been proposed to yet?” As the words left his mouth, he swallowed suddenly, like he might take them back. “Sorry—that was rude. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just—it’s a party in expectation of an engagement but I can’t imagine anyone wants that rumor spreading.”

“Who does she expect to propose?”

He stared glumly at the cluster of silver coins that still rested between the two of them. “Monsieur Agreste’s son,” he finally said, as if it were a confession.

Marinette didn’t understand his tone, but she did understand the conversation she had overheard between Luka and the head of Lady Tsurugi’s staff. “That explains his insistence on dancing at the dinner party. Probably wanted to create an opportunity for conversation. Shame it didn’t work out. Did your father have someone he wanted you to talk with, too?”

This time, he didn’t answer at all. He tucked the bottle of poppy oil into his pocket and reached up to tip his hat, only to discover, once again, that it was still in Alya’s hands. “Perhaps I’ll bump into you again at Lady Tsurugi’s?” There was a strange hope in his voice. Marinette couldn’t bear to dash it, but she didn’t think it would be any better to lie.

“If you want your hat back, just ask Alya for it. She likes to borrow her props. She says it’s better for audience engagement.”

“Thank you. And thank you for the potion. If it doesn’t work, I’ll just have to come back.”

“Oh—I’m sure it will work.”

“Well, then, if it does, perhaps I’ll have something else to ask of you.”

Despite her head insisting that he was merely being polite, her heart raced with anticipation. She tried to force it still by reminding herself that she was not going to run into him at Lady Tsurugi’s. It had been an accident that it had happened in the first place, and highly inappropriate. She never would have seen him again at all if his cat hadn’t run into the bakery, and he had simply gotten lucky by finding her booth tonight in search of a solution to a problem that he didn’t even need her to solve. His allergy would clear in days, and that would be that. She certainly wasn’t going out of her way just to return his handkerchief.

Marinette was determined this time, and repeated it to herself like an incantation. She was never going to see him again, because if she saw him again, she might actually have to admit to herself that she was beginning to like him.

❖❖❖

Marinette checked her basket for the fifth time, but it was still there, tucked in between the folds of red velvet. It was not a dream nor some illusion. The handkerchief embroidered with the Agreste family crest and the initials “A. A.” was very real.

She and her mother had worked hard to get the stain out of the velvet and the handkerchief, but potions were stubborn. Her father, though his knowledge of magic was limited, had been trained in the basics by both of his parents, and had a solid grasp of magical components. He’d insisted they needed pine resin, which was well out of Marinette’s price range.

While normally, Marinette would not have been able to afford to get it professionally cleaned, even with the promise of a refund from a boy she was determined never to see again, Madame Lahiffe had owed Marinette a favor, ever since Marinette had rescued her youngest son from a magical mishap that had nearly aged him forty years.

“Did my mother not do a good job?” Nino gently elbowed Marinette’s arm as they walked.

Marinette blinked and turned to look at her companion. “What?”

“You keep fussing with it. Is there something wrong with it?”

Marinette pulled her hand out of her basket. “No. Nothing—sorry—” Marinette scrambled for a way to change the subject. “Tell me again what you want me to check for?”

Nino fussed anxiously with his cap. He’d dressed in a nice jacket and had carefully cleaned every inch of his coat for today, determined to present his best while they shopped.

When Marinette had bumped into him on her initial visit to see his mother, she’d mentioned Alya’s comment about lacking a ring. Nino had blanched and immediately asked Marinette to help him pick one out when she returned to pick up her cleaning. While he trusted his own taste in jewelry, he wanted something a bit more exceptional than just a ring, and he needed Marinette’s eye for magical quality.

“She’ll pick out any glamors right away,” Nino complained. “It either can’t be glamorous at all, or I need you to make sure it’s a really high quality one, something she couldn’t do herself.”

“You’re better off without glamor. Anything you could afford is something she could manage herself.”

Nino frowned, and Marinette immediately felt badly about the comment. She’d meant it to be encouraging, a reminder that whatever he chose for Alya did not need to be magical, but it seemed as if all she had done was remind him how limited his options were.

“We’re going to find something perfect for her,” Marinette promised, and linked her arm with Nino’s.

Nino slid his hand into his pocket, fidgeting with his coin purse, just as Marinette’s hand drifted to the handkerchief hidden in her basket.

“We’re going to find something perfect for her that is absolutely in your price range,” Marinette amended, but Nino looked practically green at the thought.

“Speaking of glamors,” he mumbled, and reached into a different pocket of his coat, “Alya asked me to give this to you.”

Nino pressed a small round stone into Marinette’s hand. It was a deep reddish color with a hollowed out center and smooth on all sides, almost like a rather large ring of its own.

“A seeing stone?” Marinette asked.

“She said you could borrow it when you go to Lady Tsurugi’s party tomorrow.”

“I’m not going to Lady Tsurugi’s party; I am working at Lady Tsurugi’s party. What does she think I need a seeing stone for?”

“You thought there might be a glamor on your young man’s hand, right? She suggested you use it to make sure he’s not some hideous monster underneath a bigger glamor.”

Marinette rolled her eyes. “I’m not going to see him again.” At least, she wasn’t supposed to. If she did her job correctly, she would be downstairs with the staff for the duration of the evening while he mingled with the guests upstairs. Maybe she would ask one of the household staff to return his handkerchief just before she left, so he wouldn’t have a chance to call for her, and he’d have no more excuses to stop by her stall at the Midnight Market.

But she pocketed the stone anyway.

Together, Nino and Marinette made their way through the crowded streets down to Artisan’s Alley, where professional craftsmen plied their trade during traditional business hours, in a range of magical and mundane skills. Marinette visited the alley on occasion, offering a box of charms or trinkets to sellers who might be interested in having her items on display. Some of these artisans had begun their work in the Midnight Market, and were willing to support amateurs like her.

It was in a shop like these ones that Marinette had first met Luka.

When Luka was between performances at dances and dinners, he assisted for a variety of artisans in Artisan’s Alley. He had an eye for detail and a delicate touch, and probably could have had his pick of apprenticeships if he were willing to commit his time to a single craft besides his own music. As Marinette and Nino started their walk down Artisan’s Alley, she glanced in shop windows, ears habitually listening for his steady voice. He was always making conversation with customers.

He claimed to like talking with people, but Marinette knew beyond that, he needed those relationships for his next job, for another favor, for some sort of gift. She didn’t think of him as someone who intentionally leveraged his connections for his own gain, for certainly he gave as much as he received, but she knew he was someone who relied on relationships and his own charm to get by. It had enamored her, once. She still envied it, certainly.

They passed a cobbler, and while that itself was not work that Marinette could see herself doing, she did feel a bit of pride as she remembered the boots she had embroidered last week. Her embroidery was better than anything displayed in that window. The shop beside it, though, belonged to a tailor who displayed fabrics and dresses that Marinette only dreamed of creating someday. She wanted to belong here, but she still had so much work to do to achieve this level of skill and quality.

Her best bet would be to take on an apprenticeship, but that would be expensive, unless one of the craftsmen was willing to sponsor her during her training. Her second best bet was to keep saving every coin made at the Midnight Market and the bit of money she made delivering her parents’ goods. Someday she’d have enough for her own business; she was sure of it.

Her heart jolted as Luka’s laugh reached her ears, and she saw him in the tailor’s window, displaying two different fabrics to a customer. She was irritated by the twinge of longing that turned her stomach. She thought it was unfair of her heart to react on selective memories, for while their separation had been mutual and amicable, it had not been without its arguments. Her heart, however, seemed momentarily unconcerned with their arguments when she saw him.

Nino followed Marinette’s gaze into the tailor’s shop and squeezed her arm. “Come on,” he said. “We’re looking for jewelry, right?”

But as they approached the first jewelry shop on the lane, it was Nino’s turn to balk with anxiety.

Marinette gave his wrist a comforting squeeze, just as he had done for her. “You know it’s all right if you don’t find something, right?”

“I can’t keep making Alya wait just because I want a bit more money before I propose.”

“Then just find something she’ll like. I’m not sure it’s the ring she needs as much as it is the person presenting it to her.”

He did not look quite so sure of that as they pushed open the door to the jeweler’s shop. The shop bell jingled and a short, elderly old man limped from the back of the shop. The counter, which itself was more of a stand encased in glass, was nearly as tall as he was. Tufts of gray hair peeked out behind each ear, and he wore a clean white suit and waistcoat, decorated with brilliant jade buttons. Marinette was not sure she had ever seen something so fine, and she was reminded once more how much harder she was going to have to work if she wanted to achieve this level of success someday.

“How may I help you today?” the gentleman asked and picked up a cane to lean on while he assisted his two young customers.

Marinette eyed the shelves around them, also all encased in glass, and the posted notice that listed prices for appraisals, repairs, and resizing. She wondered if anything in this shop would be affordable for Nino. The last thing she wanted was for him to be discouraged before they had hardly begun.

“E-engagement ring.” Nino stammered. “I’m looking for an engagement ring.”

“Excellent,” the jeweler smiled. “May I see your young lady’s hand?”

Marinette and Nino alike laughed, voices high and nervous.

“No,” she protested.

“We’re not—” he tried to explain, but neither could quite find the words.

“My mistake.” Though they had not managed to explain themselves, the jeweler smiled kindly at them. “Do you know your partner’s size?”

Nino’s face dropped. “Er—maybe?”

“While surprising a partner is nice, it might be wise to fit the ring immediately, particularly if you are interested in a custom design.”

“Oh, I don’t think…” Nino swallowed, and Marinette could practically see the numbers over his head as he imagined the cost of a custom designed ring. “I just—I can have it resized or-or—”

The shop bell behind them rang as the door opened again for another patron. A woman let out a soft, “Oh,” that seemed equal parts surprised and disdainful. In a high, honeyed voice, she said, “Pardon me, but I believe we have an appointment.”

Even as indignation flared in Marinette’s chest, certain that this woman was challenging hers and Nino’s right to be in this shop, Nino pulled Marinette to the side without even turning around. They could feel wronged all that they liked, but it only took one glance at the woman’s floral silk gown and her heavy, fur-lined winter coat to know that she and Nino truly had no room to argue here. The woman’s upright posture and tightly coiffed blonde hair all suggested a life of wealth and leisure. Even the small smile in the corner of her mouth seemed to condescend to everyone around her.

Behind the woman stood a tall, slender gentleman dressed in a coat as fine as the woman’s with a red silk scarf around his neck. A pair of thin glasses framed a pair of eyes as gray as his closely cropped hair. He removed his hat and coat and helped the woman out of hers. As he draped the coats over his arm, Marinette wondered if he might be a valet, but the cream-colored jacket embroidered with pale white lilies suggested he and this woman were of equal station, even if he deferred to her.

Then Marinette’s heart came to a full stop as a third person stepped out from behind the taller gentleman. Her familiar young man appeared, wearing the same black coat he had been wearing the day he had come rushing into her bakery and the same sullen, wary expression. But she saw no cat circling his ankles nor clinging to his shoulders. She wondered if she would find a visible scratch on the back of his hand, but it was hard to tell from this distance.

Her hand found Alya’s seeing stone in her pocket, but she was not sure how she could use it in such a small, private space without being noticed.

The jeweler inclined his head to the patrons in a small bow. “A pleasure, as always, Monsieur et Madame Agreste. I have everything ready for you.”

Nino and Marinette continued their retreat as the Agrestes approached the jeweler’s display counter. Marinette waited for the young man to smile at her or at least to acknowledge that he recognized her, but there was only the barest flick of his eyes in her direction as he passed her.

She had half a mind to tap him on the shoulder and throw his freshly cleaned handkerchief back in his face, but Marinette didn’t want to cause a scene before Nino had a chance to find a ring that he liked. Instead, she twisted the seeing stone anxiously between her fingers.

The jeweler reached beneath the counter and pulled out a small wooden box. He opened it and revealed a single ring inside, with four diamonds arranged in a shape like an X or perhaps a butterfly’s spread wings, but when he pulled the ring out of the box, he separated it into two pieces, with the diamonds on each ring arranged into a V-shape.

“It will need to be resized before the wedding, naturally,” the jeweler said, “but please make sure it fits now.” He handed one of the bands to the young man, who accepted it like the jeweler was dumping a hot coal into his palm.

“And this one,” the jeweler held up the second ring, identical to the one in the young man’s hand, “is sized to match the sample ring from the girl’s mother. Are we still insistent on it being a surprise?”

“Well,” the woman smiled as she looked down at the young man beside her, “the proposal itself will not be much of a surprise, but isn’t it more romantic if the ring is, at least? Aren’t you going to try the ring on, Adrien?”

Marinette’s heart leapt into her throat, despite her best efforts to keep it down. She finally had a name for her fickle young man and the initials on the handkerchief—Adrien Agreste.

Adrien grimaced, but did as he was told. He slid the band onto his finger, where it met the plain silver band he already wore.

The woman took his hand and examined the fit, as if she were perhaps more concerned with how it looked to others than how it felt to him. Marinette caught a glimpse of a pink scratch along the back of the young man’s hand, and wondered why the scratch should be as fickle as the young man’s attitude.

Madame Agreste pursed her lips as she twisted the plain silver band around the young man’s finger, like she might somehow change how it contrasted with the new gold band.

“It can’t be helped, I suppose. And it’s only until the wedding.”

“Not as if I’ll be the one wearing it,” he muttered and pulled the ring from his hand.

Monsieur Agreste raised his eyebrows and slid a hand over Adrien’s shoulder. “What was that?”

Marinette could not explain the way the young man changed beneath that hand, not entirely. He straightened up and his jaw tightened, but she did not know how to describe what happened to his eyes. They turned straight ahead, past the jeweler, reminding her of the way he had stared out the window of the bakery’s kitchen.

“I just meant,” he said in a flat voice, but far clearer, like it was meant less for the people standing beside him and more for the jeweler or anyone else who might be listening in, “that Mademoiselle Tsurugi will be the one wearing it after the wedding.”

Marinette’s hand tightened around the seeing stone as every muscle in her body seized up. Had he not told her that he was definitely not Monsieur Agreste’s son? Then the other night, in the market, he had said that it was Monsieur Agreste’s son who was supposed to propose to Miss Tsurugi. Here he was, fitting an engagement ring for the very woman he claimed that he was not proposing to. Why had he lied?

While shock and anger waged a war inside Marinette’s chest, Madame Agreste smiled at Adrien and wrapped her hand around his. Marinette might have believed that the gesture was affectionate if Adrien had not winced.

As the jeweler took the two bands back and fitted them once again into one, Marinette realized that her brief encounter with this boy was nearing its end. She hated the way disappointment crawled its way into her chest. He certainly hadn’t expressed any excitement or even interest in seeing her here, not the way he had at the night market. And he was the one who had turned down his offer of attending a public dance, so why was she suddenly hurt by this revelation of an engagement?

“And did you finish repairs on the brooch?” Madame Agreste asked.

The jeweler frowned. He pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a tall oak cabinet as large as a wardrobe. Inside, a series of shelves housed a multitude of velvet and wooden jewelry boxes, but the jeweler ignored all of these and pulled open a drawer near the bottom of the large cabinet. From the drawer, he removed an ornate jewelry box, carved with dragons along its base and an ornate spiral along its lid. The jeweler opened the top lid and removed a stunning sapphire and emerald brooch. The green gems had been fitted together into an arc resembling the fan tail of a peacock, with sapphires set at the tip to imitate the eye of each feather. It was a dramatic and, if Marinette were any judge, expensive accessory.

“I don’t know how you managed to damage it so badly,” the jeweler said, with a touch of admonishment in his tone, “but I have not been able to make the repairs that you requested. The fracture is quite complete.”

“But we need it repaired before the wedding,” Monsieur Agreste insisted.

“Then perhaps you should not have broken it,” the jeweler replied evenly, unmoved by his client’s temper. “I have never seen damage to this degree before, and it is even harder to repair without knowing what exactly incurred the fracture.”

To Marinette’s eye, the brooch looked lovely and perfect. She could see no crack in the stones, nor in the gold setting. Though it was rude enough that she was eavesdropping and only pretending to listen to Nino as he pointed out a few rings to her, curiosity got the better of her. She pulled Alya’s seeing stone from her pocket and, when she was certain that everyone else’s eyes were on the brooch as the jeweler turned it over in his hand, she looked through the center of the stone.

She only dared hold the stone to her eye for a mere glance, but even that brief look was enough to make the damage plain. A jagged crack ran across the length of the brooch, invisible to the naked eye, but brought into sharp relief by Alya’s seeing stone. The deep, black chasm marred the beautiful gems and, even from this distance and with only a cursory examination, Marinette knew with certainty that the damage was magical in nature.

She was not arrogant enough to believe she could repair damage that this professional jeweler struggled with, but she had worked with enough magical charms and even a handful of cursed objects to know what a magical fracture looked like. This charm had been used for magic stronger than it was intended for, and it had rebelled.

Marinette had experienced a similar issue on occasion, particularly from customers who bought a lucky charm from her stall then tried to use the charm to cause something more powerful, like a love charm or a windfall spell. They brought back the charm and complained about its uselessness or fragility, and Marinette had to patiently explain to them that lucky charms were merely for small bits of good fortune, like having a gentle breeze on a hot day or finding that missing coin in your pocket. They weren’t meant to make someone fall in love with you nor could they manifest profit from a fortunate investment.

A charm made of the sort of gems that brooch was made of, however, had to be capable of powerful magic on its own, far more than a little bit of a dandelion seed preserved in glass was capable of. How much more dangerous, then, was the spell that it had been used for?

While Monsieur and Madame Agreste argued with the jeweler about timely repairs, Marinette risked one more use of the seeing stone, though she wasn’t sure what she thought she could glean about the brooch that the jeweler had not been able to discern herself, especially without getting any closer.

The crack itself gave no more insight, but as she shifted the seeing stone, she caught sight of something else. The young man’s hand, still resting on the counter with its fading scratch and heavy ring, made her heart stop, but it wasn’t the scratch that sent a chill down her spine.

There was no glamor on him like Alya had suggested, no magic hiding some hideous appearance underneath the handsome young man. He was as he appeared—except for a single black thread tied neatly to the ring on his finger, then stretched taught to his neck, where it wrapped around once before continuing on its journey, ending in a rather messy knot on Madame Agreste’s ring. A second knot, as hastily tied as the first, indicated a second thread, but before Marinette could attempt to follow that thread, Madame Agreste’s shoulders stiffened.

Marinette shoved the seeing stone back into her pocket just as Madame Agreste turned around. Marinette pretended to be exceptionally interested in a nearby bracelet and pointed it out to Nino, but her mind was spinning as she tried to make sense of what she had seen. It was no spell she knew of, but she could guess that it was not a particularly kind spell.

Marinette did not dare pull the seeing stone from her pocket again, especially not as Madame Agreste kept glancing back at the two of them suspiciously, but she knew she wanted a better look at either Madame Agreste’s or Adrien’s ring. It was not just curiosity that spurred her now, but a new fear that lodged itself deep in her stomach. This boy, his wary glances, the tight hands around his fingers and shoulder, and the thread around his throat seemed to bleed together, and she did not care for the picture it made.

There was a sudden crack as Madame Agreste slammed the jewelry box closed. Marinette jumped at the sound, and Nino looked up, but no one at the counter seemed surprised by her tantrum.

“We’ll be back next week,” she said stiffly. “It had better be ready.”

Her husband picked up the jewelry box containing the engagement rings and tucked it into his coat pocket. He set a small coin purse down on the counter in exchange, and said, “We won’t be paying anything more if that brooch is not fixed.”

“I would not charge for a service I could not provide,” the jeweler replied, voice still as even as it had been. “I will continue to do what I can.”

There was no gratitude nor well-wishing exchanged as the Agrestes turned and left the shop. Once the shop bell rang and the door clicked shut to announce their final departure, the jeweler turned back to Nino and Marinette with a kind but worn smile.

“I apologize for the interruption. You were looking for an engagement ring, correct?”

Marinette’s mind, though, was still with her young man. Even if she did see him tomorrow night, at such a grand party she might not have a chance to examine his ring.

It was an impulsive plan, but she didn’t have time to stop and think of a better one.

She pulled the handkerchief from her basket and ran after the Agrestes.

“Monsieur!” she called after them. “Excuse me, Monsieur! I think you dropped this!”

Adrien did not turn around until she was close enough to brush her hand against his elbow. He stared at her, startled, and Monsieur and Madame Agreste paused.

“What do you think you’re—”

But before Monsieur Agreste could reprimand Marinette for stopping them, she shoved the handkerchief at Adrien.

“This is yours, I think,” she said, half out of breath. “You dropped it.”

Adrien eyed it with that wary, disdainful expression that reminded her so much of his cat. “I didn’t,” he said.

“You did,” she insisted, and pressed the handkerchief into his hand. Her hands brushed the ring on his finger and he flinched.

He grabbed her hand as she pinched the ring. “Don’t—” He bit back whatever else he was going to say and his eyes drifted to Monsieur and Madame Agreste, to their fixed gazes on this exchange, before settling back on her. He reached into his pocket and pulled out another handkerchief. “That can’t be my handkerchief, because this is my handkerchief.”

And with a mundane sleight of hand that would have impressed even Alya, he took the handkerchief she had handed to him back, leaving her with the one from his pocket.

Marinette didn’t understand, and she was left standing alone in the street, staring dumbly after him and Monsieur and Madame Agreste’s backs as they retreated to their carriage. The way Monsieur Agreste’s hand made its way back to the young man’s shoulder unsettled her stomach. Even if anyone else could see the way the boy was propelled into the carriage rather than helped, what was there to do? Marinette stayed standing there, as if witnessing him might make a difference, while they climbed in and their driver tugged the horses’ reins.

She had too many questions and no answers, and any chance of answers was rapidly disappearing as the carriage trundled down the road. Reluctantly, she trudged back into the jeweler’s shop, feeling like she had lost somehow. Helplessness and doubt were not things she was used to, and they muddied and slowed her usually frenetic thoughts. She hardly heard the bell above the threshold as she pushed the door open.

“Everything all right, Marinette?” Nino asked.

Unsure how to explain it all, she nodded. “Yes, I mean—of course—I—” she tightened her grip on the handkerchief in her hand and tried to smile. “I thought I could catch him, but I just missed him. I’ll have to try again tomorrow night.” She cleared her throat and blinked away the sting in her eyes. “Have you found something you like for Alya?”

As Nino pointed to a set of rings the jeweler had laid out for them, Marinette pretended to listen. She nodded when she ought to and hummed with interest when it was called for, but her mind was still on Adrien Agreste.

Only, as Nino deliberated between two rings he liked, she took the opportunity to look down at the handkerchief in her hands and knew at once that it was not Adrien Agreste’s handkerchief.

She didn’t recognize the crest—a cross and a pair of gray songbirds resting on either side of the crossbar—and on this handkerchief, the initials read “F. F.”

If it hadn’t been for the different crest, she might have convinced herself someone had simply forgotten to finish the lettering. But this handkerchief certainly did not match the one she had used to clean up a spilled potion at the Midnight Market. This handkerchief did not belong to the same person, nor even someone from the same family.

He had made sure to give her this handkerchief, made sure to impress upon her that he was not the same young man from the Midnight Market. He had, in the best fashion that he could, told her that he was not Adrien Agreste.

But Monsieur and Madame Agreste had called him Adrien. Was it possible they didn’t know who he really was? And, whether they knew or not, who exactly was he?

Lady Tsurugi had ordered three cases of the Dupain-Cheng’s renowned winter citrus tarts for her dinner party, and Marinette’s job was firstly to deliver the tarts and secondly to make sure they were each appropriately topped with a spiral of golden sugar. While the spirals themselves were mundane rather than genuinely magical, they added a certain mystical whimsy that had become a popular trend for local soirées, balls, and debuts. The trouble was that the sugar spirals did not transport easily, and Marinette had to make them on-site.

Marinette had every intention of staying downstairs in the kitchen where she belonged—if only to avoid running into a certain young musician who was playing this evening—but that was before she’d begun to return her supplies to her crate and discovered that instead of adding orange zest to the syrup like she was supposed to, she’d dumped in a bottle of fire droplets by mistake.

Her mother had warned her, time and again, about mixing her potions supplies and baking supplies, and Marinette did try to listen. She’d only brought the fire droplets to keep her hands warm on the walk home. Was it really her fault that it was the same size and shape as the bottle of orange zest her father had given her?

Maybe not, but it was her fault for not double-checking her labels before she had topped every single pastry with a glistening spiral of fire-enhanced sugar.

If Marinette did not get upstairs to fix those pastries before they made it to Lady Tsurugi and the guests, her family would never serve baked goods at so much as an afternoon picnic again.

Marinette’s first plan was to steal all the tarts back and redo each and every sugar spiral, but she wasn’t sure she had the time. Though she had studied potions, charms, and glamors under her grandmother’s tutelage, chronomancy was a field far too advanced for her.

Her second plan was to “accidentally” knock every pastry to the floor and “accidentally” trample them into dust. Unfortunately, she did not think that would spare her parents the damage to their reputation and business alike, and she imagined she would be the one paying for all those pastries and whatever additional expenses Lady Tsurugi saw fit to charge her with.

That left her with only one option: neutralize the potency of the fire droplets as quickly as she could. Luckily, she had a freshly made bottle of essence of snowdrops. She had crafted it with intentions to fill an enchanted snow globe, but this need was far more urgent.

If any of the ball’s guests suffered from the snowdrop’s potential side effect of sudden chills, hopefully they would attribute it to the winter weather. And if any of the guests were allergic to snowdrop and developed an itchy, dry scalp, well… She doubted they would point fingers at her pastries when looking for an explanation. Besides, the allergy symptoms usually resolved within a week.

Marinette crept down the hallway as quietly as she could, hoping the guests’ chatter and laughter would muffle her footsteps. As she arrived at the staging room where one of the household staff in his pristine wine red suit and perfectly white gloves was just picking up a tray of pastries, Marinette grabbed his arm. It was all the young man could do to keep from losing his balance and sending the entire silver tray of porcelain plates and tainted pastries crashing to the floor, just barely preventing Marinette from reverting to her second plan of total pastry destruction.

“What are you doing up here?” he hissed.

“I just need to add a finishing touch!” she whispered back. “It’ll only take a second!”

“It better,” he snapped, as Marinette pulled a small bottle from her pocket that looked to anyone else like a perfume atomizer. It would smell just as floral, and it might affect the flavor of the tart, but at least none of the guests would leave with burned tongues or spend the next three days laid up with burning stomach pain.

Marinette wasted no time and spritzed each of the tarts before the young man irritably whisked the tray away from her and into the dining hall.

Crisis averted.

Marinette tucked her bottle back into her apron pocket and enjoyed a brief moment of relief. She leaned against the small worktop in what was little more than a cubby where household staff could polish silverware and plates and make sure all food was ready to be served. There were a number of mahogany drawers, and each drawer handle had a solid iron pull, all individually marked with the glaring red symbol of the Tsurugi family.

Marinette shivered at the oppressive lines and colors then turned to go back to the kitchens where she belonged. She certainly wasn’t cut out for such grandeur.

But when she reached the landing on the stairs, a voice from the bottom of the stairwell floated up to her, and every ounce of blood in Marinette’s body chilled instantly, as if she had injected essence of snowdrop directly into her own veins.

“I know you said Lady Tsurugi wasn’t fond of dancing, but one of the guests wrote to me directly and suggested it might improve the general mood.”

The head of the Tsurugi’s household staff replied, “If Monsieur Agreste expects dancing, he can speak to Lady Tsurugi about it directly.”

As the two pairs of footsteps grew closer, Marinette hurried into the nearest corridor and pushed her way through the first door she could find. She pressed herself against it and squeezed her eyes closed, willing them to pass by—or if they did try to come in, perhaps her weight against the door might convince them it was stuck and buy her a little more time to flee.

With a racing heart, she listened to Luka’s light and familiar footsteps reach the door. They hesitated, briefly, as the head of staff and Luka debated setting up in the parlor or the ballroom, uncertain if Lady Tsurugi’s desire for a quiet evening or Monsieur Agreste’s more lively agenda might win out. In the end, they did not open the door, and the footsteps began to fade.

Marinette let out a sigh of relief. She opened her eyes to get her bearings and found herself in a drawing room. The fire had been lit, but the lamps had not. The flickering shadows around the room illuminated a cherry-wood bookshelf, a few velvet chairs embroidered with twisting dragons, and an easel with a canvas that depicted a half-finished still life of a vase of irises, resting on a table draped in heath, the purple and pink bell-shaped flowers only just dashed with initial color.

And to her horror, Marinette discovered that she was not alone.

A young man with golden hair and emerald eyes stood near the fire, a booklet in hand, but halfway into his jacket, like he was in the middle of hiding it. Despite his fine dinner jacket and waistcoat, he looked just as panicked to see her as Marinette felt to be seen.

“I’m sorry—” she spluttered. “I was just—I’ll go—”

But as his eyes took in her apron and smock, his shoulders relaxed. There was a small smile on his thin lips suddenly, rather than the scolding Marinette expected.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I was afraid you were one of my father’s servants sent to find me. It seems we both chose the same hiding place.”

Marinette warily returned his smile. “You’re hiding?”

“Sort of.” His smile turned sheepish as he set the pamphlet in hand down on a nearby table. Even across the dim room, Marinette could read the title “Modern Dance Steps” and was able to make out an illustration of a young man and a young woman mid-motion. She had one just like it at home, and her booklet’s edges were equally worn from hours studying and practicing. But no amount of reading and practice had ever been able to make up for her natural clumsiness, despite Alya and Luka’s best efforts.

“I can tell you’re a dedicated study,” she said.

His cheeks were bright pink now, and Marinette could feel her heart melting as his embarrassment rose.

“I’ve never actually had a partner to practice with,” he admitted, “just the instructions. Thought I’d try to brush up quickly before my father insisted on a dance after dinner.”

Though it was a rather rude question, Marinette could not hide her shock. “You’ve never danced before?”

“Er—this is, technically, my first party.”

Marinette blinked and tried to reinterpret this boy’s age. Even she, as someone who worked two jobs to make a living, had been attending public dances since she had turned fifteen, and this boy certainly looked about as old as she was. While boys didn’t debut the way girls did, they often received their education from attending parties before they were old enough to commit to any real relationships and while they were still young enough to make mistakes without causing scandal. Perhaps his parents had just kept him at home until he was old enough to start courting properly.

She remembered how embarrassed she had been at her first dance, tripping over her own feet and stepping on her partners’ toes. It was Alya who had been her first practice partner and helped her learn the steps. Then it was Luka who had persisted in her education despite her clumsiness. He’d even called her lack of grace charming once.

As much as that memory ached, she knew that she ought to pay back the kindness that had been given to her.

“Would you like a practice partner?” she asked.

“I couldn’t impose.”

“It’s not an imposition at all. Everyone has to learn from someone else.”

He glanced down at the pamphlet then reluctantly took her hand. She was startled by how soft the pads of his fingers were. She was used to her own rough, calloused hands from years working with a rolling pin and pricking her fingers with needles. Luka’s hands, too, had been worn by his harp strings and the wood of his violin, and Alya’s from years of working in her mother’s kitchen. But this boy did not know work the way she and her friends did, and he never would. The heavy silver ring around his finger, probably a signet of some high station, was a clear sign that their paths were never meant to cross, and in all likelihood would never cross again.

She counted a rhythm for them to follow and led him through each step—apologizing when she stumbled over her own two feet or misstepped herself. He had a cat’s grace that she envied. In truth, it was unlikely he needed to practice with her, but as they moved about the room, she saw the tension in his shoulders drop and the tightness in his jaw relax. His soft smile even managed to make another appearance as they repeated the steps a fourth time.

“You’re a natural,” she announced, before accidentally kicking her own ankle as she tried to step forward.

He laughed and caught her easily. “You’re an excellent teacher.”

“Please don’t patronize me.”

“I will admit your practice is unpolished, but you know the steps well enough.”

Her count ended, and they came to a stop in the middle of the room. He bowed to her, and she took a step back in surprise.

Red colored his cheeks once more. “That is how you’re supposed to end a dance, isn’t it?”

“Oh, of course,” she hastily dipped into her own curtsy. “You just caught me off guard—I didn’t—I mean, I’m not exactly—” Marinette gestured helplessly at her apron.

“You’re obviously not part of the household staff,” he said confidently. “I don’t see the problem.”

“I work in a bakery,” she tapped the apron pocket with the embroidered wreath of golden wheat. “That’s not really all that different. It’s your first party and all; you shouldn’t embarrass yourself by bowing to people below your station.”

“How do you know I’m above you?”

“People like me don’t get invited to these sorts of parties.”

“What if I invited you?”

It was her turn to blush. “Don’t be silly. Besides, I’d only embarrass myself with my terrible dancing.”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Everyone minds eventually.” Not that it had been her poor dancing that had driven a rift between her and Luka. It had just been one of many things that had soured between them.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” he said, and reached for her hand. “My mother says words are the foundation of any spell.”

Marinette’s grandmother had taught her something similar. Incantation is the beginning of all intention, not the other way around. But she wasn’t thinking about her grandmother in this moment. She was thinking about this boy and his soft hands against hers, and how she had not stood this close to a boy since Luka, how she had not been alone with a boy since Luka—and how if anyone walked in on the two of them right now, her parents would have to leave town to escape the scandal this could ignite.

Hastily, she pulled away and curtsied again. “Enjoy your first party,” she said, “and whoever your dance partner is, I hope they’re a bit more graceful than I am.”

Though it was rude of her, she didn’t wait for him to reply. She hurried back out into the corridor, gathered her things from the kitchen, and left without speaking to anyone.

It turned out that she did not need her fire droplets to stay warm on her walk home through the cold winter night. Her racing heart and burning cheeks did the work for her, keeping her warm all the way back to the bakery and up to her attic bedroom. She completely forgot her plans to pick a fresh bundle of snowdrops from her garden to replenish what she had spent salvaging the tarts.

As she swapped her bakery apron for her heavier tinker’s apron, Marinette stared dismally at the half-finished snow globe. At least that project didn’t have a deadline. It was only a gift for Nino’s little brother, who adored the first snowfall so much that she’d thought an enchanted snow globe would make a lovely Christmas gift.

Marinette stifled a yawn and flipped through her ledger of projects. There was a pocket watch that needed repair, both in keeping time and in restoring the illusory message it was supposed to play each hour. She might need to ask Alya for help. Alya was the expert with illusions; Marinette was better at potions and charms. She did do glamors on occasion, particularly when she was given clothing repairs, but those were always small, and not designed to last for very long.

She fidgeted with the internal mechanisms of the watch for nearly an hour, but made little progress. Her mind kept drifting back to her dance that evening, to his hands against hers, to the gentle smile that tugged up the corners of his mouth, like he wasn’t used to smiling and wasn’t entirely sure it was allowed.

With a groan, Marinette set the pocket watch aside and tried to work on a pair of boots she’d been asked to repair, in hopes that a less mentally challenging task would help. But it only made it easier for her mind to wander. As she pressed her needle into the leather, she remembered the young man’s soft hands. As she replaced the worn heel with a fresh one, she thought of his graceful steps. And as she stuck her tongue out and focused on weaving a self-tying charm into the laces, she remembered the way he had relaxed beneath her guidance, and how easy being with him had seemed.

Marinette tossed the shoe aside and threw herself down on her desk in frustration. She didn’t even know the boy’s name, and it was probably for the best. He was from a world she did not belong to and never would. She would never see him again, let alone speak to him. That was the way it was supposed to be.

❖❖❖

Marinette fell asleep at her desk, a myriad of projects strewn around her, each one half-finished in its own unique way. She woke to the scent of freshly baked bread.

While it wasn’t every morning that she woke at her desk, it wasn’t all that rare. With a groan, she sat up and stretched. She had berated herself time and again for falling asleep in her stays, but somehow she kept forgetting to properly put herself to bed at night. It was too easy to get wrapped up in projects and lose herself in her practice.

Falling into her bed was tempting, but a knock on the trapdoor of her attic bedroom reminded her that she had work to do.

“Coming, Maman,” she managed through a yawn.

Marinette used the basin on her nightstand to wash her face and pressed a cool towel to the bags under her eyes. She had promised her parents that she would help with the morning crowds and evening deliveries during the holiday season. Winter wasn’t their busiest time of year—spring, with its banquets and debuts was worse—but as both seasons had their share of parties and grand galas, her parents struggled to both fill large orders and meet the needs of their day-to-day patrons.

The only trouble was that winter was a busy time for Marinette’s second job, too.

Each Saturday night, from sunset to sunrise, she worked at the Midnight Market, repairing the odd magical object or adding magic into something mundane, and winter nights were the longest nights. She had a steady flow of business, as evidenced by the projects piling up on her desk, but somehow, the work never seemed to be enough. Her small jar of savings, kept in hopes of one day opening her own permanent shop, had stagnated at about a third of the way full, hardly enough, much less evidence of enough consistent business to sustain such a shop.

Marinette rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stifled another yawn, and swapped her heavier leather apron out for her pink baking apron before descending into the bakery below.

She said good morning to each of her parents, assured them that last night had gone well, and began to fill the bread baskets. She did not tell them about the near-disaster with the fire droplets.

They found out anyway.

Shortly after lunch, a letter sealed with the symbol of the Tsurugi family arrived, and within minutes, Sabine was calling, “Marinette!” with a voice that was lilted in a way all too familiar to Marinette. There was both a question in it and a concern, and perhaps a little bit of an accusation.

Marinette looked up at her father for help, but he raised his eyebrows and jerked his head towards the back of the shop. With heavy feet, Marinette trudged through the kitchen and into the back room. It was a mess of papers, order forms, calendars, to-do lists, and accounting ledgers, which had been disorganized long before Marinette had arrived in the world. She had inherited her organizational habits, just like she had inherited both magic and baking.

Marinette’s mother, a petite woman with short dark hair, looked up from the letter in her hand.

“Lady Tsurugi says she was quite pleased with our service.”

“Oh—that’s good news.”

“She’d like to engage us again for her daughter’s engagement announcement.”

“That’s… great?” Marinette had known her mother for far too long to believe she had been called back here for just a business arrangement.

“And she said the crisp floral flavor was unexpected but an excellent contrast to the tart orange.”

“Ah.”

“Were you experimenting with recipes again? Marinette, we have discussed using potions on the orders—”

“It wasn’t a potion! At least, it wasn’t supposed to be. I just accidentally used fire droplets instead of orange zest—”

“Fire droplets?!”

“But I fixed it! With snowdrops. It’s all fine, Maman. I know I messed up, but I took care of it. You don’t have to worry.”

Her mother sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Be more careful,” but it was a worn out warning, repeated too many times of the years to hold much meaning, “please.”

“Of course, Maman, I will.” But that promise, too, had been given time and again. Marinette did try her best to be cautious, but her clumsiness had a way of persisting like a bad penny.

“Tom!” her mother called, and Marinette’s burly father poked his head into the back room. “What do you think about adding something floral to the orange tarts?”

“I love an experimental recipe,” he replied with a broad smile.

Her parents debated which flowers might pair well with their orange tarts, and if they ought to try something similar with their berry tarts. It was a brief discussion of half-finished sentences and fragmented thoughts. Marinette’s parents had been together for more than half of their lives, and most thoughts were known before they were voiced.

Her mother added a few types of flowers to their shopping list, snatched it off of the desk along with a small purse, and Marinette’s parents left her to hold down the shop during the afternoon lull. Mornings, as mothers and housewives got together food for the day, and evenings, as those who worked all day and went home to empty beds and empty cupboards stopped in for something warm to keep them company, were the busiest times of day. Afternoons were for taking inventory, budgeting, and shopping.

And cleaning, which was exactly what Marinette was doing when, as she pushed open the door to sweep out the flour and dirt that had accumulated during the morning rush, a cat scurried inside.

Stray cats usually hung out at the butcher’s shop, and weren’t really a problem for the bakery. This cat, however, seemed determined to get inside. He leapt over her broom, took a brief moment to get his bearings, then darted straight into the kitchen.

Marinette dropped the broom and chased after him. “You can’t be in here!” She couldn’t imagine what her father would say if he found cat hair in the flour. At least it wasn’t hard to follow the footprints through the thin layer of white dust that coated the floor. Though she couldn’t actually see the cat, she could tell that he had crawled under one of the work tables.

She flopped down onto the floor and tried to get a better look at him. He was pure black with bright green eyes. There were no other markings that she could see, but she thought she caught a glimpse of a silver collar around his neck, so he must belong to someone.

“Are you lost, kitty?” she asked.

He didn’t answer—not that she had expected him to.

She reached her hand back towards him, but he only inched farther away, careful to stay just out of reach.

“Oh, come on. Wouldn’t you rather have a sausage or some fish? We only have bread here. This isn’t where you belong.”

But the cat did not budge. She wondered if the cat had just been looking for somewhere warm. The first snow hadn’t come yet, but frost was starting to creep its way into the village. She pursed her lips and crawled backwards until she had the space to stand up. As she dusted off her apron, she ran through a list of ways to lure the cat out. In the end, she settled on the simplest option and reached for a bottle of milk.

As she poured the milk into a small bowl, the bell above the shop door jingled.

“Coming!” Marinette called. She set the bowl down by the kitchen door, hoping to lure the cat away from cover so she could grab him quickly, then looked up and froze when she caught sight of the shop’s newest patron.

It was the very same young man she had met last night, standing in the bakery doorway looking as lost as if the wind had blown him in.

He glanced around the shop, eyes wary like the bread itself might leap at him from the baskets. He wasn’t wearing the finery he had worn at Lady Tsurugi’s dinner, but she could still tell his clothes were expensive. The heavy fabric of his white waistcoat was perfectly tailored to his shape and decorated with both gold buttons and embroidered gray birds along the lapels. The shot silk scarf around his neck shimmered with blue and silver, and his black coat showed no sign of winter wear, as if it had been made new for this season. He certainly didn’t look like the sort of person who hurtled into bakeries.

“What are you doing—I mean—” Marinette, fighting both her surprise to see this young man and the butterflies that had erupted in her stomach, struggled to find her words. “Why are you—I mean, I’m so sorry—How can I help you?”

His eyes finally met hers and they did not look impressed with what they saw. She wondered if it was the wrinkled dress she’d slept in or the perpetual bags under her eyes that suddenly displeased him. Perhaps he’d found her prettier or at least more palatable in the firelit parlor, and now in the light of day, she had turned plain and uninteresting.

“Cat,” he said abruptly. “I’m looking for a black cat.”

“Oh! It’s yours then? I wondered with the collar—”

“Where is he?”

Marinette swallowed, unsettled by his new brusque tone. If anything, she’d been the rude one last night. Was he simply replying in kind?

“He’s hiding under one of the tables in the kitchen. I couldn’t reach him, but I just put out some milk. He’ll get hungry eventually—”

But the boy was already pushing his way past her like he owned the bakery.

“You can’t just barge in—”

“Where did you say he was?”

Reluctantly, Marinette pointed at the table the cat had run to. She was beginning to think that if she was this boy’s cat, she certainly would prefer hiding in a bakery to going home.

He crouched down, but didn’t lie on the floor as Marinette had. He seemed to have a bit more sense about dirtying his clothes than she did.

“Don’t play this stupid game,” he snapped at the cat, and thrust his hand under the table. “You know which one of us is going to get flayed alive if we don’t go home right n—” He yelped suddenly and yanked his hand away. He clutched it against his chest as he straightened and grunted a curse under his breath.

Marinette could not help a startled gasp. “You can’t curse in here! You’ll keep the bread from rising!”

He turned his glare on her and she was surprised to see blood pearling on the back of his hand. His cat had gotten in a good scratch.

“Did your mother teach you that superstition?”

Marinette lifted her chin, annoyed by the sneer in his voice. “My father—and my grandmother. She’s a witch, so I expect she knows best.”

The disdain in his eyes finally gave way to a mild curiosity. He tipped his head to one side and looked her up and down, like he was finally seeing her as another human being. But all he said was a rather rude, “Huh,” then looked at the saucer she had left by the door. “You might as well toss that. He won’t go for it.”

Marinette ignored his advice. “Would he chase a ribbon?”

“If he’s in the mood. He doesn’t seem to be, though.” The boy glanced down at his hand and winced when he saw the blood had gotten onto his shirt. “My father’s going to kill me.” He started to swear again, but at least he had the grace to bite it off before he finished.

Maybe the kind boy from last night was buried in there somewhere.

Marinette pulled a stool up beside the hearth of the fireplace, the warmest part of the kitchen. “Sit. I’ll fix your shirt and get your cat.”

“You can’t fix a bloodstain.”

“You can’t, maybe.”

Marinette hurried upstairs and dug through her box of thread for a white spool, grabbed an embroidery needle, and double-checked the labels on her bottles of herbs. She wanted to be sure she grabbed the right one this time.

When she came downstairs, she found that the young man had accepted her offer of a seat. His eyes flicked quickly between her, the window, and the door. It reminded her of how panicked he had looked when she had first found him in the parlor last night.

She thought of the cat, diving for cover under the table, and this boy, checking doors and windows like something was on his heels. There was something to the way that fear lived in them both that unsettled her. Just as she had offered him the kindness of a dance last night, she would offer him all the hospitality she could here in her own family’s bakery, even if he seemed resistant to accept her help.

“Coat off, please,” Marinette said, and set her things down on the worktable.

He hesitated, alert gaze still following her. But as she pumped water over a towel and grabbed a bowl of salt, he removed his coat.

First, she used her cloth to clean the scratch on his hand, then wrapped a scrap of fabric around it. When she was done caring for his wound, she reached for the buttons of his shirt.

“I promise I’m not going to undress you,” she murmured.

He blushed bright red, just as he had last night, as she unfastened the golden buttons of his waistcoat then the smaller mother-of-pearl buttons of his shirt so that she could get at both sides of the blood stain. His posture was stiff while she blotted the stain, like he was sitting for an etiquette test, and he kept his eyes trained on the window. She wondered if he’d ever been alone with a girl before, or if there had always been a chaperone to observe him. Perhaps when she had met him last night, that had been his very first private conversation with any woman.

She and Luka had had their fair share of moments without chaperones. He would join her on a delivery or they’d run into each other at the Midnight Market. She’d enjoyed their time alone, at least at first. But the well of personal conversations had eventually run dry.

She was never sure which of them had lost interest first, whether it was his irritation that she’d had to reschedule one too many times because of work, or her annoyance with him for buying her one too many things she didn’t need. He had wanted someone he could dote on, and she had wanted a partner and an equal. Somewhere along the way, the lengthy conversations had become a series of clipped answers, the linked hands while walking had become an obligation, and the goodbye kisses had transformed into a chore.

This boy beside her, however, probably didn’t have any experience with that, certainly not if last night was his very first party. She wondered if he was so anxious because this was the very first time he had ever left his parents’ sight.

Once the stain was good and damp, she rubbed salt into it and muttered a small incantation for luck, the first her grandmother had ever taught her. And while the stain faded, it did not fully disappear.

“I told you,” he muttered as she tossed the towel aside and reached for her spool.

“I’m not finished,” she said, with every shred of patience that she could muster.

She uncorked her jar of milkweed and picked up her spool. She pinched the thread between her fingers and let the rest of the spool roll to the floor until it came to rest next to the cat’s hiding place.

When she began to rub milkweed along the length of her thread and did not go to retrieve her spool, he asked in a tight voice, “Did you need me to—”

“Just leave it,” she replied gently and muttered another incantation, this one for glamor.

She threaded her needle without bothering to pick up the spool of thread from the floor and began to carefully stitch around the edge of the blood stain. Each time she tugged a little more thread through the stitches, she glanced at the spool rolling around on the floor. On the third tug, a black paw reached out for the thread.

Marinette bit back a small smile and continued embroidering the white shirt with her white milkweed-dosed thread. While she worked, the boy beneath her hands fidgeted anxiously with the heavy ring around his finger. His eyes shifted between the window and the periodically appearing cat paws, but never once glanced back at her.

When the silence became unbearable, Marinette asked, “Did you enjoy your first party?”

“Did I—what?” The shock and revulsion in his voice was so strong that Marinette very nearly stopped her work.

Instead, she swallowed and adjusted her question. “Well—did you dance last night?”

He let out something like a laugh, if such a thing could be filled with despair rather than joy. “Absolutely not.”

“Oh.” The brusque nature of his reply left her speechless. She was used to frustrated and rude clients, but this boy was taking it a little far. Maybe this was just what all the gentry were like—perfectly polite at parties, rude and irreverent the rest of the time.

She finished the outline of the small stain without pressing the conversation and worked her thread down the center of the stain, pleasantly surprised with the shape it had taken on.

When she was finished, she snipped the thread and, with expert timing, reached for the cat just as he reached for the spool. She caught him by the scruff of the neck and pulled him out. He did not yowl at her nor try to scratch her, but he did let out a loud, plaintive meow and twist so that he caught his claws in her apron. She pressed him against her chest and stroked between his ears to calm him down. She was surprised to find, beneath his sleek coat, a dry and flaky skin that left white flecks in his fur—or perhaps the cat had merely encountered a patch of flour on the bakery floor.

The boy examined her needlework with a disdainful glare. “Is that a butterfly?”

“It’s nice, isn’t it?” she replied, careful to keep her voice light and ignorant of his rude attitude. “The shape of the stain doesn’t always work out to be something so fitting.”

“Fitting?”

“I just thought—the dancing—last night—you said your father—so I thought—aren’t you Monsieur Agreste’s son?”

“I am not his son,” he snapped with a vitriol sharp enough to make Marinette step back. The cat in her arms went still, too.

“Oh—I’m sorry to have assumed. My mistake.” Marinette swallowed, unsure how else to respond to such unprecedented anger.

He, too, seemed to realize the inappropriateness of his outburst. His cheeks turned a deeper red and he kept his gaze low. “I don’t think my father’s going to appreciate this any better.”

Marinette considered letting him walk out just like that, half-finished repair on his shirt. He deserved it, after his behavior this afternoon, but not only was a witch required to give all gifts with a kind attitude, leaving a job half-done was no good for her reputation.

“There’s still one final step.” She pressed her fingers first to her lips then to the embroidery.

The thread of the butterfly’s wings lifted from his shirt, flapping delicately like a butterfly freshly emerged from its chrysalis. As it tested its new wings, the stain lifted a little with each flap. Then, as if carrying the stain off with it, the butterfly flitted away to the window. Marinette pushed open the pane and the pale butterfly disappeared into the city.

The boy ran his fingers over the place the butterfly had been. “I can still feel the stitches.”

“There’s a glamor to hide them,” she explained. “Direct sunlight will still catch the threads, and glamors are rarely permanent, but it should last as long as the shirt will.”

His eyes drifted to the window again, as if he could still see the butterfly on the horizon. “So that was what, for show?”

“Blood can be unpredictable. My father insists I avoid it, but sometimes it can’t be helped.”

“You work with bloodstains a lot?”

“All sorts of stains. I have a stand at the Midnight Market and a lot of the repairs I do are for clothing.”

He hesitated for only a moment longer, eyes still on the window and a question pursed in his lips, but when the clock in the town square began to strike, he hurried into his coat. Marinette did not so much hand him his cat as he snatched his cat from her arms and ran from the bakery, nearly toppling Marinette’s mother over on his way out.

“Unhappy customer?” her father asked with a concerned frown, catching his wife despite the loaded baskets on his arms.

Marinette stared at the door, as if she didn’t quite comprehend that the boy was already gone. “He just… he lost his cat.”

“Were you able to help him?” her mother asked as she took one of the baskets from her husband and set it on one of the shop’s tables.

“I think so.”

Her parents exchanged a concerned glance.

“Are you all right, Marinette?” her father asked.

“Hm?”

“You seem distracted,” her mother said. “Why don’t you head upstairs and get some rest. Your father and I can get this put away and take care of the evening crowd.”

Marinette insisted that she was fine. She helped her parents clean up the kitchen and sort through the shopping, but that was as much as they would let her help. Her father warned her that if she did not put herself to bed, he would carry her upstairs and tuck her in so tight it would take three men to get her out. With a tired laugh and a stifled yawn, Marinette agreed to get some rest.

She didn’t so much remember to undo her stays this time as she automatically and distractedly unlaced the undergarment while turning over her strange encounter with the young man. Their first meeting had left her flustered, embarrassed, and a little giddy. This one… he had seemed so different, particularly so rude. Was he annoyed with her for abandoning him so suddenly after their dance last night?