The apothecary at Galton was nothing like the one back home. There, herbs hung from the ceiling and a fire crackled in a potbelly stove while a porcelain mortar and pestle clinked and ground with a glassy rattle, and perhaps the quiet drone of Holliday Mallow next door, counseling a patient, almost audible through wooden walls. In Galton, things were a little bit fancier.

  Everything was in a tall glass jar, to start. Either that, or a small, rounded-bottom potion glass sized for an individual dosage. There were no open flames, not even for the alchemist. Through a frosted glass window, you could watch as he prepared your purchase over the glow of an enchanted stovetop. The ingredients, colorless powders and liquids, were manipulated by the use of strange implements: glass rods with brass studs at the end, silver spoons and ladles, and a screw-together shaker with a coiled spring ball in it. The alchemist thought it was hilarious the way Dalliance looked at that last and benevolently took it apart to show him.

  It had taken him four alchemists to find one who would tell him, even under [Prediction], what went poorly with alcohol, and just one more to actually buy the sleeping potion he needed. It was cheap, a mere three thaums, and the explanation that he hadn't been able to sleep the night had more than sufficed.

  He probably could’ve gotten it without the sob story, but as his tale happened to be true, and it was obvious, it had seemed easier.

  He had doubled back after a profitable ten-to-fifteen-minute walk in the woods, his having recalled Sterling’s silver flask. The knight’s son—now probably something other than a [Pupil]—would already be disadvantaged for having newly tiered up, and probably expected to carry his final score by means of combat performance.

  Dalliance had to admit this was a good bet. For all that he was stupid sometimes, Sterling had in fact cut off the foot of the bird, hacked and hacked and hacked away at the bear, stabbed a goblin, and decimated the ants. He could probably actually depend upon that score.

  But it wouldn’t be enough if he failed the test. And if he wasn’t a [Pupil] anymore, he could fail the test.

  Having watched him fight, Dalliance was convinced he was no longer a [Pupil]. Dalliance ruefully considered that the boy’s stated desire to become a [Magistrate] likely didn’t require high Wit, and he had very likely classed up when he was able.

  He preferred not to think about what that said about magistrates as a whole.

  He thought about what Mister Best would have said, and grinned. Something along the lines of the magistrates acting out the will of the people, and the people’s whims being on the whole unsophisticated. He was getting to the point where he could generate the same sort of cynicism without needing to directly quote the man. It was unclear whether this was a good thing.

  He watched the men around him in the shop, the milling subsection of humanity that felt ill on this particular afternoon. An amiable city watchman waved at the sword-bearing youth without a suspicion. It helped that the spatha wasn’t exactly the serious weapon he’d once thought it was. The sword was long enough for use on horseback, short enough for use by an infantryman with a shield, but too up-close a weapon to be a threat to a serious fighter, for example, someone with a rapier. The reach advantage would be insurmountable.

  There were a lot of rapiers on hips in this shop.

  Dalliance wondered, not for the first time, whether [Prediction] would give him the advantage he needed, if he ever had to duel. He suspected that he needed a few more ranks in Agility before he would be able to make up the difference between his weapon and a superior one, much less between an unskilled swordsman and a trained one.

  Mana. So Spirit first. Then Agility. Maybe Wit.

  The heady air of the shop was distracting. Soperific, almost, perhaps a fume released from his purchase.The final decanted volume of fluid was only about a tablespoon’s worth, and a deep purple. It smelled unremarkable.

  It made his head swim.

  “Just put this tincture in anything, stir once, and drink it. It should help you. If you leave it overlong—let’s say, overnight—the effects will be diluted. If you leave it for very long mixed with something else, say a week, it will be poisonous. Ensure that this remains pure until you use it. You can pour multiple doses out of this vial.”

  Dalliance nodded. He didn’t understand the precaution, but he wasn’t an alchemist. He asked.

  “Aspects mix in funny ways you wouldn’t expect,” the [Alchemist] told him shortly. “Mix it with water, say, and a Purification potion will lose its Fire aspect, since the two are related, and become Vitality instead. Sounds harmless, but you’ll get a canker.”

  The vial shimmered. It was the only word he could use to describe the feeling. He was getting used to the air, alive and interested, playful even, against his skin at all times, but this was different. It was as though the vial held fire, or maybe . . . tea. The sensation was odd, and he couldn’t quite wrap his mind around it, but he had the feeling of the flavor of minty tea combined with the light of a flickering flame. Against his skin.

  He shrugged and put it in his pocket. He could still feel it there against his hip. Another mystery. If Topaz ever woke up, it would be the first thing he asked her. The second thing, after asking if he was still a good person.

  He wondered if Effluvia would really be affected by such a trick, but on balance, suspected not.

  Whether or not she might be vulnerable to the potion, her own grades were in little danger. He could picture a yawning, sleep-deprived Effluvia achieving an ascendant score perfectly well. But that didn't mean he wouldn't try.

  Even thinking the thought made him feel sick.

  Maybe. Maybe he would try.

  Perhaps he didn’t really need the certainty of three open slots. He could be happy with having secured a spot for just the two of them, and double down on Sterling and Woebegone instead.

  When he heard his name on the way out of the shop, he almost dropped his potion.

  "Dalliance!" No other voice ever sounded so musical.

  He spun, slipping the vial into his pocket.

  The sign for the apothecary clipped him on the elbow, spinning a little on its weighted post. Free Consultations, it said, before it fell over.

  “It’s so nice to see you!” said Flora warmly.

  She was sitting in the passenger seat of a carriage, her skirts primly arranged, feet tucked to the side, a canted hat held on with a nearly transparent lace chin-strap. She even had gloves on. This was a version of Flora that Dalliance had not met before.

  Beside Flora was a man. He was young, perhaps sixteen, and clean-shaven, with just the littlest hints of dirt, or maybe charcoal, about the seams of his trousers and the cuffs of his sleeves. And his palms. In fact… he looked like…

  “Are you a chimney sweep?” Dalliance asked.

  This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

  The question was impertinent, and in fact, he regretted it the instant he said it. But the man just smiled a bright, easy smile.

  “Hah!” he laughed. “No, but I am in chimneys, though. I just build the things.”

  “It’s a skilled trade,” Flora chimed in. “I was just showing Rickard my new trail buggy.”

  “He means my hands, your . . . cousin?”

  “Cousin,” she repeated.

  “One of my favorite projects,” Rickard continued, “was my mom’s house. I found stone chunks here and there from around the high road, split them myself, and stacked and mortared them: all without a class.”

  Dalliance’s eyebrows raised. “And you became a [Mason]?” he guessed.

  “[Artisan],” the man corrected. “I was just showing Flo here.”

  That was new as well.

  Dalliance reflected. [Artisan] was a good class, an excellent starter class. The man was decent prospects, his ma would have said, even if he did have a peasant’s name. Not that everywhere was as pretentious as Talbotton. Flora certainly didn’t seem to mind the name, or lack of surname. She was glowing. That, even more than Rickard's name, made Dalliance suspect this wasn't just an arrangement by the family.

  “And now,” ‘Flo’ said, “he’s a sculptor.”

  “I’m still in chimneys, though,” the man said modestly.

  Dalliance nodded. He’d seen some of the more fantastic chimneys in Galton. Talbotton’s farmers might be fine with a pot atop a stack of bricks, but in the capital, nothing would do but a dragon breathing out smoke, or a maiden holding up her hands bearing a flaming offering, or similar.

  “I may’ve seen some of your work,” Dallaince ventured. “I like chimneys.”

  “I doubt it,” Rickard told him cheerfully. “[Artisan] is the table stakes. [Sculptor] is where you rough it in. But the Master Craftsman . . . .” he trailed off. “Brings it home. One day, it’ll be me up there.”

  Flora grinned. Dalliance wondered how many monsters the man would have to kill to get there. Master was at least a C-Tier. By then, they'd be old enough to wed, certainly.

  “Cousin,” Flora said, and offered her hand to Dalliance. He, with a creased brow, stepped up to take it and found himself helping her down from the cart.

  “If you would,” she said sweetly to Rickard, “go on a ways. I’ll catch you up. I am overdue for a heart-to-heart on a family matter.”

  Rickard saluted cheerfully, chirruped at the horses, and away he went.

  Dalliance racked his brains. Is this about Whimsy?

  “Oh,” she said, her voice trailing off. “You didn’t think you’d be getting out of this that easily. The sword. You’ve got bandages on your hand. You were disinherited. You tiered up, and I don’t know what to. And I want to know about dearest Whimsy, obviously.”

  She took his elbow. They were of a height, but she had always insisted upon him acting the part of the gentleman, because she was going to be a lady whatever happened, and her cousins would indulge her whether they wanted it or not. He moved forward at a measured pace, following if not her lead, her prescribed manner.

  “I . . . ” he said. “There were some cultists. And my friends and I escaped.”

  “Cultists,” she said. “Escaped. The mind boggles at the implications of such simple words.”

  And he told her as they walked. They passed through the Farmer’s Gate, past wash-woman’s tents, and dallied near an apiary full of buzzing bees, where one landed on her hat briefly before taking off in search of a more edible flower.

  “And it was abandoned?” she repeated. “How dreadful. They could be anywhere. What dreadful news.” There was a curt, sudden change of topic. “Well, that explains the sword. I was most concerned about my cousin.” She paused. “I suppose you cut off your fingers learning it?”

  “Um. Da did,” he said. “So I couldn’t be a wizard.”

  “But you tiered up,” she said flatly.

  “I’m an [Aeromancer].”

  She didn’t say anything for a time, looking away from him to the humming insects, and he didn’t see her eyes until she glanced back at him. They were red-rimmed, brimming with tears.

  "I am sorry, cousin," she said. "I never dreamed it was that bad."

  “You knew?” he said, surprised. “That Whimsy needed to get away?”

  “Well, no. She made it clear to everyone that he was harsh.” The word seemed like a euphemism to Dalliance. Harsh. “But I didn’t think he would do this,” she said. “Is she . . . I said I wanted to know about Whimsy?”

  “She’ll tell you,” he said. “If she wants to. But she’s safe.”

  “Thank you.”

  Dalliance saw the coach in the distance, along the path, but she wasn’t in any apparent hurry. “This puts paid to my scheming,” she said ruefully. “I had planned to try to talk some sense into you, as you are twelve and she is ten.”

  “Thirteen soon,” he corrected.

  "Even if you were thirteen and she ten," she said shortly, "that would still be a crisis. Thirteen-year-olds do not live on their own. Neither do ten-year-olds. And a thirteen-year-old does not raise a ten-year-old.”

  “I know what I’m doing,” he said. “I’ll join the Academy.”

  “You’ll try,” she corrected.

  “No,” he insisted. “I will join the Academy. And I’ll see that Whimsy has what she needs.”

  “You’re a good brother,” she said. “But you’re not a father. A girl needs a father.”

  “Cadence isn’t her father,” Dalliance spat. He hadn’t thought about it; it just came out.

  She looked at him in surprise.

  “Our father is . . . someone else. Mother had an affair.”

  “That does explain some things.” Her brow furrowed. “And he knows? The other father?” she asked, the question following close upon the heels of the first.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Serendipitous! Wiill he be—?”

  Dalliance cut her off. “No,” he said shortly. “He bade Mother not to mention us in a letter, which I have read. And Ma—Chastity adhered to these instructions.”

  She shook her head. “I can scarcely believe I’m having this conversation.”

  "I'm sorry," he said sarcastically. She chose not to notice..

  "No matter. You were still too young," she said. "Listen. Whatever other arrangements you may have, I am getting married. Rickard and I will have a home, in one of the apartment stacks in Galton, although I’m afraid we shall inhabit the middle floor. Neither close to the ground for convenience, nor above the smoke and fume: But an extra room for my cousins is the least I can do."

  “I’ll have lodging. Whimsy’s a novice, so—”

  “Allow me the dignity of consideration prior to rejection, if you please.” She was hurt.

  “I will think about it.”

  “Do,” she told him, “And remember: tea. I insist at least upon that. And if you need anything.”

  She was very serious now.

  “Thank you,” he said eventually. There was nothing else to say.

  They were coming within sight of her fiancé’s cart.

  “Aren’t you,” he asked, “going out alone without a chaperone?”

  “Dalliance Rather,” she said heartily, “mind your business.”

  And with a flounce, his favorite cousin rejoined her intended.