"—And that's where you're bound, that set of windows with the gables."

  Dalliance's whole body ached. It felt pathetic, but it was true: even two turns with the windlass, plus the hauling of the small supply barrels, had solidified while sitting on the stool and eating, earning him a grunt of laughter from his uncle upon his limping exit.

  He'd never had to think about the types of barrels before, but now knew that carrying a keg was going to be his raison d'être upon the wall, as this was the size for the rations per tower, or even the firkin: much larger, quite unwieldy, but doable if he crouched, hugged it, and cast [Werewind]. Doable, but nine gallons of salt pork were still unwieldy once inside the tower, and still had to be maneuvered against the wall.

  His back ached in places he hadn't expected it to be able to ache, and craning his neck up to follow Earnest's pointing finger to the third-storey windows of the now-Widow Higgs and her family made his neck pop loudly.

  He glanced at the paper in his hand, folded up and sealed with the Raven-marked wax that folks used as a shorthand for Firth's messengers. "Still funny that you're able to use that seal," he said grumpily.

  Three uses of [Werewind] on the wall, with [Locomotion]. He'd gained some back, but still. Fifty-three mana, plus the full fifty in his pocket, was less than he'd planned to have at his disposal.

  But he didn't want to do it another night. He was rapidly developing a list of nighttime expeditions he'd love to embark upon, and would rather get this out of the way if at all possible.

  He tucked the paper into his jacket. Canvas, and loose, but as it was the very worst he owned, he wouldn't mind its loss horribly. Just in case he needed to shed a layer and blend into the crowd. Earnest's idea.

  Most likely, he'd just wear it, drop something off, and continue wearing it, Dalliance anticipated.

  "Well. Better get to it, hadn't I?" he asked, and Earnest rolled his eyes. "Meet back here?"

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "Just dump it in the river. I'll see you on the grounds after your shift tomorrow instead?"

  Earnest had a point. And he'd save the use of another spell: money in the bank, or at least in the token.

  He became the wind.

  Earnest's quarry lived on the part of the city that was sandwiched right between the Narrows and Water Street's greater sprawl, next to factories belching smoke and the towering apartment buildings. Alleys were narrow and brick, and the sky was occluded by the smoke pouring from the innumerable chimneys. The air tasted different, ashy and oily, and as he rose, he saw flakes of black, papery soot following him up, suspended inside the mass of air.

  Those would fall out as he became human again, he was sure, but it felt dirty.

  The windows were open. No wonder, because the oven was lit, the little coal fire in the back supporting a whole pan of crackling pies while the rosy-cheeked woman Dalliance supposed had to be the good mother fanned herself with her apron and leaned against the windowsill. Keeping in mind what he'd learned from the closet, Dalliance eased slowly into the room via the three windows, the feeling a bit stuffy but not nearly as compressed as the closet had been. His passage ruffled the strings on the good mother's apron and set the fire to dancing, ribbons of smoke escaping the oven's doorway to spiral lazily overhead. Where would the letter be?

  It didn't much matter, he couldn't transform until she was out of the room in any case.

  Or until he hit ten minutes, and hadn't a choice.

  The apartment wasn't very large, either.

  He flowed from the kitchen into the living room, a newspaper's sheets fluttering around the room as he entered. Small desk, two stools, a wicker-work bookshelf, two cots. The hole in the floor in the next room made its use clear enough. And outside the door, foot traffic. A hallway.

  That was it.

  He aspired for better, for Whimsy and himself, he decided.

  No privacy, for one.

  The good mother hissed in the next room, burning her fingers on her pies.

  For all the gods' sake, why'd she have to be here now?

  She began to sing to herself, some nonsense ditty about pie crusts. His mother had sung it too, once upon a time. When she'd been happier.

  He was out of time.

  With nothing else to do, he moved as much of himself as he could out of the kitchen, to make sure he'd be in the living room.

  And with a whump, he was a boy again.

  The chimney belched ash and coals onto a screaming goodwife even as the windows billowed and covered over with condensation, wind roaring in from outside to replace what had been Dalliance an instant ago.

  The crash of the bookshelf was lost in the commotion from the kitchen.

  He'd been right about where she hid it, too.

  It was the work of only a second to pocket her original, replacing it with Earnest's copy, and then he let himself out into her hallway, followed the narrow room out to the exterior stairs, took a deep breath for his nerves, and began the long, winding path downwards.

  There were other uses for his spells. The night was young.