RAVENNA
Mira’s shop always smelled like seven different things at once—peppermint, vinegar, old stone, dried rose petals and whatever stew her daughter forgot on the stove, the night before. I’d only worked there a few months, but I was convinced the scent changed depending on Mira’s mood. Today, it smelled like mischief. I should have known that was a warning.
“You’re late,” she said, as I pushed the door open. “Again.”
“I was throwing up,” I replied dryly, closing it behind me. “Would you prefer I did that on your doorstep instead?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Depends, if you’re aiming at Lord Renner’s boots, then yes. That pompous ass has it coming.”
I bit back a smile.
Mira wasn’t like the apprentices I trained with at Miss Thalia’s hut—no polished stone counters or stoic silen
