You’ll spend the rest of your days rotting in prison for fraud. Lady Evershed’s words rattle about in my skull, echoing again and again. I groan internally. And things had been going so well.

“Fraud?” My brows furrow together at her accusation. I glance around the hot shop as though I’ll be able to discover some clues to figure out what I've missed, but I’m still confused. Where did I go wrong? I give up and shrug helplessly at our host, shaking my head in disbelief at my rotten luck. “Lady Evershed, it appears you have me at a disadvantage. I’m afraid I don’t know what you're talking about.”

She stares at me, unblinking, her eyes like dark pools of icy water. “You'll swear before any official I demand that you don't know who I am?”

“Yes,” I insist, willing her to believe me. “As I said, I’ve never even heard of you before I got here. I've wandered around town all day, visiting glass shops and looking for someone who would let me have some studio time. Everyone turned me down so far. You were simply the last shop on the list, because I thought your studio would be too fancy and expensive, so I tried more mundane shops first.”

“I’m not sure which offends me more: that you claim you don’t know who I am, or that my shop was last on your list,” Lady Evershed says with an exasperated sigh.

I wince. “You were the only one kind enough to offer me use of your space—and now I’m afraid that I’ve offended you without even knowing why.”

Lady Evershed lets out a short, bitter chuckle. “Young man, I’m one of the judges of the glass competition. Which means we're at an impasse.”

“A . . . judge?” I repeat dumbly, still not quite comprehending what this means for me.

Annoyance glitters in Lady Evershed’s gaze. “Zebulun, listen to me carefully. Either you must withdraw from the competition, or I must recuse myself from judging. You have about five minutes to convince me why that’s in my best interest, or else I’m kicking you out of my shop and barring you from participating in the competition if it’s the last thing I do. Swear to me that you had no designs on compromising the competition or gaining an untoward advantage.”

Her outrage suddenly makes sense to me. My heart hammers in my chest. “You think I'm trying to rig the competition? That’s preposterous!”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Lady Evershed snaps. She taps her cane on the floor in a quick, staccato beat. “I should have known better than to let a stranger work in my shop. An oversight on my part. You’re jeopardizing my integrity if you enter the competition.”

My mind leaps back to my conversation with Ezio and Rakesh before I left Silaraon, and my lips twist into a bitter smile. Somehow, this feels like cosmic justice for their assertion that we're going to cheat our way to victory. I groan and rub my forehead with the fingertips of my right hand, a headache building as I consider the inconvenience this will cause me. “I promise I just want to practice before the competition. I'm not trying to rig anything or scam you.”

Lady Evershed gazes at me imperiously, her gaze drifting down my arm and resting on my burned-off hand. “You seem to have probable cause.”

“Ugh, you've got me there,” I admit. I let out a snort of laughter. This is all so ridiculous that I don't know what else to do. I pick up the tea cup in front of me, turning it in my hand as I examine the delicate filigree, admiring the way the light catches the gold. “I see how this must look from your perspective, but I swear to you that we’re simply the victim of happenstance. You and I are both afflicted.”

“Yes, yes. So you mentioned. You searched all day in the hot sun, your heart sinking as you realized no one wanted you. You checked for a glass studio that would take you in, but none of the others were remotely interested. My studio was the last on the list—your final, desperate hope. What terrible misfortune! What a turn of good luck! Seems like a tale designed to tug on the heart strings,” she points out.

“I can’t deny how it looks, but I'm happy to swear to whatever you ask before an official.” My voice hardens, and I start to pace. “What I cannot do, under any circumstance, is withdraw. This competition is all I have left. You’ll have to step down.”

“Absolutely not! I will not give up the prestige of presiding over such an august assembly of artisans,” Lady Evershed cracks back, her voice just as unyielding as mine, although she seems far more relaxed about the entire thing. It occurs to me that she has considerably more practice at showdowns than I do.

She holds out her cane, barring my path so I’ll stop pacing, and nods toward my seat. As soon as I sit down, she continues speaking. “I have been involved in the planning and preparatory work for this competition for over a year. Why should your desperation invalidate my legitimacy? I’m not backing off simply because you’re down on your luck.”

“Who says that desperation drives me?” I challenge her, glaring at Lady Evershed with a growing sense of indignation. Something inside me snaps at the injustice of it all. I’ve worked hard to get here, risking life and limb to reach Grand Ile, and I’m tired of feeling like I don’t have what it takes. “I have a plan. I’m going to win this whole shattered competition.”

Lady Evershed scoffs. “Not if word gets out that you’ve been working with one of the judges on the side, you won’t. You’ll be disqualified before you even set foot in the hot shop.”

“Then keep it a secret,” Baryl says sagely, edging back into the conversation. “We’ll slip out and you can pretend that you never saw us. It’s not like you actually need the money for Zebulun’s studio time. You’re the richest person I’ve ever met!”

I gesture at Baryl, hoping to shush him; he pointedly ignores me. I try to catch his eye and shake my head, but he turns back to the snack platter, stuffing the last sweet roll into his mouth.

“Ordinarily, I’d agree with you that we could simply sweep this all under the rug and just pretend we never met. Unfortunately for you, as one of the highest-profile judges, I’ll be subject to audits and truth-spells,” Lady Evershed says.

“To be blunt, that’s your problem,” I say, seething at the familiar strictures of misfortune. “I’m not going to withdraw. I’ll happily submit to the same truth-spells that you do and tell them that our meeting was simply an accident. With respect, Lady Evershed, you can’t stop me from pursuing this path.”

She leans her cane against the arm of her chair and folds her hands in her lap, peering at me again as though sizing me up. “Resolute, are you?”

I grit my teeth and nod in confirmation, meeting her icy gaze even though I want to squirm and look away. “I’m in this to the end. You can’t scare me off so easily.”

To my surprise, she chuckles. “Very well. I do like a man with conviction.” She taps her chin with a gnarled forefinger. “Perhaps we’re thinking about this the wrong way. Perhaps we can help each other out after all.”

“Oh? What do you have in mind?” My mind whirls through possibilities, caught off guard by her change of heart. I can’t seem to keep a slight edge out of my voice, though, bitter at how often I run into dead ends. I take a deep breath, force my defensive posture to relax, and extend a peace offering. “I’m amenable to any equitable solution you propose, as long as there’s a way for me to continue working with glass.”

“I daresay you are amenable,” Lady Evershed says dryly, “seeing as you have no other real option. Not in my city. Listen, the only way I’ll consent to withdraw from judging is if I receive some compensation.”

“You want a bribe?” Baryl pipes up. He snickers. “I guess rich people like money as much as poor people. But how is that gonna help you get around the [Auditors]? Besides, you already said you’re charging Zebulun for studio time!”

“Not all compensation comes in the form of money,” Lady Evershed explains, an overly patient, saccharine tone to her words that makes Baryl bristle. She turns to me and clears her throat. “Zebulun, I’m willing to recuse myself if you declare me as your primary sponsor and new master. You’ll renounce ties to your old studio in Ryndl and enter the glass competition under the Evershed name, instead. Deal?”

“Hm. What do you get out of that?” I ask, suspicious of her sudden shift. There must be something in this arrangement for her if she’s willing to forgo her position. I’m not familiar with any rewards for the sponsors—in fact, I didn’t even know that there were sponsors at all for the competition—but she seems to think it’s worthwhile.

Lady Evershed smiles thinly. “Call it a vice of vanity. You’ve got talent, I’ll give you that. But you’re still unrefined. Under my tutelage, you might stand a chance at winning. Might.”

“Even without my Skills?” I ask, bitterness creeping into my words. I thought I was long past worrying about not having Skills, but my injuries have sent me crashing and tumbling back down to the start of the mountain I’ve been climbing.

“Particularly without your Skills. Do you know how much it will do for my reputation if one of my students can win only using the fundamentals of glass? I’ll be hailed as a genius!” Lady Evershed crows, a brief burst of fire sparking in her eyes before wisping away.

I take another sip of the tea, focusing on the flavor and not meeting her eyes. I need something to cover my reflexive response, which is to raise a single eyebrow in an obviously dubious reaction. The sarcasm usually made my friends back at the studio laugh, but here my cheekiness probably won’t go over well.

I finish the cup, set it down, and gather my thoughts. A detail she mentioned when we first introduced ourselves is still niggling at the back of my mind. “Didn’t you say you’re retired? Why would you need more prestige or fame?”

A sly smile parts her lips, but she doesn’t give me a straight answer. “My pride is always worth something to me.”

“I suppose everyone values things differently,” I allow, unsure what she’s getting at. There is more to the story that I’m missing, I just know it. “Still, pride must be important to you.”

“More than you know,” Lady Evershed murmurs, looking more and more pleased with herself the longer our conversation goes on. She’s beaming at me like a [Farmer] eyeing her prize bull and counting up the coins she’ll win at the harvest faire.

I shift in my seat, more uneasy than ever. The sharp reversal in her attitude toward me makes me suspect that she wanted this outcome all along, and she’s just played me for a fool. I sigh. Letting go of judging so quickly strikes me as odd, if it really meant as much to her as she indicated initially.

“What will this require of me, exactly?” I ask, still wary of her. I don’t truly know anything about Lady Evershed, and although she’s been kind to me so far, she seems crafty and driven. I don’t think she would care about her reputation if she were a pushover or lacking intelligence. I have a sneaking suspicion that she will get more out of our arrangement than I will.

Baryl hops off his perch on the steps. He brushes the last few stray crumbs from his shirt, sighs in contentment, and sidles toward the front door. “I’ll, uh, I’ll leave you to hammer out the deal. In the meantime, I’m gonna go tell Rizzi the news that we’ve found a buyer for the mana crystals. As long as he gets a cut, Zebulun, there shouldn’t be any hard feelings.”

“Thanks, Baryl. I’ll make sure you get your due,” I promise, grinning at my enterprising young guide. He’s more than earned a reward for his efforts.

“You’re a good sort, Zebulun. Nice doing business with you.” He salutes me, whistling as he walks away before we can change our minds. He pauses long enough to swipe a generous fistful of candy from the front desk, cackling as he pops one in his mouth and darts out the door.

“Where’d you find that helpful child?” Lady Evershed asks me, gazing after him fondly. “I like him. Resourceful little fellow. I could use a few like him to run messages for me.”

“He led me to a broker. He’s been reliable so far,” I say, not willing to reveal much more. “Now, about the business at hand. What do you need from me? I still haven’t gotten an answer on that front, I’ve noticed. Let’s talk details. From my side, I expect daily studio access from now until the competition concludes, with at least one lesson every other day to help shore up weak areas or gaps. Is that acceptable to you?”

“That’s it?” she says, snorting at me in derision. “You need to learn to negotiate, young man. You’re leaving an awful lot on the table.”

“I just assumed my new master would take care of me,” I retort, giving her a pointed look. “Have I miscalculated? I’d rather not work for someone who’s not looking out for my well-being, although I’m not sure I have much of a choice, to be painfully honest.”

“No, you don’t,” Lady Evershed agrees readily. Her eyes flash with amusement at my frown. “But you’re smart enough to recognize that fact and pivot strategies, which speaks well for your adaptability. I think you and I will work well together, Zebulun.”

I smile at the praise, but she cuts me off before I can open my mouth.

“Tell me, young man, do you play cards?”

I blink, surprised by the sudden shift in topic. “Sorry? I’m not sure I follow you.”

“So much for the adaptability,” she quips, leaning back in her seat with a chortle.

“Ha, well, I can learn. I’ve never been much for playing games on my off days, though. I prefer spending time with my friends and going on adventures.”

“Adventures. How’s that working out for you?” Lady Evershed asks.

I shrug, smiling at her sadly. “Adventures are a bit of a coin toss.”

She stands up with the help of her cane, gesturing for me to follow her toward the back room. “Ah. Yes. Like the Rift where you lost your hand. Adventure! What a rush.”

I ignore the barb, falling into step beside her. “Where are we going? I thought we had to come to an arrangement,” I say. “I’d like to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“First, cards,” Lady Evershed insists. “Besides, we are hashing out our agreement right now. Have some patience.”

Trailing after her like a dog at its master’s heels, I follow her into a cozy nook off the back of the hot shop. Green, pinstriped wallpaper and two golden wall sconces decorate the room. A polished wooden table with seating for four appears to be the only furnishing, however. At each seat, a deck of cards with fantastical artwork is stacked up, apparently ready for play.

“We’ll work during the day, and you’ll learn the rules of this game at night,” Lady Evershed declares, dictating rather than negotiating. “It may look complicated, but you’ll pick it up as we go. First, however, you need to understand that the winner isn’t always the one with the best strategy or the strongest hand. The winner is often the one who takes advantage of the opportunities the other players create when they’re overconfident.”

“I get it,” I say, waving about my stump. “I’m missing my left hand, so my ‘hand’ isn’t as strong as the other participants. Very funny.”

She purses her lips, not laughing or taking the bait. Instead, she fixes me with a piercing gaze until I’m sweating under the silent pressure. Finally she sighs and taps on the table with the end of her cane. “I’ll ignore the ill manners and poor attempts at humor, as long as you show me that you understand the point. So? Do you understand?”

I nod slowly, and endeavor to speak more softly. “The others will underestimate me. They won’t even consider me a true opponent. They’ll clash with each other, trying to outdo each other stylistically, and they’ll rely on their Skills to drive home the point that I’m inferior. Meanwhile, we’ll bide our time, build up my fundamentals so that I present a very different approach to glass work, and strike when the iron is hot.”

Lady Evershed cracks a smile, breathing a sigh of relief as she feigns wiping sweat from her brow. “Praise the ivory walls, you’re not as stupid as you look. Welcome to the team!”