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“Barbarians, the lot of you,” Pell grumbled under his breath. “I know why you’re here, Miss Wren, but why is this bear of a man following you around?”
Wren leaned against the counter, eyes narrowing toward Orzen. “See? Pell thinks you’re following me, too.”
Orzen held up a hand, shaking his head vigorously. “I, uh, I just need work.”
“He needs work,” Wren repeated, injecting all her suspicion into her tone. “And apparently followed me here to ask you for a job.”
Pell’s gaze swept him up and down. “I’m not sure my shop suits your…skillset.” His eyes snagged on the sword at Orzen’s back. “Perhaps something more violent would fit better. I prefer not to get blood on my wares. Our dear leader is always looking for men of your caliber.”
Orzen flinched, gaze flicking to the blade. “It’s for protection. I’m not really…doing that anymore.” His hand rubbed the back of his neck. “Mostly odd jobs now.”
Pell slid a dry glance over the rim of his glasses. “Odd jobs is what men usually say when they don’t want you to ask who they really work for.”
A muscle in Orzen’s jaw flexed. “Then call it repairs. I can fix things. Better with tools than people.”
“You don’t say,” she murmured.
She studied him then—long enough for her resolve to slip—and crossed her arms like it could keep the softness at bay. Compassion was a bad habit.
“If you’re actually looking for work,” she said, voice clipped, “there’s plenty.”
“Could use the coin,” he said with a shrug that landed somewhere near evasive. His gaze flicked toward the shop window like escape looked better with each passing moment.
“Start in the Lower District,” Wren said. “You’ll know the houses by the big red Xs the Fist has been painting.”
The memory of the signs pinned to so many doors boiled inside her. Beneath her sleeve, the mark gave a slow thrum of agreement. She ignored it.
“Try Marda’s first. They’re threatening to tear hers down if she doesn’t make improvements. Cross the main road, left at the butcher’s, follow it to the end. Stone house with blue window boxes, patched crack in the front door. And don’t expect much pay. She’s a widow.”
He gave a small noncommittal nod. “I’ll…take a look.”
“Don’t ‘take a look.’ Either help or don’t knock,” Wren said firmly. “She’s about to lose her home. If you’re lying about work, leave her out of it.”
He tried for lightness that didn’t reach his eyes. “If I do it, can we erase this whole conversation from your memory?”
Wren gave him a flat look. “Not if that’s your motivation.”
His smile collapsed. “No—no, that’s not what I meant.” He scrubbed a hand over his brow, muttering, “It was supposed to be charming. You know what? Never mind,” he mumbled, mostly to himself. Then he drew a deep breath, forcing a steadier smile.
It softened his features into something almost approachable.
“I appreciate the help. Let’s pretend I’m introducing myself normally this time. I’m Orzen.”
He thrust out his hand—forgetting the mug in it. Coffee sloshed onto the pristine floorboards. Pell made a noise deep in his throat, low and dangerous. Orzen raised both hands in surrender.
“I’ll clean that.” Recovering, he offered his hand again—empty this time. “Uh, right. So, I’m Orzen. You’re Wren. Now we know each other. Not creepy anymore.” His mouth twitched. “Although saying creepy probably makes it creepy, so—” He shut his mouth with a snap.
Wren stared. For once, she wasn’t the one tripping over her words. It was almost refreshing, in a baffling way. She shook his hand, noting the rough scars etched across his callused palm.
They let go, and Orzen cleared his throat, already stepping back. “Thank you for the information. This has been awful. Nice to meet you. I’m leaving now.”
He swung Pell’s door open too fast and smacked his sword against the frame. The clatter echoed as he ducked out.
A beat passed. Then the door creaked open again. “Forgot the spill,” he muttered. He crouched, wiped it with a rag, gave a sheepish wave, and finally vanished for good.
The cheerful ting of the bell lingered in the silence left behind.
Wren stared at the door, then exhaled slowly. He didn’t feel dangerous, though he clearly wanted to look it. Only…a little lost. And that was worse. It made him harder to ignore.
