Markus set down his brush and walked to the window, hands clasped behind his back.

  "Have you ever wanted something that continually eludes you, Master Weston? Something that should, by all rights and reason, be yours?"

  Clive recognised the tone. It sounded like this was about to go the way of a therapy session. He kept his expression neutral, hoping the silence would discourage whatever confession was coming. It didn’t.

  "My father arranged my betrothal to Lady Lucia a year ago. With the two shipping families joined together, we would control every trade route from here to Ironhaven. It made perfect sense. Dowry arrangements, territorial rights, subsidiary partnerships. We had everything planned out.”

  "But do you actually like her?"

  The question seemed to catch Markus off-guard.

  "Like her?" He said it as if the concept hadn't occurred to him. "She's... fascinating."

  "That's not the same thing."

  "Isn't it?" Markus turned from the window. "Our first formal meeting—she wore a dress worth more than most people's houses and somehow had ink stains on her fingers. When I kissed her hand in greeting, she slipped something into my wine. Turned my piss blue for a week. The court physicians were baffled."

  Despite himself, Clive felt his mouth twitch. He could picture Lucia doing exactly that.

  "My father wanted her punished. I told him it was a rare vintage that had that effect, saved her from scandal. Every other woman in court simpers and flatters. They see my wealth, my title. Lucia sees me and throws potions."

  "And you find that attractive?"

  "I find it real. Do you know how exhausting it is, being agreed with constantly? Having every opinion validated, every whim indulged? She told me once that my thoughts on maritime law were 'astoundingly stupid' and explained exactly why."

  Clive sat down on a chair and motioned Markus to do the same. Clive knew a few things about women. Before Jill, he had been popular with the ladies during his college years. So much so that his fraternity brothers often sought his advice when they encountered girl problems. This was going to take a while.

  "So why are you here?"

  "Because she talks about you. She spends every free moment in your company. Your art is all she ever mentions. If I could speak her language, perhaps...”

  Clive sighed. It was a common mistake, trying to impress a girl to get her attention. But sometimes, trying too hard will only get you labelled as a simp. That needy energy was a huge turn-off.

  "So, do you think if you can paint a pretty picture, she'll suddenly decide she wants to be Lady Gallantine?"

  “That's not—" Markus stopped, then stared at the ceiling. “But what else am I supposed to do? How do I win her heart?”

  Clive studied him. Underneath all that silk and entitlement was genuine confusion, a man who had everything yet desired the one thing he couldn’t get.

  “What do you know about her. What does she like, dislike?”

  Markus paused, stumped.

  "Well..." Markus straightened his pristine robes. "She's of noble birth, though her family only recently acquired the title. Her mother was previously afflicted with the stone curse. She... practices alchemy."

  "That's her history. I asked what she likes."

  Markus opened his mouth, then closed it. His fingers drummed against the windowsill while he searched for an answer.

  "She enjoys... alchemy?"

  "What specifically?"

  Another long pause.

  "She likes... mixing things?"

  Clive rubbed his temples. This was worse than he'd thought. Markus was probably the type of self-absorbed bonehead who only ever talked about himself. Just like those entitled jocks who bullied him in high school… Before he got back at them by sleeping with their girlfriends. Those poor girls were so starved of attention that all Clive had to do was listen.

  "What's her favorite smell?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "She's an alchemist. She experiences the world through scent and taste in ways most people can't imagine. So what's her favorite?"

  Markus looked genuinely lost. "Roses? All women like roses."

  "She thinks roses are cloying. She prefers citrus and herb combinations, lemon verbena, specifically." Clive hadn't meant to reveal that much. This was meant to be Markus’s homework, but Markus's ignorance irritated him. "What about her motivations? Do you know why she wanted to learn potions in the first place?"

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  "She really likes wine, I assume."

  Clive wanted to reach out and slap the guy. It took all of his willpower to stop himself. How could you like someone yet be so clueless?

  "She wanted to cure her grandmother’s disease… You say you want her, but you don't know the first thing about her."

  "Then tell me." Markus looked at Clive eagerly. "How do you know so much about her?"

  "Because I asked. Because I listened when she answered."

  "She won't speak to me beyond the bare minimum required by courtesy."

  "Can you blame her? You show up with footmen and gold, talking about trade routes and family alliances. You're not trying to know her—you're trying to acquire her."

  Markus's face flushed. They sat there in awkward silence before Markus let out a sigh of resignation.

  “What do I do?”

  Clive stood up and handed him a piece of charcoal. “We’re holding an art exhibition next month. Show Lucia that you really see her.”

  For the next few days, Markus took the study of his arts seriously, often staying late after class to practice. Clive had half expected the nobleman to lose interest after the first session, but Markus returned each afternoon with an almost obsessive determination.

  On the fourth day, Clive was reviewing Markus's attempts at basic forms when there was a knock on the door. Markus didn't look up from his sketch, tongue pressed against his upper lip in concentration as he tried to capture the curve of a glass beaker.

  Lucia entered carrying some tea, then stopped when she saw Markus still hunched over the worktable.

  "Lord Gallantine," she said stiffly. "I didn't realize you were still in session."

  Markus looked up from his drawing, charcoal smudging his fingers and streaking across one cheekbone. His usually immaculate hair had fallen forward, and there were dark smudges all over his shirt.

  "Lady Thornwald." He started to stand and bow, but settled for a nod instead. "I was just learning to see nothing."

  "I'm sure that comes naturally to you."

  "Lucia," Clive warned quietly.

  She set the tea down and gave a polite curtsy. "Don't let me interrupt your lesson."

  "Actually," Markus said, "would you mind staying? Master Weston was explaining how apothecaries experience scent differently. I'd be curious to hear your perspective."

  Lucia's eyes narrowed, searching for the trap. She glanced at Clive, then back at Markus. "Why?"

  "Because I'm trying to learn something I don't understand." He gestured at his drawing. It was the outline of a laboratory, crude but recognizable. "I'm drawing an apothecary’s workspace. Master Weston said I need to understand what I'm depicting, not just copy shapes."

  Lucia moved closer, studying the sketch. Clive watched her take in the details. Markus had gotten the proportions wrong on several pieces, but he'd clearly spent time trying to observe how an apothecary would arrange their tools. The distillation apparatus was positioned near what would be a window. The mortar and pestle sat within arm's reach of the main workbench.

  "Your still is backwards," she said. "The collection vessel needs to be lower than the boiling flask."

  "Could you show me?" Markus held out the charcoal.

  Lucia hesitated, then took it. She leaned over the drawing and corrected the apparatus.

  "There," Lucia said, stepping back. "And you'd want ventilation here, unless you enjoy noxious fumes."

  "I wouldn't know. I've never actually been in a workshop."

  The admission seemed to surprise her. "Never?"

  "My father believes alchemy is a... lesser pursuit."

  Lucia chuckled. “So does mine actually.”

  "How did you change his mind?"

  Lucia crossed her arms. "You want a lecture on the merits of potions?"

  "I want to understand what you spend your time doing." Markus returned to the drawing, adding details to the workspace. "Master Weston says you can identify ingredients by scent alone. That you categorize them into—what was it?"

  "Primary, secondary, and tertiary aromatics," Clive supplied.

  "That sounds impossibly complex."

  "It's not complex if you pay attention," Lucia said. She moved to the tea and poured three cups. "A trained nose can distinguish between hundreds of distinct scents. An apothecary’s nose needs to distinguish between thousands, including how those scents change through processing."

  "Give me an example."

  She handed him a cup of tea. "This blend. What do you smell?"

  Markus lifted the cup and inhaled. "Tea?"

  "What kind of tea?"

  He inhaled again, deeper this time. "I don't know. Black tea?"

  "Specifically?"

  Markus looked helpless. Lucia sighed and took a sip from her own cup.

  "Darjeeling, second flush. Probably from the Badamtam estate, harvested in early summer. There's bergamot added, though not enough to make it a proper Earl Grey. The water was just below boiling when it was poured, hot enough to extract the tannins but not so hot that it scorched the leaves. Someone added chamomile and lavender to soften the astringency." She glanced at Clive. "Your doing?"

  "I thought you might appreciate it."

  "I do." She turned back to Markus. "That's what I smell when you smell 'tea.'

  Markus stared at his tea like he'd never seen it before. He took a careful sip, clearly trying to isolate the flavors she'd described. “Thank you, I think I’m beginning to understand a little better now. Will you tell me more?”

  Lucia blinked. "Whattt—" She stammered. “—more about what?”

  "About how you experience the world. About potions. I just find it all so fascinating." He gestured toward the chair beside him. "Would you sit? Please?"

  She didn't move immediately. Her cheeks turned red as she stole a glance at Clive, unsure of how to respond. Clive gave her a neutral smile in return, not wanting to influence her decision.

  "Fine. But this doesn't mean I'm marrying you," she said finally, but she sat down anyway. "What do you want to know?"

  "Start with something simple. What did you smell first when you entered the room just now?"

  She paused, as though taking the moment to recollect her thoughts. "Charcoal dust. Linseed oil from the canvases. Your cologne, vetiver and sandalwood, expensive but applied too heavily this morning. You were nervous about something."

  Markus touched his collar unconsciously. "I didn't realize scent could tell you that."

  "People over-apply fragrance when they're anxious. It's a comfort behavior." She took a sip of tea. "I also smelled the tea I'd brought, obviously. And..." She hesitated.

  "And?"

  "Your sweat. It’s different from exertion, more acrid. You've been frustrated."

  Markus looked down at his charcoal-stained hands. "I've been trying to draw a simple beaker for an hour. Everything I sketch looks wrong. I’ve tried it six times now.”

  "Only six? How restrained of you." Lucia teased. "Most nobles would have declared beakers beneath them after the first attempt and demanded a servant draw it instead."

  "I considered it after the fourth attempt."

  Both of them laughed.

  Meanwhile, Clive had been observing the two of them. He recognized the signs, and now it was time for him to make himself scarce. He gathered his own sketches and moved toward the stairs.

  "I need to check on something in the workshop," he said. "Don't poison him while I'm gone, Lucia."

  "I make no promises," she replied, but she didn't look away from Markus when she said it.

  Clive smiled. He was looking forward to what Markus would create for the art exhibition now. But little did he know that the day of the exhibition would be the day Marblehaven changed forever.

  Sometimes the gentlest moments arrive just before the world breaks open.

  —The Legendary Moonlight Artist