Chapter 6 True Costs
The coins in Daisy’s pocket dug a hot, anxious circle against her thigh. She clutched them all the way home, one hand in the patched lining of her coat, counting and recounting every copper as she slalomed through the evening crowds. The market district after dark was a different beast, gossip and barter replaced by threats muttered in the spaces between flickering lanterns. She passed a knifefight in progress (one scream, two grunts, no one looking), and a group of glassy-eyed street kids fingering stolen apples. A drunkard tried to grab her arm; she slid past, elbow in his ribs, and kept moving.
Home was a squat brick tenement leaning hard against its neighbors, each floor ringed by a latticework of wash lines and leaking drainpipes—the stairwell stank of old smoke and wet dog. Daisy’s boots made no sound on the warped boards as she climbed to the third floor. At the top landing, she paused, listening, always listening.
Inside the flat, light flickered blue through the cracks in the doorframe. Daisy let herself in and froze.
Delia Moss sat cross-legged at the head of her mother’s cot, hands pressed over Maribel’s chest. A faint, pulsing glow edged Delia’s fingers, soaking into the quilt in slow waves. The air smelled like boiled mint and sweat. On the chipped table, two of Daisy’s siblings watched the scene with wide, unblinking eyes, a pair of rag dolls clutched between them for comfort.
Delia didn’t look up. She was lost in the work, lips moving in soundless recitation.
Daisy shut the door with a click, just loud enough for Delia to notice. The glow faded as Delia pulled back, fatigue etched deep in the shadow of her eyes. She wiped her hands on her skirt, stood, and nodded to Daisy, no words, but the look said enough. Maribel’s chest rose and fell, still uneven, but better than before.
Daisy set her satchel on the floor. “Is it helping?”
Delia glanced at Maribel, then at the small pile of coins in Daisy’s palm. “Not enough.”
Maribel stirred, rolled her head to the side. “She’s better than that butcher at the apothecary. Charges less, too.”
Delia snorted. “A day’s bread for a single dose of fever tonic. Bastards.”
Daisy moved to the stove, checked the kettle, and poured two mugs of hot water. She handed one to Delia, who took it gratefully, wrapping both hands around the chipped porcelain.
The two women stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the others in the room. Daisy’s siblings, eight and five, the youngest, huddled together on the mattress, making a meal out of a single lump of bread and a scrap of onion. The scene should have been shameful, but Daisy found herself proud of how they shared, breaking every piece in half and then half again until the crumbs were gone.
Delia drained her cup, then nodded toward the table. “I traded a salve for the loaf. Old Mrs. Peavy’s boy had a rash. Turns out she bakes in her spare time.”
Daisy gave a thin smile. “Better than rat meat.”
“Only barely.” Delia set the mug down and stretched, the movement popping every joint from knuckles to shoulder.
Daisy lowered her voice. “Did you sleep here last night?”
Delia nodded. “Didn’t want to leave your mother alone.”
“Thank you.”
Delia shrugged. “Least I can do.”
They watched Maribel breathe, her face slack with exhaustion. Then Delia tipped her head toward the window. “Come talk?”
Daisy followed, shutting the window tight against the cold. From this angle, you could see the distant glow of the noble quarter, walled off from the rest of the city by a lattice of blue wards. In the alley below, a couple argued over a crate of rotten fruit.
Delia spoke first. “They offered me a job. Real one, this time.”
Daisy blinked. “Who?”
“The Hawthornes. Their house medic is moving north, and they need someone to patch up their brats. Clean sheets, steady meals, salary paid in coin, not favors.”
Daisy stared at her. “You’d do it?”
Delia smiled, wry and bitter. “No. Not my place. I belong down here, with the rest of the lepers.”
“Could use the money,” Daisy said, voice flat.
Delia nodded. “I know.”
Daisy exhaled. “You’d be gone all the time. No one would blame you.”
Delia looked at her with something like pity. “That’s how they win, Daisy. First, they buy your skill. Then your time. Then you’re too tired to care about anyone else.”
Daisy tried to meet her gaze, but Delia looked away, tracing a crack in the glass.
The sound of coughing cut through the silence, wet and desperate. Both women rushed to Maribel’s side. Her whole body shook with the effort, blood flecking her lips. Delia moved fast, rolling up Maribel’s sleeve and placing her palm against bare skin. This time, the glow was brighter, golden-yellow shot through with red. Daisy watched as Maribel’s breathing eased, the color returning to her cheeks for a moment.
Delia sagged when it was over, sweat beading her forehead. “That’s all I’ve got,” she muttered.
Maribel’s eyes fluttered open. “Thank you, darling.”
Delia squeezed her hand. “Rest. Let the warmth do its work.”
Daisy knelt by the cot. “You hungry?”
Maribel shook her head. “Not now.”
Delia wiped her hands, then turned to Daisy, voice barely above a whisper. “If she had real medicine, if we could buy the extract, she’d be back on her feet in a week.”
“Only nobles get the blue,” Daisy said. She didn’t hide her bitterness.
“Or those with magic,” Delia replied, voice hard. “That’s the way it works.”
Daisy’s siblings had fallen asleep together, foreheads pressed, crumbs on their chins. Daisy counted the coins again. Not enough. Never enough.
Delia took her hand. “We’ll find a way,” she said.
Daisy nodded, but in her chest, something hardened. She thought about the menagerie. About the rumors of power in the blood, of handlers turned to glass, about what it would take to buy a cure.
She made another promise, silent and sharp.
They would not die here, in the dark.