Chapter 96 What do they Want?
The lower quarter of Brightwater always smelled of damp stone and old secrets. Streets here ran in stubborn, twisting lines, the sort only a sadist or a drunk could love, and even the rats seemed to navigate by instinct more than memory. Daisy kept her eyes down and her steps light on the uneven cobbles, counting the sigils carved above doorways: protection, luck, fertility, a few she didn’t recognize. Most had been half-effaced by time or by hands less interested in tradition than survival.
The city felt different when you moved at this hour, before the markets opened, but after the night crews retreated to their cellars. The sky was the color of skimmed milk and just as thin, promising rain that never quite arrived. Daisy’s lungs ached from the chill. She pressed closer to Oliver’s side, partly to catch his warmth, partly because he knew these streets better than she ever would.
He slipped his hand into hers just before the alley narrowed, fingers rough but reassuring, and for a moment Daisy was less aware of the world’s rot and more aware of the living boy beside her. His thumb traced the scar at the base of her knuckle, the one she’d gotten in a trap gone wrong, and when their eyes met, she saw the old spark there, undimmed by the week’s chaos.
“You sure about this?” Oliver whispered, low enough to be missed by anyone lurking behind the shuttered windows.
“Not even a little,” Daisy replied, letting her own hand tighten around his. “But we’re out of time.”
They ducked under a sagging archway, then hugged the wall as two Ironclaw informants strode past on the cross street. Their uniforms were immaculate: black tunics, silver buttons, boots so polished they made puddles look like inkwells. The younger of the two carried his helmet at his side, revealing a scalp freshly shaved and tattooed with the sigil of the High Council. Daisy flinched; the tattoo meant he’d survived at least three purges.
She and Oliver waited until their footsteps faded, then hurried on, the city swallowing them with the indifference of an old dog.
Greta’s cottage was barely a building, more a fungus grown onto the back of an abandoned granary, its roofline drooping from the accumulated weight of a hundred rain-soaked winters. A tangle of rosemary and nettle grew wild against the stoop, half-hiding the front door from street view. Daisy knocked once, then twice, on the code they’d agreed on. A moment later, a chain rattled, and the door inched open, revealing a narrow slice of candlelit gloom.
Greta herself was all elbows and frizz, her hair pulled back with a strip of dirty linen, and her arms mottled with the green stains of her trade. She peered at them through a monocle, the glass so thick it warped her left eye into a perpetual look of suspicion.
“Took you long enough,” she muttered, ushering them in before the door even finished closing. “You bring the coin?”
Oliver grinned. “Always do, Greta. You know we’re good for it.”
She grunted, unimpressed, and led them down a corridor where the walls seemed to be closing in with every step. The scent of dried herbs and old tobacco hung in the air, masking the underlying aroma of cat piss and something less savory.
They entered Greta’s workroom, a space smaller than Daisy’s old kitchen, but packed floor to ceiling with glass jars, bundles of roots, and scraps of what Daisy recognized as contraband spellpaper. A cot in the corner was so buried under seed catalogs and out-of-date almanacs that Daisy doubted anyone had slept there in years.
“Sit,” Greta commanded, pointing at two mismatched stools beside the table. She took her own place behind a battered desk, then produced a set of copper scales and a ledger. “You said urgent. I say double the price.”
Daisy set the little pouch of coins on the table and tried to look confident. “We need information more than medicine, today.”
Greta’s eyebrow jumped. “Information, eh? Nothing’s free, girl. Even for you.” She leaned back, arms folded. “Talk.”
Oliver glanced at Daisy, then nodded for her to go ahead. Daisy took a breath, measuring her words. “You know about the Veilseekers. The ones with the,” she made a spiral motion on her forearm.
Greta’s eyes went sharp as needles. “Everyone knows. Idiots are crawling the gutters, looking for anyone born unlucky enough to have the right kind of blood.” She jabbed a finger at Daisy. “Which you do.”
Daisy ignored the accusation. “What do you know about daisy chain magic?”
The herbalist hissed through her teeth, then rose and closed the room’s only window. “If you’re looking to get killed, there are easier ways.” She dropped her voice. “You want the lore, I’ll give it to you. But you remember the old price, no taking notes. And if they come for me, I say it was you who put the word in my mouth.”
Daisy nodded, heart racing. Oliver’s knee pressed against hers under the table, and she couldn’t tell if the pressure was meant to reassure her or to keep her from doing something reckless.
Greta rummaged under her desk and produced a small, iron-bound book. The cover was a patchwork of stitched skin, and the pages had a strange, waxy translucence. She set it on the table with a reverence that bordered on fear.
“Daisy chain magic was never about flowers,” Greta said, voice almost tender. “It’s older than this city, older than most gods. In the old days, it linked people, places, and even worlds together. Kept the boundaries in place. But when the Empire found it, they began using it for power rather than balance. They built chains that bled, and eventually, the chains snapped.”
Daisy reached out, running a finger along the book’s spine. “So the Veilseekers. What do they want?”
“They want to finish what the Empire started,” Greta said. “They think if they can rebuild the chain, they can control the boundaries. Open them. Rule everything, everywhere, forever.”
Oliver’s hand found Daisy’s under the table. His palm was hot, almost feverish, and she realized she was shaking. She tried to pull away, but he held on, gentle but immovable.
Greta opened the book, careful not to let it fall open too wide. Inside were diagrams, flowers rendered in perfect, geometric clarity, their petals interlocked with tiny sigils and branching lines. Daisy recognized her own name, written in a dozen dialects, all variants of “chainbearer” or “link.”
“You see?” Greta whispered. “It’s not a coincidence. The chain always finds someone to carry it. You’re just the latest.”
Daisy swallowed hard. “Can it be broken?”
The old woman laughed bitterly. “Nothing ever breaks for good. But you can twist it. You can reroute the links, change the pattern. That’s the only hope I’ve ever heard.”
She pushed the book across the table. “You want a demonstration?”
Daisy hesitated, but nodded.
Greta plucked a ceramic daisy from a tray and set it upright on the book. She made a quick cut on her own thumb, then dabbed a drop of blood onto the center of the flower. Instantly, the petals shivered, and the veins darkened, a pulse radiating from the heart of the bloom. The flower seemed to animate, turning its face toward Daisy.
A thrill of recognition ran through her, as a bell struck inside her skull.
Oliver squeezed her hand, and this time she squeezed back, grounding herself in his touch.
Greta wiped her thumb on her apron. “That’s what you’re up against. The chain wants to live. It will use whoever it can.”
The flower slowly stopped moving, the color fading back to ceramic white.
Daisy stared at it, then at Oliver, who looked half-terrified and half in awe.
Greta packed the book away, her hands trembling just a bit. “The Veilseekers are in the city—more than I’ve ever seen. You should go. Tell no one about this place.”
Daisy got to her feet, Oliver rising with her. Their shoulders brushed, and her pulse kicked up again, not entirely from fear.
Outside, the world felt colder, the dawn more insistent. Daisy blinked in the watery light, then realized Oliver was still holding her hand. She didn’t let go.
He smiled, softly, and for a second, it was just the two of them, alive in a city full of knives
.
Daisy looked back once, saw Greta watching from the doorway, her face unreadable.
The city’s secrets had gotten deeper, but for the first time, Daisy felt like she might be strong enough to carry them.
She walked on, Oliver at her side, the echo of the chain humming in her blood.