Chapter 6 True Costs

The coins in Daisy’s pocket scalded her skin, burning through cloth, and a molten ache pressed sharply against her thigh. That tight circle was all she felt as she hurried home, one hand gripping the patched liner of her coat. She counted each copper as she darted through the evening crowds. When she reached the market district after dark, her posture stiffened. The mood shifted; gossip and barter faded, and threats lurked in the shadows between flickering lanterns. She skirted around a knifefight—a scream, a pair of grunts—but didn’t slow. Nobody looked. Street kids, faces glazed, pocketed stolen apples. Someone reached for her arm—a drunk. She jolted sideways, drove her elbow into his ribs, and pressed forward without looking back.

Home was a squat brick tenement leaning hard against its neighbors. Each floor was 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. She listened. Always listening.

Inside the flat, Daisy stepped just inside the doorway, hesitating as she scanned the room. Light flickered blue through the cracks in the doorframe. She stopped all movement, every muscle tense, eyes drawn toward the center of the room.

Delia Moss sat cross-legged at the head of her mother’s cot, hands pressed over Maribel’s chest. A faint glow edged Delia’s fingers, soaking into the quilt in slow waves. Sweat beaded her lip; lines deepened around her eyes. Each surge of magic left her breath shallow, shoulders hunched. The air reeked of boiled mint and sweat. Beneath, a bittersweet tang lingered—the scent of energy spent too long. Delia’s skin blanched with each passing minute. A tremor worked up her arms. Too much healing, Daisy knew, risked leaving her unable to stand or speak. The cost was exhaustion and pain. At the chipped table, two of Daisy’s siblings watched, clutching rag dolls for comfort.

Delia didn’t look up. She was lost in the work, lips moving in soundless recitation.

Daisy shut the door with a deliberate click, signaling her arrival. Delia’s glowing hands stilled; she let Maribel’s wrist slip gently from her grip. As Delia pulled back, her face showed deep fatigue. She wiped her hands down her skirt, braced herself, and stood. She gave Daisy a single nod—all the words she didn’t say packed into the gesture. On the cot, Maribel’s chest rose and fell—still uneven, but showing clear improvement.

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 for steam, and poured two mugs of hot water. She handed one to Delia, who took it gratefully, wrapping both hands around the chipped porcelain and sipping carefully.

The two women stood shoulder to shoulder, watching the others. Daisy’s siblings, eight and five, huddled together on the mattress with a single lump of bread and a scrap of onion. They broke each piece in half. Their fingers were careful and silent as they passed crumbs between them. No one spoke. The older child pressed the smallest bit of onion into her brother’s palm. She bowed her head. Sharing—this was a duty they’d rehearsed. Daisy watched, heart aching at the way hunger shaped their kindness. The urge to say something light about their meal caught on her tongue. But she let the words die. The silence between them was heavy. Honest.

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, closing the window tight against the cold with both hands. From here, you could see the glow of the noble quarter, walled off by blue wards. In the alley below, a couple argued over 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. They need someone to patch up their brats. Clean sheets, steady meals—coin as salary, not favors.” Delia drew a slender, gleaming silver tuning fork from her pocket, engraved with a spiral at the base. The mark caught Daisy’s eye—a familiar shape, though she couldn’t place it. It looked both out of place and ordinary in the cramped room. The kind of tool a healer in a better neighborhood might use to test reflexes or soothe a fever with magic. Daisy wondered if the spiral meant more—just a craftsman’s flourish, or a sign carrying purpose she couldn’t name. Delia turned the fork so Daisy saw the Hawthorne crest, then slipped it away.

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. "How long before their coin buys your sleep, too?" she asked, voice quiet but sharp.

The words scraped at Daisy, sinking deep. For an instant, her mind caught in a tight circle, imagining herself turning from the warmth of their flat, walking into a better world bought by someone else’s money. Could she really leave them behind? The sinking fear lingered—a half-formed answer she was afraid to face.

For a heartbeat, Daisy felt herself caught, pulled between Delia’s words and the hollow ache of her own ambition. The memory of the rat burned in her mind—fearless, relentlessly moving forward. Was she any different, pushing ahead through darkness, longing for more than scraps? Around her, everyone bargained with hunger, taking risks for survival or opportunity. The choices pressed in, confining as walls. Delia’s warning lingered. Was she merely exchanging one hunger for another, whether serving a noble or scraping by outside? Did it ultimately make any difference?

Suddenly, she saw it: herself at an alley’s mouth, one fist around hope, the other clutching warm coins, lamplight stretching her shadow long—a shadow stepping forward while her body hesitated. That image fixed inside her. She realized she couldn’t stay pressed to the wall forever. She pictured a new future—herself walking toward the glow, even if nobody opened the door. For the first time, she did not look away.

Daisy stepped forward, intending to meet Delia’s gaze and speak, but Delia turned away instead. She ran a fingertip along a crack in the glass, deliberately avoiding eye contact.

Both women rushed to Maribel’s side as she coughed, the sound wet and desperate. Maribel’s body convulsed with effort; blood spattered her lips. Delia knelt quickly, rolling up Maribel’s sleeve and planting her palm flat on the bare skin. This time, as Delia focused, her hand shone with a brighter glow—gold streaked with red. Daisy fixed her gaze on Delia’s magic, staying close as Maribel’s breath eased and cheeks briefly regained color.

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, turned to Daisy, and whispered, “If she had real medicine, if we could buy the extract, she’d be back on her feet in a week.” Delia’s eyes lingered on the shelf dusted with an empty blue vial—a silent marker of what they lacked. Daisy followed her gaze. The extract—concentrated heartleaf tonic laced with magewort—could cut fever in hours and rebuild strength in days. Daisy clenched her fist; the unfairness burned. Only lords could afford it; for them, it was a fairy tale.

“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 weighed the risk and found herself unafraid. Sooner or later, she would have to do more than listen to whispers through a knothole. If the nobles kept their magic under lock and key, then she would learn how to steal it. Tonight, a plan started to take shape—rough, dangerous, necessary. As she made her silent vow, the bitter scent of boiled mint and sweat hung thick in the air from Delia's healing, searing itself into her memory. She swallowed it down, knowing that from this night forward, that sharp medicinal tang would always remind her of this promise and what she was willing to risk.

She made another promise, silent and sharp.

They would not die here, in the dark.