Clara arrived ten minutes early and accused us of making her wait. She stood in my doorway with her arms folded while I searched for the permission slip I had put somewhere safe.
"You're early," Tomas pointed out from the chair beside my window.
"And yet I'm here."
"That doesn't make us late."
"It makes you slower than me." She leaned around the doorframe to inspect my desk. "Have you lost something already?"
"No. I know approximately where it is."
Milo lifted my gloves and handed me the slip underneath them. I thanked him while Clara looked between us with growing amusement.
"Does he do this every time?" she asked.
"No," I said. Milo considered that answer for long enough to become unhelpful. Tomas started laughing, and I folded the permission slip before anybody could contribute further.
We had been given permission to visit the approved town districts after midday, provided we returned before the evening bell. After several days of quarry debriefings and questions from people who had never previously spoken to me, an afternoon among strangers sounded excellent.
"You should come," I told Milo. "We're mostly planning to eat things."
His eyes moved toward the notebook on my desk. "Master Pell said he'd show me the carriage accounts this afternoon."
"You're choosing accounts over pastries?"
"I asked him yesterday."
That was fair. Annoyingly fair. Clara told him to come next time before Master Pell assigned anything else, and Milo smiled as he agreed. When I promised to bring something back, he asked for something that would survive the journey. Tomas looked at me with completely unnecessary understanding.
"He knows you well."
Clara had opinions about the town. More specifically, she had opinions about where we should eat, which streets were too crowded, and a bakery whose reputation she considered entirely undeserved. When we passed its blue-painted windows, she pointed at the display with the irritation of someone identifying a known criminal.
"My aunt insists on going there whenever she visits. Everything tastes like almonds."
"Perhaps she likes almonds," Tomas suggested.
"Then she can buy almonds."
I slowed beside an impressive arrangement of glazed cakes. "We could investigate. An independent assessment."
"No." Clara caught my sleeve before I could turn toward the entrance. "I know somewhere better."
Her chosen stall stood beneath a striped awning farther down the street. An elderly woman was turning small pastries in a shallow pan, and the smell made a compelling argument before we reached her. Clara ordered three, handed over the coins, and distributed the paper parcels.
"Apple," she told us. "And they're hot."
Tomas immediately bit into his. He stopped chewing, eyes widening slightly, while Clara stared at him.
"I just told you."
He made a muffled sound and began blowing through his nose. I waited for mine to cool, allowing myself a brief moment of satisfaction. Age occasionally conferred advantages beyond dry humor and unnecessary memories.
Unfortunately, waiting did nothing to prevent hot filling escaping down my wrist on the second bite. Clara laughed so hard she had to step away from the stall.
"You saw him do it!"
"I learned a different lesson."
"Clearly not enough of them."
Tomas offered his unused napkin with the solemn generosity of a fellow casualty. I accepted it and decided we could probably return to this stall without further research.
Without uniforms, we attracted less attention. Nobody asked about the ravager or wanted to know whether I had fired an explosion through its eye while falling off a cliff. We were simply three young people navigating market traffic, occasionally forced into single file by baskets larger than seemed reasonable.
Clara stopped at a ribbon stall. Tomas examined a display of pocketknives, and I found a man selling carved wooden creatures. One dragon had its wings spread and its head turned over its shoulder. I picked it up, admired the detail, then noticed the price.
Apparently, dragons remained expensive even when they were six inches long and incapable of flight.
"You can look without buying," Tomas said.
"I know."
"You've been holding it for a while."
The stallholder smiled encouragingly. I put the dragon down just as Clara rejoined us carrying green ribbon.
"Come on. Tomas said there's a bookshop."
"You remembered?" he asked.
"You mentioned it three times."
"I did not."
"Twice, then. Either way, we're going."
He tried to look indifferent, but his pace increased. Clara noticed too. She glanced back at me, smiling, and hurried after him.
The bookshop occupied a narrow building with uneven shelves and the pleasant smell of old paper. A bell rang above the door, and the woman behind the counter recognized Tomas immediately.
"Back already?"
"Only looking."
"That's what you said last time."
Clara glanced at me. I decided not to comment. We followed him past histories, travel accounts, and a shelf of romances whose covers suggested that noble households were considerably more entertaining than mine. Tomas stopped in front of the system texts and almost immediately forgot we were there.
Clara pointed at a thin volume. "That one?"
"No, that's mostly introductory."
"You've read it?"
"Years ago."
"How many years?"
"Three, I think." He checked the spine of another book. "Nearly thirteen when I finished it. I'll be sixteen on Thursday."
Clara turned toward him. "This Thursday?"
"Yes."
"You weren't going to tell us?"
He looked genuinely puzzled. "It hadn't come up."
"We've been sitting together every day!"
"I know."
I took a book from the shelf and opened it to a random page. It gave me somewhere to look while Clara stared at him.
"Thursday," she repeated.
"That's usually when it happens."
She smacked his arm with the folded ribbon. Tomas grinned and ducked away, suddenly much less interested in pretending he hadn't been enjoying himself. I liked seeing him like this: pleased with his own joke and entirely unconcerned about whether he ought to have made it.
The book he eventually chose was considerably less introductory. I understood approximately one illustration in four. Tomas understood all of them.
"This is interesting," he said, turning it toward us. "They're using separate sections instead of reinforcing the whole face."
Clara leaned closer. "Wouldn't it come apart?"
"Not if the edges overlap properly." He traced the diagram without touching the page. "If one section breaks, you don't lose everything. You could replace that part without rebuilding the rest."
"Could you do it?" I asked.
"Not yet." He turned the page and began explaining why curved surfaces distributed force differently. There was no embarrassment in his answer, only interest. I listened, and so did Clara. After several minutes, Tomas noticed our attention and stopped. "Sorry. I've been talking."
"Yes," I said. "That is generally how explanations work."
His ears reddened slightly. Clara pointed at another illustration and asked what it did, which got him started again. While he answered, I noticed the price penciled inside the cover. A moment later, he checked it too, more quickly, then returned the book carefully to its shelf.
The throwing game stood near the fountain: six wooden rings, three bottles, and a selection of prizes whose quality suggested winning was intended to be its own reward. Tomas slowed as we approached, and Clara immediately changed direction.
"No skills," she announced. The stallholder agreed enthusiastically while I examined the bottles. An easy distance. Stationary targets. This ought to be straightforward.
My first ring struck a bottle neck and bounced off. Clara made a delighted noise.
I looked at her.
"Sorry," she said, not sounding sorry.
The second landed behind the bottles. The third rolled away.
"You hit a moving monster," she said.
"Different equipment."
"It's a bottle, Dare."
"I can see the bottle."
She handed Tomas the remaining rings. "Go on. Beat him."
He did. Two successful throws, one after the other. Clara shouted loudly enough to attract attention from the next stall, while Tomas tried and failed to look composed. He selected a little wooden duck with wheels as his prize, then rolled it across his palm.
"You can have a turn with it later," he told me.
"A generous offer."
"I thought so."
We bought drinks and found an empty table near the fountain. Clara rolled the duck toward me, and I stopped it with one finger.
"Terrifying creature."
"Careful," Tomas said. "You've already missed it three times."
I was preparing a reply when a wagon wheel struck a rut behind us. The crash snapped through the square. I was halfway out of my chair before I recognized it. Tomas had grabbed the table, and Clara's drink slopped over her hand.
For a moment, none of us spoke. Then the driver swore at the road and continued on.
Clara looked down. "Oh, that's sticky."
Tomas handed her a napkin. I sat again, righted the fallen duck, and pushed it gently across the table. She caught it. Conversation resumed a little quietly at first, then more easily. By the time our cups were empty, Tomas was defending his throwing technique while Clara claimed she could certainly have done better if she hadn't wasted the afternoon watching me lose.
We returned with pastries for Milo. They survived the journey, mostly because Tomas carried them. At the academy gate, Clara borrowed my pencil and wrote something on the back of an old receipt. While Tomas spoke to the porter, she held it where I could see.
Thursday.
"I heard him," I murmured.
"We're doing something."
"I assumed we were."
She smiled. "Good. Don't buy anything without telling me."
"Why would you assume—"
"You went back to look at that book twice."
Tomas turned toward us. "What?"
"Nothing," Clara said too quickly.
His eyes narrowed. Fortunately, the wooden duck was in my pocket. I produced it and asked whether he intended to abandon his fearsome hunting trophy. He immediately reached for it, giving Clara time to stop smiling quite so obviously.
We walked inside together, with more food than we needed and Thursday suddenly looking important.