Cassidy fernwillow's Arc

Chapter 3 of 4

The merchant planted himself in the middle of the road. His cart sat crosswise, blocking the way. Two travelers slowed, saw the standoff, and turned back toward the inn down the path. Cassidy's coins felt light in her hand. If he stayed there, no one would reach her wagon. Her shop would die before it grew. "Move your cart," she said. "People can't get through." "That's the idea," the merchant said. He crossed his arms. "This was my road first." Cassidy looked past him. A whole family had stopped on the mossy stones, unsure whether to come closer. She saw her morning's trade about to walk away. Shouting wouldn't move him. Threats wouldn't either. She had no coins to spare and no strength to shove his cart. But she had her brush. She pulled the moonbrush from her belt. Its bright bristles caught the light. The merchant snorted. "Going to paint me out of the way?" "No," Cassidy said. "I'm going to paint you a customer." She set a fresh canvas on the easel. Her hand moved fast. She painted his cart, but fuller than it was, its shelves stacked high with goods. Beside it she painted travelers reaching for his wares. She painted coins in his palm. The colors glowed the way her wishes did. The merchant stepped closer despite himself. "What is that?" "A wish," she said. "For a busy trade. Yours, if you want it." She kept painting. "You block the road and we both starve. But two shops draw twice the crowd. They stop for me. Then they see you." He stared at the glowing picture of himself grown rich. His arms uncrossed. Just then the tavern door opened. The skull-headed owner stepped out, red flames flickering above his bone. He wiped his hands on his black apron and watched the road with hollow eyes. Cassidy had bought bread from him at dawn; he knew a lost sale when he saw one. "You two frighten off my customers too," he said. His voice was dry as ash. "Settle it, or settle it somewhere else." The merchant looked at the tavern owner. He looked at the family still waiting. Then he looked at Cassidy's painting one last time. He gripped his cart's handle and dragged it to the roadside, clearing the way. "Fine," he grumbled. "But if your wagon steals one coin that's mine, I'll block this road for good." Cassidy handed him the wet canvas. "Hang it where they can see it." The family came through the gap and drifted toward her menu. Behind them, more travelers followed. The merchant leaned his new painting against his cart, and a woman stopped to read it. The road was open. But now the merchant stood right beside her, watching every customer, counting every coin. She hadn't beaten a rival. She had made a neighbor.