Marcus Steve's Arc

Chapter 1 of 8

Marcus Steve had been in Haremia for six days, and today he planned to ask a woman to court him without knowing a single rule for how it was done. He stood at the base of a wide stone staircase, gripping a bundle of pink flowers he'd bought from a street vendor. He was five-eleven, two hundred twenty-five pounds, and his long brown hair still smelled like the wrong soap. Back home he had no wife, no prospects, and a job that had ended the same week his lease did. Here, the guidebook at the port had promised, a man could build a household of many wives if he learned the customs. Marcus had read four pages before the boat docked. The temple rose above him, tiered roofs painted red, gold spires catching the sun. Women in pale robes climbed the steps in twos and threes. One glanced at his flowers and covered her mouth. Another laughed outright. A older man selling incense at the bottom step shook his head at Marcus. "Wrong color," the incense seller said. "Pink is for grief. You're proposing to a funeral." Marcus looked down at the bundle. "What color should it be?" "Depends on her house. Depends on her rank. Depends on the season." The man spat a seed onto the stone. "You don't know any of that. You'll be laughed off the steps before noon." Marcus's face went hot. He turned to leave and nearly walked into the low branch of a flowering tree at the temple wall. Something moved in the leaves. He froze. Three small figures hung in the branches, no taller than his hand, with wings like wet glass. They were watching him. One drifted down and landed on the flowers he still held. She sat cross-legged on a petal and looked up at him with the calm of someone who had seen this exact mistake before. "You bought these from Old Ren," she said. Her voice was small and clear. "He sells to tourists. He knows." "I didn't know anything," Marcus said. The fairy tilted her head. Her two sisters settled onto his shoulder and his wrist. "We know every house in the district. Every rank. Every season. We know which widow wants a second husband and which girl's father will break your jaw." "Why would you help me?" "Because you asked a question instead of climbing the steps." She pointed at the incense seller, who was already turning away, bored. "Most men don't." Marcus lowered the flowers slowly. "What do you want in return?" "A share of the household you build. A windowsill. A bowl of honey on feast days." She smiled. "Small things." He looked up at the temple steps, at the women still climbing, at the laughter he had almost walked into. Then he sat down on the bottom stair, the fairies still perched on him, and said, "Teach me."