Marcus Steve's Arc

Chapter 3 of 8

Marcus set the honey jar between his boots. The three fairies settled on the temple step in a row, wings folded. The lead fairy tapped the glass lid once, satisfied, then looked up at him. "First lesson," she said. "You want a household. That means women. More than one, if you can hold it together. Who have you seen since you got here?" Marcus thought. "The woman at the emporium. An incense seller down the road. A woman sweeping a porch two houses past the well." The fairy on the left, taller than the others, leaned forward. Her hair fell over one shoulder in a dark rope. "Pick one. We'll teach you how to approach her. But choose wrong and the lesson wastes. Each woman here wants a different opening." "What do you mean, wastes?" "We teach you the approach for the one you name," the lead fairy said. "Not all three. One woman, one lesson today. Choose badly and she turns you away, and you've spent the honey for nothing." Marcus rubbed his jaw. He knew almost nothing about any of them. The emporium woman had taken his coins and his pages without a smile. The incense seller had at least spoken to him, had corrected him about the pink flowers before he embarrassed himself further. The porch sweeper he had only glimpsed. "The incense seller," he said. "She already talked to me. She knows I'm new." The three fairies looked at each other. The smallest one's wings twitched. "Good pick," the lead fairy said. "She's a widow. That's why she sells incense. In Haremia a widow is approached with a small, useful gift, not flowers. Bring her salt or thread. Say your name and where you sleep. Nothing more the first time." "Where I sleep," Marcus repeated. "So she knows where to send word if she wants you back. You have a house?" "A rented one. Up the hill. Wooden porch, red chimney." "That'll do." The lead fairy stood on the jar lid. "Go. Salt from the emporium. Not thread — you'd pick the wrong color. Come back and tell us what she said." Marcus stood. The three fairies lifted with him and rode his shoulder down the road. He passed the well, the porch, the emporium door. He bought a paper twist of salt with the last of his coins and walked to the incense stall. The seller was there, folding cloth over her trays. She looked up when his shadow crossed her table. Marcus set the salt down between them. "Marcus Steve," he said. "I sleep in the house up the hill. Red chimney." She looked at the salt. She looked at him. Then she picked up the twist and slid it into her apron pocket. "Come back tomorrow," she said. Marcus walked away with empty hands and one woman waiting. The fairies on his shoulder were already whispering about the next.