Cambria unlocked the front door of Cambria's Beauty just before dawn. She smoothed her maroon dress and checked the large velvet bat display perched outside. The bat's amber eyes glowed at every passerby, telling them this shop belonged to no trend. She wanted her store to be the most sought-after makeup spot around, and that meant standing alone. For three Saturdays now, the same stranger had walked in at opening. They circled the shelves, photographed corners, sketched the chair and skull table set, and left without buying. Cambria's feathers bristled. A copycat was studying her like a recipe. This Saturday, she was ready. She rearranged the skull container of brushes, moved the maroon chair into the deepest corner, and waited. The stranger arrived on time. They snapped photos. They measured the table with their hands. Then they smiled smugly and walked out. Cambria followed them onto the platform of the train station. Percival Swiftwing stood checking his pocket watch. "Departing in two minutes, miss," he said to her. Cambria caught the stranger by the sleeve. "Copy the chair. Copy the skull. You still won't have me." She pulled out her sketchbook, full of designs no one had seen, and held it up. "This is what you can't steal." The stranger boarded the train empty-handed. Percival tipped his cap as the whistle blew. Cambria walked home knowing imitation could not touch her vision, but a colder thought followed her, that a rival shop was already being built somewhere down the line.

The next Saturday, Cambria opened her shop with her sketchbook tucked under one wing. She still felt the sting of the train station, and the worry that someone, somewhere, was building a copy of her store. She would not be caught off guard again. When the bell chimed at dawn, she stepped out from behind the counter ready to face the stranger head-on. The stranger stood in the doorway, smaller than she remembered. A wicker basket dangled from one talon, packed with burgers, pretzels, and a melting ice cream cone. A camera hung from a strap across their chest. Cambria squared her shoulders and reached for the hood pulled low over their face. She tugged it back. Beneath it was a soft brown owlet in a naturalist's cap, big yellow eyes blinking up at her. Not a thief. Not a designer. Norwin Featherly, the field naturalist who wrote about wild things. "You," Cambria said. Her feathers settled flat. "You're not building a shop." "Goodness, no," Norwin said gently. "I was documenting you. A barn owl who built her own habitat. I brought lunch, in case you'd sit for an interview." They lifted the basket. "My article runs next month. Readers across three counties." Cambria stared at the basket, then at the camera, then at the sketchbook still clutched in her wing. Her rival was no rival at all. She was about to be famous. She pulled out the maroon chair and gestured for Norwin to sit. The fight she had braced for was gone, and in its place sat a much bigger question: when those readers came, would her one small shop be ready for them?