Chapter 7 Two Coins Don't Lie

Riley's POV

The second coin felt colder than the first, which was impressive considering the first coin had already made my fingertips ache. I set both coins on the counter and stared at them while morning light moved across the bottles behind me, wondering how two pieces of silver could look so harmless while making every sensible part of me suspicious.

I had tried touching the new one with my bare fingers, then with a cloth, then with the end of a wooden spoon because apparently I had reached the stage of my investigation where cutlery seemed like a reasonable magical instrument. None of it had changed the cold, so I finally folded my arms and looked at the coins as if they might become embarrassed enough to explain themselves.

“All right,” I said to them, and the shop bell chimed before either coin could offer an opinion. “You have my attention, which is more than most people get before breakfast.”

Cassia Thorne stepped inside wearing a rain-dark cloak and the expression of someone who had never once been surprised by her own entrance. She looked from me to the coins and then to the wooden spoon on the counter, which was probably why her first question was, “Should I ask?”

“No,” I said, sliding the spoon behind a bottle as though hiding evidence would improve matters. Cassia took off her gloves with a small smile and said, “Good, because I was hoping you had finally developed a better hobby.”

“You came all the way here to insult my hobbies?” I asked, although I already knew Cassia well enough to recognize that her version of friendliness often arrived wearing sharper shoes. “I came because I heard you were losing customers,” she replied, and somehow that was even less comforting.

“That is a remarkably friendly thing to say,” I told her, folding my arms again while Cassia leaned against the counter as though she had been invited to stay for tea. “I am trying to be supportive,” she said, looking far too pleased with herself.

“You have an unusual definition of supportive,” I told her, and she laughed softly enough to make it clear she considered that a compliment. I decided not to ask what had happened to the version of Cassia who used to pretend she disliked me more than she actually did.

“I heard about the new shop,” I said, because pretending I had not been thinking about it since Netty mentioned it would have been pointless. Cassia's eyebrows rose, and she answered, “Everyone has.”

“That quickly?” I asked, glancing toward the rain-streaked window. Cassia shrugged and said, “Mistwood has three reliable forms of communication, bells, gossip, and people who claim they do not gossip while repeating everything they heard.”

“That sounds exhausting,” I said. “It is efficient,” she replied, and I suspected she would have defended gossip as a civic service if I had given her enough time.

The door chimed again, and Cassia glanced toward the window as three students passed outside, one pointing toward the quad while another laughed. I could not hear every word through the glass, but I caught enough to understand the shape of the conversation: new shop, better prices, faster remedies.

My stomach tightened before I could stop it, and Cassia noticed. “You know,” she said, “you could make this easier on yourself.”

“I could also turn the shop into a pastry stall, but I have standards,” I replied, because pastry sounded considerably more pleasant than competition. Cassia shook her head and said, “I meant the competition.”

“I know what you meant,” I said, reaching for a clean cup even though neither of us had asked for tea. “You are allowed to dislike competition without treating it like a moral emergency,” she told me, and I pretended the kettle had suddenly become fascinating.

“I do not,” I said, and Cassia gave me a look that made me regret answering so quickly. “You are doing the face,” she said.

“What face?” I asked, already annoyed that I knew exactly which face she meant. “The one where you pretend you are perfectly calm while mentally reorganizing every bottle on your shelves,” she answered, and I muttered, “I do that all the time.”

“I know,” Cassia said, and before I could decide whether that was affectionate or insulting, the bell chimed once more. A boy from the academy stepped inside, looked at Cassia, then at me, and immediately looked as though he had walked into the middle of an argument he had not agreed to attend.

He glanced between us and muttered something about needing a calming draught before backing toward the door. Cassia turned toward him and said, “If you want the quick version, I can help.”

The boy hesitated, and I hated how quickly my attention sharpened because I knew exactly what was happening. “You can stay,” I told him, keeping my voice gentle, “and you do not have to choose anything yet.”

He looked relieved enough that I nearly felt better, and then the kettle whistled. I turned toward it while the boy laughed nervously, Cassia raised an eyebrow, and I pointed at the kettle as I said, “It has terrible timing.”

“It seems opinionated,” Cassia observed. “It is,” I replied, and the kettle clicked once as though pleased to have been included.

The boy finally relaxed enough to smile, so I reached for a cup and asked him to tell me what was bothering him. He started explaining, and for a few minutes the shop settled into its usual rhythm while I listened, asked questions, and made a small recommendation, with Cassia remaining by the counter and watching me with an expression I refused to interpret.

When the boy left with a mild calming tea instead of a potion, he thanked me twice. Cassia waited until the door shut before saying, “You still do that.”

“Do what?” I asked, wiping a drop of tea from the counter. “Make people feel like they are not being sold something,” she said, and when I looked at her, she shrugged as though she regretted admitting it.

“It is irritating,” she added, and I raised an eyebrow. “That sounds almost complimentary,” I said.

“Do not get excited,” Cassia replied, pulling her gloves back on. The kettle clicked softly behind us, and when I turned toward the two coins again, she followed my gaze.

“Those are new,” she said. “No,” I answered, then sighed when she looked at me expectantly and added, “They are not new. They are new to me.”

“That was not the answer I expected,” she said, studying the coins without touching them. “Where did you get the second one?”

“I found it under an abandoned order slip,” I told her, and her expression sharpened slightly. “And the first?”

“Someone left it,” I said. “That is the entire problem.”

“Convenient,” Cassia murmured, and I looked at her. “Suspicious,” I answered.

“Same thing, depending on how optimistic you are,” she said, and I could not tell whether she was teasing me or warning me. Before I could decide, she added, “I would be careful with anything that arrives without an explanation.”

“That is surprisingly sensible,” I said. Cassia smiled and replied, “I have moments.”

The door chimed when she opened it, then chimed again when it swung back toward her. Cassia glanced up at the bell and said, “I think your shop is disagreeing with me.”

“It does that,” I told her, and she nodded as though this confirmed something important. “I noticed,” she said before stepping outside.

I watched her cross the courtyard before turning back to the counter. The shop suddenly felt quieter, and I looked at the two coins while the rain tapped softly against the glass.

Then I closed the door, locked it, and pulled the little curtain across the front window. I had spent enough time wondering whether the coins were connected, and now I wanted to know what they were.

I placed the first coin in my left hand and the second in my right. Heartcraft was not meant for objects; it lived in people, in the small places where emotion gathered beneath words, and I had never tried to reach into metal before.

Still, the coins had arrived carrying something I could not explain, and I needed to know whether that something could be felt. I closed my eyes and reached gently, reminding myself that Heartcraft only worked when something allowed itself to be sensed.

For a moment, there was nothing, and then the room seemed to soften around the edges as Heartcraft answered with the familiar quiet pull I had learned to recognize. Usually I felt warmth first, or a prick of worry, or the ache of something someone had been carrying too long.

With the first coin, I felt none of it, only stillness so complete that I opened my eyes and stared at the silver in my palm. “That is familiar,” I whispered, then tried again more slowly, but the stillness remained unchanged and unreachable.

I switched coins, expecting some difference simply because I wanted one. The second coin gave me exactly the same answer, and I realized it was not emptiness or absence either, because it felt like a closed door.

The sensation was so similar to the one I had felt every time I reached toward Ryan that my hand tightened around the coin before I could stop it. I thought of the café, his book, and the way he looked at me whenever I asked questions he did not want to answer.

I thought of the first time I had tried Heartcraft on him and found nothing I could touch, nothing I could follow, nothing beneath the surface waiting to be understood. I had told myself his unreadability was a fae thing.

Now I was holding two pieces of silver that felt exactly the same, and the thought unsettled me enough that I set both coins down. The door chime gave a small, cheerful ring even though nobody had touched the door, and I stared at it.

“Not now,” I said, rubbing my forehead, and the chime answered with another bright little note. “Very helpful,” I muttered, while the kettle gave a quiet click from behind me, and for once I did not have the energy to argue with it.

I picked up the first coin and looked at the three cuts along its edge, then looked at the second. Same mark, same cold, same impossible stillness.

I did not know what connected the coins to Ryan, and I did not know why someone had started leaving them in my shop. I only knew that whatever I could not read was beginning to feel less like coincidence and more like a question someone expected me to answer.

I slipped both coins into the small dish beneath the counter. The bell chimed once more, softer this time, and I glanced toward the door as if Ryan might be standing on the other side.

He was not, and that should have made the room feel quieter. Instead, the silence felt as though it were waiting, and I found myself staring at the silver as though it might finally decide to tell me the truth. The only two things in Mistwood I can't read are a fae and his money.