# Chapter 2: The First Date

Two days. It had been two days since her visit, and I had accomplished nothing of professional value in either of them. I had restocked shelves. I had sold feverwort. I had made the correct sounds at Mrs. Dallery and reduced her Tuesday visit to nine minutes, which was a personal record and should have felt like a victory. It did not feel like a victory. It felt like nine minutes I could have spent thinking about crystal density and golden hair and the way someone could say *simple deduction* without irony and mean it.

Day three was worse. Day three was when the planning started.

I should explain. When I say "planning," I don't mean the casual, half-formed intentions that normal people assemble when they want to ask someone to coffee. I mean *planning* — the systematic construction of contingency frameworks designed to maximize a specific outcome while minimizing catastrophic failure. Most people, I'm told, simply walk up and say words. I am not most people, and "simply" is not a gear I have.

By the evening of day three, I had developed three complete scenarios.

**Scenario One: The Expertise Gambit.** She enters the shop. She browses — specifically the back cases, because that's where her interest lies. She picks up a product. I notice a labeling error, or a quality concern, or something subtle enough that only someone with real knowledge would catch it. I correct the information casually, demonstrating competence without arrogance. She's impressed. A conversation develops naturally. In the warm glow of shared expertise, I suggest continuing the discussion over coffee.

(*Four variations depending on which product she picked up first. Eleven possible responses mapped. Optimal follow-up to each calculated. Flaw: assumed she would browse. She didn't browse last time. She was surgical. The entire scenario depended on a window that probably wouldn't exist.*)

I kept the scenario anyway. Hope is a poor strategist but an excellent motivator.

**Scenario Two: The Coincidental Encounter.** I happen to be reorganizing the shelf nearest the front door when she enters. Natural proximity. A greeting that doesn't feel forced. The conversation unfolds organically from the coincidence of my being right there, which isn't a coincidence at all, but she doesn't need to know that.

The flaw in this plan was fundamental and should have been obvious: it required me to look natural while loitering near a door. (*Practiced in stockroom mirror. Results: instructive. Phelan Varrant standing near a door with intent looked approximately like a man waiting to serve legal papers. Something about the posture. Or possibly the face. Casual proximity transformed into vaguely threatening surveillance. Filed under "emergency use only."*)

**Scenario Three: The Direct Approach.** I ask her. That's it. No setup, no manufactured context, no elaborate staging. I simply say the words.

(*Seventeen rehearsals. Stress-tested for ambiguity, unintended implications, potential misinterpretation. Rejected: "Would you like to grab coffee?" — too casual, implies haste. "Can I take you to coffee?" — grammatically awkward, suggests physical transport. "I'd enjoy having coffee with you" — presumptuous, centers my enjoyment. "Do you drink coffee?" — information-gathering, not invitation. Final: "Would you like to get coffee sometime?" Six words. No subtext. No room for error.*)

I was almost proud of it.

Day four, she didn't come. I reorganized the fire-throat shelf twice, miscounted the binding salt inventory, and caught myself standing near the front door for no reason three separate times. Gavren gave me a look that I chose not to interpret. By closing bell, I had accepted — with the grim pragmatism of a man who has been wrong about things before and recognizes the feeling — that she was a customer who had bought what she needed and had no reason to return.

I went home. I did not look at the house plans. I ate bread and hard cheese and went to sleep thinking about nothing, which required more effort than it should have.

Day five.

She walked in at half past nine, and every carefully engineered scenario I'd built over four days of increasingly obsessive preparation collapsed into the simple, stupid reality of her being *there* — golden hair pulled back the same way, same purposeful stride, same absolute absence of social performance — and my brain, which had prepared seventeen variations of six words, produced instead a sound that was approximately "oh" and then silence.

She looked at me. "You rearranged the silkweed again."

"It was next to the—" I stopped. Regrouped. This was not the opening of any scenario I had planned, but Scenario Three was designed to be context-independent. That was the entire point. I took a breath that I hoped looked like breathing and not like the precursor to a declaration.

"Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

She blinked. Not in surprise — in processing. Her expression didn't change, but behind her eyes a calculation ran that I couldn't follow.

"Coffee is bitter," she said. "I absolutely despise coffee. Why would I drink something bitter on purpose?"

I stared at her. Seventeen rehearsals. Six words. Stress-tested for ambiguity, misinterpretation, and accidental implications. I had not stress-tested for the possibility that my target would have a principled objection to the beverage itself. This was, in retrospect, a significant gap in my planning.

(*She rejected the coffee. Not the invitation — the beverage. Beverage-level framework failure. Seventeen rehearsals, none accounting for principled objections to bitterness. Recalculating. No fallback. No fallback for no fallback.*)

"I—" I began, and then stopped, because I had no idea how that sentence ended. My contingency framework had not survived contact with a woman who rejected coffee on philosophical grounds.

She watched me not finish the sentence. She went still — a total cessation of movement that, on anyone else, I would have read as recognition. She'd said something that landed differently than she'd intended, and she was identifying the gap between her meaning and my reception.

"I don't *like* coffee," she said, more slowly. "But there are shops in the arcane district I've been meaning to look through. If you know the area." She paused. "I don't know the area."

It took me a moment. Then another moment. Then a third moment in which I recognized that she was asking me to spend the afternoon with her, that she'd arrived at this invitation through the rubble of my failed coffee plan, and that she was doing it with the same direct, unpadded efficiency she applied to everything else.

"I know the area," I said.

"Good." She glanced at the shop. "When do you finish?"

"I can—" I looked at Gavren, who was standing behind the counter with the expression of a man who had been watching this entire exchange and was experiencing an emotion he would later deny. "I can take the afternoon."

Gavren opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. "Go," he said, in the tone of a man granting clemency to someone who hadn't asked for it. "Stock the feverwort before you leave."

I stocked the feverwort in what I believe was record time — (*Probability of return visit: unknown. Insufficient data. She bought binding salts — consumable. Silverthorn — consumable. Both items she'd need to replenish. Estimated timeline: one to two weeks. Unless she found a better supplier. Filed under "not thinking about it."*) — though I didn't verify because I was operating on approximately thirty percent of my normal cognitive capacity and the other seventy percent was busy not thinking about spending an afternoon with a woman whose name I still didn't know.

That last part struck me as I was hanging up my apron. Four days of planning. Three complete scenarios. Seventeen rehearsals. And I had never once, in any version, included the step where I learned what to call her.

"I'm Phelan," I said at the door, because the alternative was spending the entire afternoon navigating around the gap and I was already navigating around enough things.

"Mere," she said. "Mere Fields."

Mere. I filed it where it would stay.

* * *

The arcane district occupied six blocks between the guild quarter and the river, a stretch of narrow streets where the shops had names like "Aldric's Precision Implements" and "The Calibrated Eye" and the windows displayed things that drew my eye the way a loose thread draws a tailor's.

The window display at the first shop held three focusing rods, price tags facing outward. Two silvers each. Overpriced by forty percent. The grain on the middle rod suggested second-growth timber — adequate channeling but half the lifespan. The margin was obscene, which was why I never bought anything here, but looking was free and I'd always been better at it than purchasing.

Mere walked the way she'd walked through Gavren's shop — efficiently, with the focused attention of someone cataloguing everything and filing it for later. She didn't browse. She *surveyed.* Every window got a three-second assessment before she either moved on or stopped, and when she stopped, it was because something had caught her eye that warranted the full weight of her attention.

The first shop that earned a stop was Aldric's — runecraft and enchanted household goods, mid-range quality, the kind of place where competent artificers sold competent work to people who needed things to function rather than to impress. Mere went straight for a display of self-heating kettles near the back wall. I followed, because I'd noticed the same thing she had, though I suspected for different reasons.

She picked up the third kettle from the left, turned it over, and examined the rune array inscribed on the base. I watched her eyes track the glyphs — power word, channeling sequence, activation trigger, containment ring — with the systematic precision of someone reading a technical diagram.

"There," she said, pointing to the lower curve of the power word. "The chisel slipped. Bottom of the stroke. Half a millimeter, maybe less."

I leaned in. She was right. The slip was barely visible — a fractional deviation where the inscribing tool had jumped, probably from a vibration or a moment's lost focus. Even artificers wouldn't notice unless they were specifically auditing their own work.

What she couldn't see — what I could, because the thing I did with magic was not the thing she did with her eyes — was the consequence. 

(*Micro-gap in the power word geometry. Channeling efficiency degraded — fifteen percent, maybe twenty. Cascade through the sequence. Slower heat time, higher drain. Functional but wasteful. Wheel that was almost round.*)

"The power word's compromised," I said. "Not enough to break the working, but the channeling efficiency would be off. Fifteen percent, maybe twenty. You'd notice it as a slower heat time."

She looked at me. Then at the kettle. Then at me again, and her gaze locked on me with the fixed intensity of someone recalibrating a model that had just produced an unexpected output.

"You can tell that from the inscription?" she asked.

"It's — geometry." I gestured vaguely at the rune array. "The angles matter. When one element is off, it cascades through the channeling sequence. You can estimate the efficiency loss from the deviation angle."

This was true. It was also not the whole truth, and not how I'd actually arrived at the number, but it was close enough to be plausible and far enough from the real explanation to be safe.

She let that sit. Just a beat — long enough that I noticed, short enough that I couldn't be sure what it meant. Then she picked up a second kettle and turned it over.

"This one's clean," she said. "No slip. But look at the containment ring — the line weight is inconsistent. Thicker on the eastern arc. Either the chisel was wearing down or the artificer's hand pressure isn't even."

"Or both," I said. "If the chisel was dull, you'd naturally press harder to compensate, which would—"

"—make the inconsistency progressive rather than random. Yes." She set the kettle down. "So either he needs a new chisel or he needs to notice his grip is compensating. Probably both."

I was smiling. I could feel it happening and couldn't find a reason to stop it.

"What do you think happened with the first one?" I asked. "The slip."

"Sneezed," she said.

"Or his last creation blew up and it startled him."

"That's unlikely for a kettle artificer."

"You'd be surprised. I once saw a warming stone overload because someone inscribed the intensity rune backwards. The explosion was modest but the owner's eyebrows never fully recovered."

The corner of her mouth moved. The same almost-smile from the shop, but warmer now — closer to something real. "That would explain the slip. Flinching from a phantom explosion."

"Phantom eyebrow trauma. Very common in the trade. Underreported."

She made a sound that I chose to interpret as laughter, though it was brief and controlled and probably would not have been recognized as such by anyone who hadn't been paying extremely close attention. I had been paying extremely close attention.

We moved on. The next shop — Brevian's Fine Enchantments, which was neither fine nor particularly enchanting but had a decent selection of warded containers — was where things got complicated.

The shopkeeper was a broad man with the enthusiastic energy of someone who believed his merchandise was better than it was. He watched us enter with the practiced warmth of retail friendliness and produced what he clearly considered his showpiece: a warded jewelry box with brass fittings and an inlaid lid, displayed on a velvet cloth with the reverence usually reserved for religious artifacts.

"Handcrafted," he said, turning it so the light caught the brass. "My own design. Three-layer ward with independent anchoring. Best protection this side of the guild quarter."

Mere picked it up. She turned it over once, opened it, closed it, ran her thumb along the hinge, and held it at eye level to sight down the lid.

"The join on this hinge is uneven," she said. Not quietly. "The finish is inconsistent across the left panel — you can see where the lacquer pooled near the bottom edge. And there's a gap in the warding where the second and third runes don't connect properly. The anchor points are misaligned by about two degrees." She looked up at him. "Did you make this yourself?"

The shopkeeper's face underwent a journey. It began at pride, passed through confusion, took a sharp turn into offense, and arrived at a destination somewhere between wounded and furious. He had, in fact, made it himself. It was, in fact, his pride piece. And a woman he'd never met had just performed a clinical autopsy on it in front of two other customers.

"I — the warding is perfectly—"

"The concept is interesting," Mere continued, and I could see that she meant it — she was genuinely engaged with the design, interested in the rune layout, apparently unaware that she'd just disemboweled the man's professional self-image. "The three-layer approach with independent anchoring is clever. Shared anchor points are more common, which saves materials but creates cascade vulnerabilities. Your approach is better in theory. The execution just needs refinement on the alignment."

She said this with the same flat, informational tone she used for everything. She wasn't being cruel. She wasn't even being critical, from her perspective. She was describing what she'd observed and offering analysis. That the observations were devastating and the analysis carried the emotional warmth of a surveyor's report did not appear to have occurred to her.

"We should look at the next shop," I said, taking her elbow with the gentle urgency of a man steering someone away from a fire they hadn't noticed they'd started. "I think they have silverthorn."

"I don't need silverthorn."

"You might. Let's check."

Outside, I exhaled. Mere looked at me, brow furrowed.

"What?" she said.

"You just told him his best work was flawed. In front of customers."

"It *is* flawed. Should I have not mentioned it?"

I opened my mouth, reconsidered, and closed it. This was the thing about Mere — the thing that broke my reading, the thing that made her fascinating and exhausting and unlike anyone I'd ever met. She hadn't been rude. She hadn't been kind. She'd been *accurate,* and it had never crossed her mind that accuracy might not be welcome.

"Most people," I said carefully, "prefer not to hear about the flaws in things they've made."

She considered this. "That seems counterproductive. How would they improve?"

I didn't have an answer that would satisfy her, because the honest one — *they wouldn't, and they don't want to, and that's the entire point* — would only generate more questions about why humans operated this way, and I was not equipped to defend the species on this front.

"It's a social convention," I said.

"It's a stupid one."

"Most of them are."

She looked at me for a moment, assessing, and then nodded once. "You think so too. You just don't say it."

I didn't respond to that, because she was right, and admitting it felt like giving away something I usually kept locked.

We walked in silence for half a block, which was not uncomfortable — silence with Mere had a different texture than silence with other people, because she wasn't filling it with anxiety about what should be said next, and without her anxiety there was no pressure to generate my own.

"He didn't like us," she said, as we passed a bakery.

"Who?"

"The shopkeeper. Before Brevian's. The one with the warming stones. His smile didn't match his posture. He wanted us to leave after the first two minutes but kept performing because he thought we might buy something. His shoulders were angled toward the door the entire time."

I stopped walking. She stopped too, watching me with the calm certainty of someone who had already finished the conversation and was just waiting for me to arrive at it.

She was right. The warming-stone shopkeeper *had* been angling toward the door. I'd clocked it — I always clocked it, that was what I did — but I'd filed it as background data and moved on. She'd clocked it too. The difference was that I read the performance and catalogued it as information to be used if needed. She read the performance and stated it as a fact, stripped of context and implication, as neutrally as reporting the weather.

"You noticed his posture," I said.

"It was obvious." She started walking again. "People are easy to read. They just don't like when you do it out loud."

I followed, and I did not say what I was thinking, which was that she had just described my entire operational philosophy in two sentences and made it sound simpler than I'd ever managed.

* * *

We were sitting on a low wall near the canal bridge when I asked about the binding salts.

It had been nagging at me since her first visit — the specificity of her purchases, the care with which she'd selected them. Binding salts and silverthorn weren't recreational supplies. They had applications, and the applications she'd need both for were narrow enough that I'd been running possibilities in the background for five days.

"The supplies you bought from Gavren's," I said. "The binding salts and silverthorn. What are they for?"

"A dog," she said.

I waited for elaboration. Mere, I was learning, did not elaborate unless prompted. Statements were complete units. If you wanted the paragraph, you had to ask for it.

"A cursed dog?" I said, because the binding salts made no sense otherwise.

"Yes. Someone put a fear curse on it — makes it terrified of people. It runs from everyone. By the time I found it, it hadn't eaten in days." Her voice was flat, factual — the emotional content implied by the facts rather than performed alongside them. "The curse is still active, but I've been able to suppress the fear response enough that it will accept food and water. It won't let anyone touch it yet, but it's not running away in terror."

"How did you suppress a fear curse with binding salts and silverthorn?"

"The binding salts create a localized dampening field when dissolved in water — someone told me once that they'd dampen anything active within a close radius, and they were right. It weakens any active magical working within about a meter. Silverthorn, when processed correctly, has mild anxiolytic properties in animals. I dissolved the binding salts in the water bowl and added silverthorn extract to the food. The combination doesn't break the curse, but it dulls the magical fear signal enough that the dog's natural survival instincts — hunger, thirst — can override it temporarily."

She had treated a magical curse the way a veterinary surgeon would treat a medical condition — symptom management through layered interventions, each one targeting a different pathway. She hadn't tried to break the curse. She'd worked around it, using mundane components in ways that no licensed curse-breaker would have thought to try because they'd have been too busy trying to attack the working directly.

"That's—" I started. "That's not how anyone uses binding salts."

"I know. I tried the standard applications first. They didn't work. The curse is well-anchored — it resists direct interference. So I stopped trying to fight it and started trying to create conditions where the dog could function despite it." She looked at the canal. "Animals don't understand that they're cursed. They just know they're afraid. If you reduce the fear enough for the body's needs to reassert themselves, the animal can survive while you work on a better solution."

"And the better solution?"

"I don't have one yet. I've been reading about curse architecture, but most of the texts assume you're working on humans, and the intervention techniques don't translate well. Dogs don't have the cognitive framework for the verbal and gestural components most curse-breaking requires." She paused. "I need to find someone who understands how curses work structurally. Not just the standard removal techniques — the actual architecture. How the fear is anchored. Where the working is vulnerable."

She said this last part without looking at me — not that it signified anything, because Mere didn't manage her gaze for social effect. But I heard it anyway — the gap between what she could see and what she needed, and how precisely she'd just described my skill set without knowing it existed.

The dog was a puzzle. A curse with strong anchoring, resistant to direct intervention, with an unusual target. The kind of problem that standard training couldn't solve because standard training assumed standard conditions.

I wanted to look at it. Not to impress her — though I registered that impulse and filed it under things I wasn't going to examine too closely. The curse was interesting. The approach she'd taken was interesting. And she cared about this animal in a way that was visible not in her voice or her expression but in the precision of her efforts — the careful, systematic work of someone who had decided this dog would survive and was applying every tool she had to make that true.

"I could look at it," I said. "The curse. I'm — I have some background in how magical workings are structured."

She turned to me. The assessment look — the one from the shop, from the kettle, from every moment where she processed new information and decided where it fit.

"You work in an herbal supply shop," she said. Not dismissive. Factual.

"I work in an herbal supply shop," I agreed. "I also know things."

She studied me for three seconds that felt significantly longer. "Fine. Thursday."

I nodded. She nodded. Neither of us mentioned that Thursday was a second date, because calling it that would have required acknowledging that today was a first date, and acknowledging that would have required one of us to be the kind of person who said things like "first date" out loud, and we were not those people.

"I should go," she said, standing. She brushed her hands on her trousers with a single efficient motion. "My mother rearranges my workspace if I'm out past sixth bell. She thinks organization is a form of care." A pause. "It isn't."

She said it flatly. But I'd spent the afternoon learning to hear what Mere's flatness actually carried, and underneath the statement of fact was something heavier — a weight she'd been holding so long she probably didn't notice it anymore.

I filed it. I didn't understand it. But I filed it.

"Thursday," I said.

"Thursday," she confirmed, and walked away along the canal with the purposeful stride of someone who always knew where she was going, even if where she was going was a place she didn't want to be.

* * *

The shack was unchanged — one room, river sounds, the faint smell of damp timber and the loneliness of a space that was shelter but not home. I sat at the table and did not eat, which was unusual. Meals were events I approached with the disciplined efficiency of a man who couldn't afford to waste food or time. Tonight the bread and cheese sat untouched while I thought about kettles.

The chisel slip. The power word. The fifteen percent efficiency loss I'd known before I'd worked through the geometry, because I'd *seen* it — the flaw glowing in the working like a crack in glass, obvious and immediate and utterly impossible to explain to anyone who didn't see what I saw.

Mere had seen the physical defect. Half a millimeter, identified by eye, confirmed by logic. Remarkable. But I'd seen the *consequence* — the way the flaw propagated through the channeling sequence, the cascade of small inefficiencies that added up to a measurable performance gap. I hadn't calculated it. I'd perceived it — the ward-jar flaw at Gavren's, the places where magic didn't quite hold together. Always perceived, never calculated.

I'd spent years thinking of this as a quirk. A useful oddity. The way some people had perfect pitch or could estimate distances by eye — a knack, not a skill, and certainly not something you built a career around.

But sitting in the shack, replaying the afternoon, I thought about the cursed dog. A working that resisted standard intervention. Strong anchoring. Unusual target. Mere needed someone who could see the architecture — not the surface, but the structure. Where the fear was rooted. Where the working might give.

I could do that. Not might — *could.* I'd been doing it my entire life, calling it luck or instinct or "some background in how magical workings are structured," and the truth was simpler and more uncomfortable: I had a skill that no one else seemed to have, and I'd been hiding it behind modest language because the alternative was explaining something I didn't fully understand to people who would either not believe me or believe me too much.

If the Guild ever responded — if the nearly seven weeks of silence turned into an acceptance letter — this was what I'd bring. Not herbal knowledge. Not shelf organization. The ability to look at a magical working and see exactly where it was going to break.

The thought sat in my chest like a coal — warm and dangerous. I let it stay for a moment. Then I did the math — twelve coppers, a shaved half-silver, and a shack that smelled like the river — and the warmth cooled to its usual temperature, which was the temperature of wanting something you couldn't yet afford to believe in.

I pulled out the house plans. I did this most evenings, but tonight the drawings looked different. Not better, not worse — just charged with a meaning I usually kept at arm's length.

Five rooms. Workshop with ventilation and warding anchors. Main room. Kitchen. Bathroom. Bedroom. The bedroom that tonight, for some reason, looked small.

The bedroom had always been adequate. A bed, a wardrobe, a window. Enough space for one person who didn't accumulate things. 

(*Not looking at the sun doesn't mean you've forgotten it exists. The thought approached — not arriving, not landing. It was a stray animal testing whether it was safe to come closer. Mere needed to be home by sixth bell because her mother rearranged her workspace. Said it like weather. It wasn't weather. The thought got close enough to have a shape — a bed wide enough for two, a second wardrobe, the particular geometry of a room that expected someone to stay —*)

The dog. Thursday. A curse with strong anchoring and an unusual target. I could work with that. I could think about curse architecture and intervention strategies and the specific mechanics of fear-anchoring in non-human subjects, and all of that was interesting and useful and did not require me to think about why the bedroom measurements had started to look insufficient in the plans of a man who lived alone and expected to continue living alone and was, by every reasonable metric, not the kind of person who redesigned rooms for people he hadn't asked to fill them.

Thursday. The dog. The curse.

I put the plans away, ate my bread and cheese, and lay on the cot listening to the river. I thought about architecture — magical, structural, and the kind you built on paper for a future that kept getting closer and further away at the same time.

Outside, footsteps on the mill road. Even, purposeful, booted — unusual, because nobody used the mill road after dark. They passed the shack without slowing, without stopping, and faded into the river noise. My brain catalogued the gait and filed it somewhere I wouldn't think to check until I needed to.

I fell asleep thinking about flaws. The kind in kettles, the kind in curses, and the kind in bedrooms that had started feeling too small for reasons I wasn't ready to measure.

It was not a bad way to end a day.
