---
Fizz sighed and untied the mustache. "You are no fun and therefore you will live longer."
They left as the lamps in the lane lit one by one like a breadcrumb trail for the absent-minded. The old apple press behind the inn waited in the space where back doors and quiet deals meet. It was a place for barrels and gossip. It smelled faintly of wood and old sweetness.
Lark arrived as shadows joined hands. He was a narrow boy made of angles and nerves, with hair that did not listen and eyes that had learned how not to look at anything that could get them in trouble. He carried his fear like a coin under his tongue.
"I was told there would be money for a memory," he said, as if reciting a curse so it would not stick.
"There will be," John said. "For a memory that earns its keep."
Lark's gaze flitted to Fizz and then away. "It talks."
"So do you," Fizz said. "Most days."
Lark swallowed. "Ask."
