The road had been longer and harder than Constance had imagined. Three days of walking, two nights sleeping in haylofts, and one miserable evening huddled against a tree. Her back still ached from that night. She'd woken with leaves in her hair and a new, profound appreciation for roofs.
But here she was at last: the bustling port city of Meridian.
Constance stopped at the gate's threshold, her pale grey eyes going wide. She'd seen drawings of cities in books: woodcut illustrations with tidy lines and labeled buildings. This was nothing like that.
The morning sun glinted off a thousand windows, blinding and sharp. Chimneys coughed smoke into the pale sky. The smell of salt, fish, bread, and something foul she couldn't identify hit her like a wall.
Even from here, the sound washed over her: a low, constant rumble of carts, voices, and distant bells that seemed to come from everywhere at once.
Her fingers tightened on the package until the string bit into her skin.
Breathe, Connie. You can figure this out. That's what you're good at.
The city watchman barely glanced at her papers. Her mentor had written a letter of introduction, but this man looked at it for less than three seconds before waving her through.
"Welcome to Meridian, miss. Mind your belongings and your manners, and you'll do fine."
"Oh. Thank you. I..." Before she could finish, he'd already turned to the next person.
Constance hesitated on the threshold, then stepped forward. The Market District swallowed her whole.
Stalls overflowed in every direction. Fabrics in colors she couldn't name. Pies cooling on windowsills. A cart heaped with second-hand books, just sitting there in the open where rain could ruin them.
People streamed past, around her, through her; shoulders bumping, elbows jostling. A fishmonger's voice cut through everything: "FRESH CATCH! GET YOUR FRESH CATCH HERE!"
Children darted between legs like minnows. A dog chased a screaming chicken. Someone played a fiddle somewhere, badly, the notes scraping against her teeth.
Constance stood very still in the flow of bodies, clutching her mentor's package to her chest like a raft in rough water.
Okay. Okay. The Lyceum of Lanterns. Enter through the East Gate... done. Now, follow Bell Street to the Fountain of Halcyon.
She looked around desperately for a street sign, a landmark, anything. Her mentor's directions were in her pocket, written in his cramped, shaky hand—the same hand that had held hers when she first learned to form letters, now trembling with illness. I can't fail him. I will not.
Then she spotted something wonderful: a large wooden board near the gate, covered with painted lines and labels. A city map.
Constance practically lunged for it, then caught herself, heat rising to her cheeks. She approached at a more appropriate walk and studied it with the intensity she usually reserved for spell diagrams.
Bell Street runs west from the East Gate. Yes. The Fountain of Halcyon is at the intersection with Weaver's Lane. Then left fork past the Copper Kettle Inn. Spiraling Lane. I can do this.
She traced the route with her finger, mouthing the names, committing them to memory. The map was faded but legible. The city was just a puzzle. A very loud, very large, very smelly puzzle.
As she stepped back, something tugged at her awareness, a prickle at the back of her neck, the same feeling she got when someone read over her shoulder.
She glanced around and noticed them. Three people, separate but similar: a man leaning against a wall, watching newcomers with eyes that moved too methodically; a woman pretending to examine fabric but glancing at every purse; a boy, maybe twelve, trailing a well-dressed merchant with his hand positioned just so.
Constance's heart quickened. Pickpockets. The priest who taught her to read had warned her about city thieves. But hearing about something and seeing it were very different.
She clutched her pouch, concealed beneath her cloak, against her hip, and stepped carefully around the boy, giving him wide berth. Her eyes met his for just a moment. She quickly looked away, face warming, hoping she wouldn't become his target.
Don't draw attention. Just move. Blend in.
But how? She wore her best traveling clothes, a simple wool dress and sturdy boots, and still felt like a daisy in a wheat field.
Everyone here moved with purpose. They knew where they were going. She did not.
Then she spotted a bakery with a kind-faced woman sweeping the step. A baker's wife, maybe. Someone who worked here, who would know the streets. Someone who looked like she might have patience.
Constance approached, rehearsing the words inside her head. Excuse me, ma'am. I'm sorry to trouble you. Could you... no, too many words. Excuse me, could you...
She was three feet away when the woman looked up and smiled. "Oh! Hello, dear. Lost?"
Constance's prepared words evaporated. "I... yes. I mean, no. I mean, I know where I'm going, I have directions, but I wanted to... that is, if it's not too much trouble... could you confirm I'm going the right way? For the Fountain of Halcyon?"
Her voice came out softer than she intended, that rural accent she hated making everything sound countrified and simple. She braced for dismissal.
But the baker's wife leaned on her broom, her face creasing with warmth. "Bless your heart. First time in the city?" She didn't wait for an answer. "Fountain of Halcyon, you said? Straight down Bell Street here."
She pointed with the broom handle. "Past the tanner's—you'll know it by the smell and you'll hit the fountain. Big stone woman with a bowl. Can't miss it."
"That's... that's wonderful. Thank you so much." The words tumbled out, genuine and grateful. "And then, I'm sorry, one more thing? The Copper Kettle Inn? Is it near there?"
"Copper Kettle? Oh sure, nice place. From the fountain, take the left fork that goes down to the docks and you'll see it on the corner. Sign's a big copper kettle, very obvious."
Something loosened in Constance's chest. "Thank you. Truly. You've been so kind."
The woman waved a flour-dusted hand. "Nothing to it. You take care now, dear. Mind your purse in the market."
"I will. Thank you."
Constance walked away with lighter steps, clutching the package. She had a feeling that she might actually manage this. She repeated the directions under her breath like a prayer.
She could do this. One step at a time. Just like her mentor always said: "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single page."
She adjusted her grip on the package, touched the pendant at her throat for luck, and walked forward.