Chapter 21: Larissa the Romani

Larissa the Romani was a tiny human. She carried herself with a carefully cultivated air of quiet dignity. Her most striking feature was her deep brown eyes, so dark they appeared almost black. Fine lines etched on her face spoke of a previous life spent on a windswept steppe. She was long past girlhood. Her eyes held an expression of cynical intelligence.

This day, she wore her usual traditional clothing: a long, flowing skirt in rich jewel tones paired with a crisp white blouse with intricate embroidery along the neckline and cuffs. Over this, she wore a vibrant shawl draped across her shoulders, its tasseled edges dancing with her movements. Her jewelry told the story of her wealth—multiple gold bangles clinked musically at her wrists, and delicate hoop earrings caught the light.

Although she had lived in Oldtown for decades, she liked to honor the customs of her homeland. The old ways were the best ways. Even though both would have denied it, Goldeneyes and Larissa shared the same ethos: family was all, and outsiders were to be fleeced or avoided.

Her six daughters took their ease around her. She was inordinately proud of them. Each one contributed to the family’s survival in this harsh city that had one law—survival.

She gestured for her daughter, Mirella, to begin the month’s summary of the clan’s vast business interests. The others poured tea from the big silver samovar, claimed their usual spots in the room, and prepared to listen carefully. The six had long since disciplined themselves to deliver results according to their mother’s strict expectations.

Mirella stood at the round table and spread out her leather-bound ledgers with practiced precision. She was the accountant—keeping track of every coin that came in and out of the operation. Like the others, she wore her black hair severely pulled back, with practical gold hoops dangling from her pointed ears, a testament to her father’s wood elf genes. With a glance at her mother, she began her report.

“Our silk trade revenue with the Northmarket merchants has fallen dramatically. Our investment in the last coal caravan yielded thirty percent below projections. The depressed economy in the north is hurting us badly...” She went on and on with a litany of bad news.

Her sister Zsófia lay sprawled across a pile of cushions near the brazier, trying to dry boots still muddy from the stables. She paused, cutting an apple with her belt knife. “My drovers tell me the same.” Zsófia’s job was logistics in and out of the port to the markets up north.

Violetta lounged by the colorful stained-glass window, idly strumming her guitar. When Mirella mentioned a dispute with a guild, she smiled a shark’s smile. Violetta’s specialty was contracts and negotiation.

Vanessa, the eldest, sat by the door. She seemed to melt into the shadows. Her eyes and ears missed nothing. She was mute. Her specialty was intelligence—and when required, their assassin. She signed, “The vampire bitch Helen is an issue. She and that half-blood slaver, L’eena, have been taking refugees and selling them to the Sidhe. The slave markets by the fighting pits are awash with slaves. They have been raking in the coins. Coins equal power, as you always told us. She is going to be a problem down the trail.”