Chapter 22

“Are you completely incapable of controlling yourself?” Rosalie hissed. “The dressing room! And so loud! Everyone heard you!”

“It was mostly her,” Zoey said defensively. “I was trying to be quiet.”

“Quiet! Were you? I could hear the slapping from across the store. Do you have any idea how mortifying that was?”

“Why would you be embarrassed?” Zoey’s face was burning crimson. Lost in the moment, she’d been more than willing to break the litany of social norms she had, pounding herself into the cute store attendant. Now, faced with Rosalie’s scathing condemnation, and having been escorted out by an uncomfortable-looking guardsman, the reality of what she’d done had hit her.

And she hadn’t even gotten to buy the clothes she’d picked out.

“Why would I be embarrassed? Are you serious? I came in with you, you blithering idiot!”

Rosalie was actually pretty mad. Zoey supposed she had every right to be. “I—yeah, I’m sorry. She just, came in and,” Zoey gesticulated with her hands. “It all happened so fast.”

“I took care of you this morning. Was that not enough? How many times a day do you need to be satisfied?”

Zoey coughed. As many times as cute girls throw themselves at me? The upper bound number would only upset Rosalie, so she didn’t share it.

But still. She shouldn’t have done it in the dressing room. That had been inappropriate. And she’d embarrassed Rosalie. Zoey could embarrass herself as much as she wanted, but her association with Rosalie had been inconsiderate.

“I’m sorry. I really am. If I can make it up to you, just let me know.”

Rosalie’s eyes widened in outrage, and Zoey stuttered to clarify.

“Not like that! I’m not being gross. I’m sorry I put you in that situation. Really. If I can make it up, tell me how.”

The words placated her, but she still wasn’t pleased. She shook her head and stalked away. “Make it up to me by not sticking your dick in the next halfway-willing girl you find. At least when we’re together. We’re on a schedule if you’ve forgotten—or I am, since you clearly aren’t—and you wasted an hour of our time, dealing with that.”

“Right,” Zoey said. “I won’t.” Callie had wrung her well and dry, anyway. She had made sure losing her job had been worth it; she’d used Zoey until both their legs were shaking.

So Zoey would be good for, hm, about an hour, considering this insatiable thing between her legs. It’s not entirely my fault, okay?

The next clothing store was less eventful. Zoey made the first additions to her burgeoning wardrobe. She went with the looser men’s underwear. It turned out—as demonstrated by Callie—that there were benefits to the odd looks Zoey received when her situation was on subtle display.

What was a bit of embarrassment, when it meant eager girls like Callie could discover her secret, and take interest?

Afterward, she and Rosalie headed to an alchemist recommended by Fe. The artificers of Treyhull were a tight knit group, as was perhaps expected. And since Zoey was considering commissioning some potions from the reagents she’d acquired, she wanted someone who was prepared for their odd nature. Fe had assured her that Sabina was the go-to for the odd and bizarre. The alchemist was a woman who loved, above all else, inventions and exploration; a trait that had allegedly left her in quite a poor fiscal situation, despite her talents at potion-making.

Which was a fact that confirmed itself on arrival. Sabina’s store was in ragged condition. The glass panes out front were foggy from not being cleaned. The sign above the doorway could use a paint-over. Overall, not the greatest first impression.

And it was closed.

“Crap,” Zoey said. “Do we go in anyway?”

“Might as well.”

The door was unlocked, at least. A bell rang as they entered.

Sabina—or so Zoey guessed—was at the far end of the store, in the back-left, hunched over a bubbling glass vat. She wore white robes not dissimilar from lab-dress back home on Earth, and also goggles, white gloves, and her hair was tied back in a bun. She glanced their way for a second, said nothing, then looked back forward.

“Are you, uh, open?” Zoey asked.

“The sign says I am, does it not?” the cool reply came.

“No, actually. It’s flipped to closed.”

Sabina’s hands stilled from her stirring. “Oh. Be a dear, then.”

Zoey changed the sign to ‘open’. Sabina didn’t sound bothered she’d missed half a day’s worth of customers.

“I was wondering why it was so peaceful,” Sabina said. “I was managing to get some work done.”

“Sorry to interrupt that,” Zoey joked.

“Mmm,” Sabina said. “I suppose it can’t be helped. I accept your apology.”

Zoey paused. Had that been dry humor, or had she taken Zoey seriously? Fe had said the woman was odd. “I, uh. Fe gave us directions to you.”

“What for?” The curt reply didn’t seem harsh by intention. Zoey was getting the feeling this wasn’t a woman whose social graces were her redeeming feature. “Business, I assume,” Sabina continued. “Get to it.”

“I like her,” Rosalie murmured.

Of course you do.

They approached, and Zoey took in the woman in greater detail.

Sabina was a willow-tall, stick-thin woman. She had several inches even on Zoey, which meant Sabina was exceptionally tall even by men’s standards. She would tower in a crowd, sticking out like a reed.

She looked a bit like a gazelle. And no, Zoey wasn’t saying that because of the antlers. Though they did tie the image together.

She had a severe facial structure: sharp cheekbones, a permanent frown, and eyes that were cold, gray, and serious. Zoey was taken apart and deconstructed in the woman’s gaze, then reassembled, having been understood for her composite parts.

To put it in a phrase, she was intimidating as hell.

And fucking hot. Zoey’d always had a thing for stern women. She looked to be in her mid twenties. Older than Zoey, but not by too much. Just enough for her to register as, ‘hot older woman’. Christ. Please, step on me, Mistress Alchemist. Can I grab anything for you?

“We’ve got some odd reagents,” Zoey said. “Fe told us you were the person to go to have them identified, and commissioned with.”

That caught Sabina’s attention. Fe’s description continued to be spot on; the woman valued novelty, and research, so ‘odd reagents’ was the same phrase as ‘early Christmas’ to her. Sabina glanced down at the boiling liquid—brown-red, with specks of black floating around—then adjusted some dials, stripped off her gloves, and walked over. “Lay them out.” She gestured at the counter at the front of the store, where it looked like payment typically took place.

Zoey did so. She’d only received two of the strange reagents—ones that were plainly unique to the shard, and possibly valuable—and she was intensely interested in each. She checked the descriptions as she set them down.

[Coruscant Flameroot, Powdered]: A fine, gritty substance useful in the preparation of potions that inflame or mute the senses.

[Blossom Blight]: Red flower petals which serve as the primary catalyst for brewing potions that inhibit or amplify the potency of life-giving seed.

“May I?” Sabina asked.

“Go for it.”

She opened the first of the bags, the flameroot, and used a thin metal tool to extract a sample of the fine powder. She held it up at eye level and inspected the reagent, turning her head side to side. A frown tugged on her lips.

“Curious,” she said, lowering the tool back to the pouch and pouring the powder back in, then deftly tying the strings back closed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. How much do you want for it?”

“Oh,” Zoey said. “It’s not for sale. We were hoping you could make something for us.”

“Perhaps,” Sabina said. “I would need to consult the Association. While I’ve never handled,” she glanced sideways at the pouch, “this ‘coruscant flameroot’, that doesn’t mean there’s no information available. But turning a rare ingredient into a functional potion is a complicated process. It varies for each alchemist. No two paths are the same. Even if others have succeeded, my own is no guarantee.”

“Or the other way around.”

“Indeed,” she said without arrogance.

No two paths are the same. Rosalie had said something like that, before, though not quite in the same context. “But you’d be willing to try?”