“My dream of power,” he said.

“Ours,” his companion said. “You broke it.”

“It broke it.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, “but—”

“It keeps speaking.”

“I’m looking for—”

“Astonishing.”

“Did we drink the dream already? Did I dream that the vial I purchased for one hundred gold god-crowns broke at my very feet?”

“No, fool,” said the man in crimson. “Why would a dream of power be about an upstart Middling girl? It is not even a pretty one. Look at that nasty burn.”

“Perhaps we are to make it do what we want. Perhaps that is the dream.”

I thought about how easily Sid would turn this situation into what she wanted it to be. “This is your dream,” I said. “The most powerful people are benevolent. I need your help finding someone. If you are truly powerful, you will help me.”

“It is lying, brother,” said the man in crimson. “But it is funny. Help it? Hilarious!”

“Pick this up.” The man with black braids tapped his jeweled sandal near the broken glass.

As I knelt to gather the shards, I began to describe Sid.

“Shut up. So chattery,” said the black-haired man. “Buzz buzz, maggoty fly. And stupid. I told you: pick this up!”

“I am picking it up,” I said evenly. “Sid is a traveler, a friend of mine—”

He dissolved into laughter. “Absurd! Unbelievable!”

“She likes to go to High-Kith parties—”

“I told you to pick this up. This shard. The biggest one.”

I let the small shards in my hand tinkle to the ground, and reached to collect the longest one, by his foot.

“Yes. That one. It is truly brainless, is it not, brother, even for a Middling? Now, fly. Cut yourself.”

I froze, the shard in my hand. “What?”

“Cut yourself, I said. Your finger, your hand, I do not care. This is my dream. You will do as I say.”

“I don’t—”

“I want to taste it.”

“Brother.” The crimson man rolled his eyes. “You know that Middling blood is useless.”

The other wagged his finger. “We do not know. This is a dream. The rules might be different. Three drops, little fly. Right on my tongue. And then”—his chin lifted proudly—“I will help you.”

Hope lifted into my throat. Three drops of blood was an easy price to pay. If this had been a tithe, it would have been one of the gentlest, the kind taken from children. The man stood, head tilted back, mouth wide-open.

“I wish you could see yourself, brother.” The crimson man giggled.

I pricked my finger. Blood welled. I squeezed three quivering drops into the High-Kith’s mouth. He swallowed.

I said, “Now will you tell me where I can find her?”

“No!” He bent over with laughter. “Of course not! Stupid fly! Did you see, brother, how I tricked it? Help it! Oh, I want another dream. Give me another. You have all the vials. Quickly, quickly.”

Shaking his head in amusement, the crimson man reached into his pockets, then frowned.

He removed his hands. He patted his clothes. “Brother…”

But his brother was not paying attention. He had straightened, laughter dying on his lips. He was staring at nothing that I could see, his face locked into a rigid expression.

“A thief!” The crimson man whirled around, pivoting to find who had emptied his pockets.

We saw a small shadow dart through the crowd and down an alleyway.

“Thief!” The High-Kith man shouted more loudly this time. “Catch him!” he cried, and ran toward where the boy had vanished.

His brother remained where he was—oblivious, it seemed, to anything around him.

I had been twice tricked. Once by him, and once by the boy, who had sent me on a fool’s errand to use me as a distraction.

I sighed, lifting my eyes to the sky, which was when I noticed that it had grayed with light from the coming morning.

My stomach jolted. I had to get back. Soon, everyone in the tavern would be awake.

I rushed toward the wall, weaving through the diminishing crowd. The night buyers, weary, were heading home, too. I cast a glance over my shoulder. Behind me, the High-Kith man stood, stock-still, where I had left him. He disappeared behind me as I raced toward the gate.

Then invisible fingers tugged at the elbow of my coat. I yelped.

“Shh,” said the boy, who pulled me into the alley where he had been hiding.

“You,” I said.

“Don’t be mad. You were great. Here, take one.” He opened his hands. Eight vials rested on his palms.

“I don’t want one.” I had enough trouble telling what was real. “I don’t need dreams.”

“Boring! Go on.”

“You probably kept the best one for yourself.”

“You are a smart fly,” he said cheerfully.

I looked at the labels on the vials. Dream of demons. Dream of saviors. Dream of purple donkeys. Dream of kisses … I stopped reading. I did not want kisses. I already knew what they were like.

The vials rocked gently on the boy’s palms.

Dream of now, said one label, and I paused, then saw that the writing was scribbled. I had misread it.

Dream of new.

“That one.” Why had I risked going beyond the wall, if not in search of some kind of beginning?

He handed it to me. “See, I was right,” he said. “About those High men, how they like bad even better than good.”

I wasn’t thinking anymore about the vial in my hand. I was remembering how the man had frozen, staring. “My blood did something to him.”

The boy shrugged, stowing the other vials into his pockets. “Nah. Those two were foxed.”

“Foxed?”

“Drunk. Drugged. Or both. They definitely drank or ate something weird long before they began roaming the night market. The High Kith have got all sorts of stuff to addle their brains.”

“Magic,” I said.

“Hallucinations,” he corrected. “Clever tricks to make the High Kith spend more money. The things people call ‘magic’ don’t last. A flower that sings as it opens its petals? Withered and dead within a day. A tiny key that melts on your tongue and makes you the smartest person in the room? You’re back to your old self after a few hours, with a headache to boot.”