Charming Sharra, page 2
“I earned it,” he said, setting the brush down again without looking at her. “I think this is done.” He carefully picked up the drawer and set it to one side.
“But…I had no idea you had so much!”
“Of course not,” he said. “If you knew, you’d have spent it. You’d have bought me fancy clothes, and expensive dinners, and you’d have taken us to concerts and dances and I don’t know what all. You’d probably have rebuilt the house, and I’d have had to live through that with you. So I hid it from you. I’ve been hiding it for years. I learned to do that by the time we’d been married a year.”
She held out the purse. “But you just gave it to me!”
“Yes, and now you can go spend it on all the fancy clothes and food and jewelry and shows you want, but I won’t have to go along. Now, go away—go spend your money.”
“But what will you live on?”
He looked at her, then waved a hand at his surroundings. “I have all I need, Sharra, including plenty of eager customers, one of whom is due any minute now to go over some drawings for her new wardrobe. You’re the one who has no income, which is why I gave you that. Between the house and what you have there, even with your expensive tastes, with a little care you should be fine for at least a few years, and by then I expect you’ll either have a new husband or will have found some sort of work. I don’t need it.”
Just then the bell chimed behind her; Sharra turned to see a plain-looking thirtyish woman stepping into the shop. She wore a simple yellow tunic trimmed with red embroidery, and a green wool skirt. “Am I interrupting?” she asked.
“Not at all!” Dulzan said, rising from his stool. “Come in! I have the sketches ready.”
The newcomer cast an uncertain glance at Sharra.
“Oh, let me introduce you,” Dulzan said. “Filana, this is my former wife, Sharra the Petty. Sharra, this is Filana of Shadyside.”
Sharra winced. “He’s just joking,” she said. “I’m called Sharra the Charming.”
“It’s not a joke,” Dulzan said. “It’s what everyone calls you, Sharra. Nobody else thinks you’re charming; I haven’t heard anyone else refer to you that way in a dozen years.”
“Maybe I should come back…” Filana began, looking uneasily from one to the other.
“No, I’m going,” Sharra said. “You go ahead with your business.” She turned and strode out of the shop, the feathers on her hat brushing against the door as she went. She clutched the leather pouch in both hands as she marched up Carpenter Street, struggling not to let any tears flow down her flushed cheeks.
How could Dulzan do that to her? Calling her that horrible name in front of one of his customers, calling her his former wife when they were still technically married, treating her so coldly…
He wasn’t coming back to her, she realized. He really wasn’t. It wasn’t just a matter of time. He wouldn’t reconsider. He really, truly did not want her anymore.
She picked up her pace, hurrying away from the shop, until she reached the corner, where she abruptly stopped.
She needed to talk to somebody, someone she could explain everything to. She could not think of anyone among her friends and neighbors back in Brightside who she could talk to about something like this; she had spent the last three days pretending nothing was wrong, smiling when she saw them in the street, waving as if everything was fine, stopping in for tea, chatting about the weather and the latest scandal at the Palace and the newest hats for sale in the Merchants’ Quarter, and whether warlocks were a danger to everyone or just another kind of magician.
She didn’t have the sort of close friends she could talk to about this; she needed family, she decided. She turned around and headed back down Carpenter Street, past Dulzan’s shop, where she resolutely did not look in the windows, to Weaver Street, where she turned east.
She hesitated when she reached the door of her parents’ shop. She had not visited since last Festival, five months ago. The sign over the door was freshly painted – runes spelled out KIRSHA THE WEAVER, FINE FABRICS, over the outline of a loom. It was much like a dozen others on the street; her parents had always relied on word of mouth to attract business, not on fancy signs.
She decided that knocking would be silly; she was family, after all. She opened the door and stepped in.
Her mother was sitting behind the counter, reading a book; she looked up at the sound of the door, and almost dropped the book as her mouth fell open in surprise. “Sharra!” she exclaimed.
“Hello, Mama,” Sharra said.
“What’s wrong?” Kirsha asked, getting to her feet and setting the book aside.
“What makes you think anything’s wrong?” Sharra asked, irritated.
“Your face! You look miserable. Besides, except for Festival you never come here unless something’s wrong.”
“My face? Is it really that obvious?”
“To me it is – I’m your mother! Now, what’s wrong?”
“You haven’t heard?” She knew no one in Brightside would have heard anything, but she had thought word would get around in Crafton; Dulzan had no reason to keep the news quiet.
“Oh. The rumors are true? Dulzan left you? You didn’t throw him out?”
“No, I didn’t throw him out!” she wailed. “I love him!”
Kirsha dashed out from behind the counter to wrap her daughter in a reassuring hug. “I’m sorry, sweetling. I heard stories, but I didn’t know what to believe – you know how nasty some of the neighbors can be. Everyone said Dulzan was sleeping in his shop, but I didn’t know how serious it was; I thought it might have been a little spat that the gossips blew up into a big fight. I thought about coming to see you, but you know I always feel out of place in Brightside.”
“I know, Mama. That’s all right.” She pulled out of the suffocating embrace.
Kirsha grabbed Sharra’s hand and dragged her through the curtain to the back room. “Sit down, sit down,” she said. “Tell me about it. What happened? Why did he go? What did you fight about?”
Sharra settled onto an ancient chair, while her mother perched on a stool facing her. “There wasn’t any fight,” she said. “Three days ago I came home from the market and he was packing a bag, and then he just left. He said he would send me money and sleep in his shop and he never wanted to see me again. He said he’d reported it to the magistrate, and in a year and a day our marriage would be over.”
“He just left? He must have said why!”
“He said he was tired of quarreling.”
“Oh. Did you quarrel a lot?”
Sharra hesitated. “I didn’t think so,” she said. “I mean, we didn’t always agree on everything, but I don’t remember any fighting.”
“I never heard you quarreling, exactly,” Kirsha agreed. “But I didn’t see you that often after you moved up to Brightside.”
Sharra decided she did not want to talk about that. “Where’s Papa?” she asked.
“He went up to Grandgate to buy more wool; the stockroom is almost empty.”
“Is business good?”
“Oh, well,” Kirsha said, turning up an empty palm. “We do all right. It would be easier with more hands; Kelder and I aren’t as young as we used to be.”
“You don’t have any apprentices?”
“Not at the moment, no.” She sighed. “To be honest, Sharra, I don’t think anyone wants to apprentice their kids to us anymore.”
“What about Dallisa’s kids?”
Kirsha cocked her head at her daughter. “Sharra, three of our grandchildren did apprentice with us, Dallisa’s Arris and Lador, and Nerra’s Thetheran – you must have known that. But they’re all journeymen now! Arris will probably be a master in her own right soon. And they’ve all gone off to work elsewhere, though I’m hoping Arris will come back.” She looked accusingly at her youngest daughter. “You didn’t have any children to help out!”
“I didn’t… Dulzan…” Sharra stopped, unsure what to say. Dulzan had wanted children, but she hadn’t. She hadn’t wanted to have her life turned upside-down by a baby.
“Oh, don’t worry about it,” her mother said, waving a hand in dismissal. “It didn’t happen.” Then her expression changed. “Is that why Dulzan left? To find a younger wife who will bear him children?”
“I don’t know,” Sharra admitted. “It might be. He says there isn’t another woman, but I don’t know.”
“If you’d had children, maybe you wouldn’t have nagged him so much.”
“I didn’t…!” Then she stopped. Maybe she had nagged Dulzan a little. He had said she never shut up, and most of what she had talked to him about was ways he could do better. She hadn’t thought of it as nagging, but…
“You nagged him, Sharra,” Kirsha said gently. “Maybe you didn’t quarrel, but you nagged. When we saw you at Festival you were always nagging him to do more, to drink less, to talk to more important people. Even when you were young, before you were even married, you were always picking at him, telling him what to do. To be honest, I thought he liked it, he put up with so much. I thought he must just want to hear your voice, and never cared what you were saying. I never saw him argue with you – did you save your fights until you got home?”
“We never had any fights!”
Kirsha’s disbelief was plain on her face. “The way you bossed him around?”
“We didn’t! I swear! When he got mad at me he would just go down to his shop and work until his temper improved. He never even shouted at me.”
“In twenty years of marriage he never yelled at you? Never…never hit you?”
“No! We loved each other!” She paused. “Or I thought we did.” She remembered just how often he had gone to his shop to let his temper cool.
“By the gods, Sharra! No wonder he left.”
“What?” Sharra stared at her mother, seriously confused.
“The way you treated him? And he never fought back? Of course he’s gone!”
“But… No, it wasn’t like that! He didn’t… I didn’t…”
“Did you treat him at home the same way you treated him in public?”
“I…sometimes…”
Kirsha shook her head. “Sharra, if you treat a man like that, sooner or later he won’t take any more. You’re lucky Dulzan just left peacefully, and didn’t beat you first. If he ever had lost his temper – well, if he’d done it a long time ago maybe you could have worked things out, but after twenty years…”
“He should have told me if it bothered him! He never said anything!”
Kirsha opened her mouth to say something, then thought better of it. She sighed.
“If he was so unhappy, why didn’t he tell me?” Sharra demanded.
“Are you sure he didn’t? Did you ever listen?”
“Of course I listened!” Sharra said, jumping to her feet. “Why are you on his side?”
“I’m just…”
“Mama, I’m not a child! I know what’s going on; he just doesn’t want me anymore because I’m getting old.”
“I don’t think…” Kirsha began.
Sharra did not wait to hear what her mother didn’t think. “We’ll just see about that!” she said, charging out the door.
She marched along Weaver Street, then turned onto Carpenter and headed north. She could see three or four people in Dulzan’s shop, so she did not stop in; she kept going, the heavy purse in her hand.
He had never complained about her nagging. He had never argued with her. When she had said they should do something, he had always gone along. Oh, when they were young and foolish, sometimes he would say he didn’t want to go to parties and receptions and concerts, but he had always given in eventually. He had not really protested in years. He had always gone, even if he did not seem to enjoy them. That wasn’t it, she was sure that wasn’t it.
No, it was because she was no longer the young beauty he had been smitten with – but with all that gold, she could be that girl again. If cosmetics and fine clothes weren’t enough, she could buy a youth spell.
Or she could use a love spell, or some other magic. She would make him come back somehow, she told herself as she strode home. No matter what it took, she would get him back. Everything would be the way it was before!
Chapter Three
The witch in Eastside called herself Mother Maffi, but Sharra doubted it was her real name. Didn’t true names have magical power? Whatever her real name, she had a little shop on Smallgate Street, between Blue Road and Halfway Street, that smelled of flowers and ginger. The signboard over the front door said simply “Witch” – apparently, like Sharra’s parents, she relied on word of mouth, not any sort of advertising. Sharra had found her long ago through a referral from an old friend, Desset of Carder Street.
It occurred to Sharra as she marched up Smallgate Street that she had not heard from Desset for quite some time – years, in fact. She wondered why, then realized that the last time she had seen Desset, Desset had been seven months pregnant, and Sharra had been…well, not kind about her appearance and probable future.
But surely Desset wouldn’t have let that end their friendship! Perhaps, once she had Dulzan back, and things were back the way they had been, she would find Desset and see how she was doing. She was probably still living on Southeast Street.
Mother Maffi looked up from her knitting as Sharra stepped into the shop. “Oh, hello,” the witch said, lowering the needles. “I didn’t expect you for another sixnight.”
“This is something different,” Sharra said. “I think I need a love spell.” She did not think witches did youth spells, and a love spell might be even better.
The witch cocked her head and set her knitting to one side, on the shelf in front of her little shrine to Bellab. “I thought you were married,” she said.
“I was,” Sharra said. “I am. But my husband…” She took a deep breath. “He left me. I want him back. I want everything back the way it was. I need a love spell.”
Maffi frowned. “I don’t do love spells,” she replied. “No respectable witch does. They’re dangerous and unreliable, when they work at all.”
“But I thought – “
”No love spells,” Maffi said, in a tone that brooked no argument.
Sharra looked at her pleadingly. “You’re sure you can’t make an exception?”
“I can’t, and I won’t. Why did your man leave? Was he seeing someone else?”
“He says he wasn’t, but he’s not seeing me,” Sharra snapped.
Maffi grimaced. “Oh. Perhaps I can help somehow? Not with a love spell – to be honest, I wouldn’t even know how to attempt one. But I know some herbs that can be useful if a marriage has cooled off.”
Sharra shook her head. “That’s not what I need. So witches don’t do love spells?”
“No, we don’t.”
“Who does? Wizards? Sorcerers? Theurgists?”
“I’ve heard some wizards can.”
“Can you tell me where to find one of them?”
Maffi tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You know Wizard Street is just a block north, don’t you? There are wizards living and working on the other side of the courtyard behind this house. I’ve spoken with several of them when we’re out fetching water or doing laundry or dumping slops.”
“Does one of them do love spells? Or youth spells?”
“Youth spells?”
“Love spells or youth spells, yes.”
“Well, which do you want?”
“Why? Can you make me young again?”
Maffi smiled wryly. “Would I look like this if I could? I can do some healing and slow aging down a little, but I can’t make you young again.”
“Who can?”
“Well, I don’t know anything about love spells, but I know a youth spell is major magic, not something anyone does lightly. If it were easy, we wouldn’t have so many white-haired wizards, would we? If you want it done right, you want the most powerful wizard you can find. From what the neighbors say, the most powerful wizard right around here is Poldrian of Morningside. Go north a block on Blue Road, turn left, and his shop is two blocks up on the right.”
“You know him?”
“Only by reputation. We’ve never met. But if it doesn’t work out, he can probably recommend someone else; there are plenty of shops on Wizard Street.”
“Good. Thank you.” She turned and marched out without another word, letting the door close behind her.
Mother Maffi watched her go, then sighed and picked up her knitting again. Sharra had not offered to pay anything for her advice, of course.
She had known Sharra the Petty for twenty years, and she was fairly sure this was not going to end well, but she also knew Sharra wouldn’t listen to a warning. She cast off the yarn, and started a new row.
She wondered whether Poldrian might pay a referral fee.
* * *
Sharra had no trouble finding the wizard’s shop. His signboard did not mention his trade, but only his name – Poldrian of Morningside – but the sparkling multicolored lanterns on either side of the door, ablaze with what was obviously not any sort of natural light, made it clear the proprietor was a magician of some sort.
It was a fairly large shopfront, and beautifully finished, with polished stone and ornate shutters; the lintel above the door was carved with a pair of eyes that stared down at anyone entering. Sharra was not sure whether they actually moved as she approached, or whether that was merely an artist’s trick of some sort.
The door opened silently the instant she touched the handle, but Sharra refused to be impressed or surprised; she strode into the shop and found a spacious sitting room, far larger and more elegant than Mother Maffi’s little parlor, with a podium in one corner and a girl in her early teens sitting on a stool behind it, engrossed in something Sharra could not see. The girl wore an apprentice’s robe, but one of fine white linen trimmed with blue silk rather than the usual plain gray fabric. A blue silk ribbon held her black hair back.
“I’m here to see the wizard,” Sharra announced.
The girl looked up, and put down whatever it was she had held. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked, trying to sound grown-up but not quite managing it.
