The next day is a quiet one. My dad disappears to work early in the morning, promising that he'll discuss his idea for the project with Simon and Tara, and then I'm alone. I don't quite know what to do with myself.

I spend the morning working on learning the language of Amara's people. I quite enjoy the challenge of deciphering each symbol and phrase, and the satisfaction as it begins to make sense. The words I speak aloud to myself have a strange flavour to them. My accent is probably hopelessly far from what it's meant to be, but the language sounds smooth, flowing. More vowel sounds, softer consonants. I find myself wishing I'd studied more linguistics, or even practiced Sirgalese this term, just so I'd have something else to compare it with.

Once I'm sure I understand everything, I turn to memorisation. Testing myself over and over, correcting all my mistakes and gradually making fewer of them. After half a dozen repetitions, I realise I'm hungry. And no wonder: it's forty-two after noon, six hours since I last ate.

I make myself a sandwich filled with whatever I can find in the cupboards (my dad says it's fine; we have enough food to last until the weekend and then we can go grocery shopping together). It's not particularly appetising, but it stops my stomach grumbling long enough for me to get back to work.

Maybe half an hour later, I decide I'm done. Word-perfect twice in a row. I'm still a little scared that it won't stay engrained in my memory forever and I won't have any written record to fill in the gaps. But I get the sense Amara, or whoever wrote this scroll, took a risk just by writing it down. The least I can do is follow their instructions for what to do with it next.

I turn the scroll over in my hands, still reluctant to summon the spark of magical fire I need. It's not the vocabulary that catches my eye, though, but the instruction just above it. Find the scarf-seller in Crelt's market when you're ready for a second.

I imagine Edward seeing those words. I know exactly how he would react. Don't even think about going, Tallulah. You don't know who these people are or what they want from you.

That's what he would have said before I first visited Amara, as well, if I'd told him then. But that was different; that was for Elsie. I got what I needed to help her, and I'll keep to the promises I made in return, but I'm not obliged to do anything more.

But Amara knew something about me as well. About the anomaly. And even if her price was too high… maybe there are other bargains to be made. Just to know whether the strange magic lurking within me can be trusted. What it's capable of, what it makes me capable of.

It's a dangerous game, I know. If I anger these people, or if I let their secrets slip to the wrong person, I could lose everything.

But maybe that risk is better than the risk the anomaly poses while I don't understand it.

And besides: if these people are going to take an interest in me whatever I do, it's better that I'm on good terms with them and understand them better than I do now.

I whisper an incantation and touch the tiny flame at my fingertip to the corner of the scroll. Watching it curl up and char is strangely satisfying. I'm reminded suddenly of Ruby's notebook, that day I Fell. That fire was satisfying, too.

For once, though, the memory doesn't fill me with horror. Because I know I'm not the same person I was back then. Because I'm the one in control of my own decisions now.

And I've decided I have a scarf to buy.

I sweep up the ashes, check that the house is tidy, and carefully triple-check that the door is locked behind me. Then I wander into the centre of the city, where the market is. It's a little further from the apartment than the offices of Roberts and Bryant, and the route is different enough that I have no need to worry about running into my dad.

The market is busy, and even from its edge I can hear the noises of traders advertising their goods, a folk band playing a fast-paced song, and just a crowd of people having a hundred different conversations. Normally I like to venture into crowds like this with a clear purpose and destination in mind, but this is different.

I don't know where to find the seller of scarves, and even if I did it might catch the wrong sort of attention to head directly for it. I should pretend that I'm just wandering, looking at whatever happens to catch my interest.

I end up buying a pack of slightly overpriced fudge and letting a cube dissolve in my mouth as I continue to explore. There's a second-hand book stall that I spend a few minutes browsing, though I don't find anything I'm that tempted by. Some wooden jewellery that I spend a few seconds studying, deciding whether I like the look of it before deciding it's not that worthwhile.

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I'm enjoying myself, to my surprise. How long has it been since I've just wandered through the market stalls without purpose, explored without a goal in mind?

But then there it is: nestled in between children's toys and chocolate, a little stall with scarves neatly laid out. I stroll casually up to it, not trying to draw any attention. I'm just another customer, running my hands across the scarves, lifting one, trying to get a feel for the different fabrics.

I've never really liked wearing scarves, and now I can cast warming-spells I don't need one that much, but these do seem beautifully made. I'm just admiring a set of silver tassels when I realise I'm being watched. I recognise the boy standing behind the stall; he's the same one who gave me the scroll yesterday.

"My dad's just in the back," he says, gesturing towards the tiny cabin that sits behind the stall. "Go on through."

I narrow my eyes and wonder, not for the first time, if I'm making a mistake by coming here without telling anyone, taking no precautions whatsoever. But who would I tell about something like this, anyway? "Thanks," I say, following his lead and acting as if this is a normal, planned encounter. I ignore my growing apprehension and step round the table on which the scarves are laid out.

The area between that and the cabin is small and filled with boxes and packages, so I have to watch my step as I pick my way through, but I make it to the cabin door without tripping and knock sharply without giving myself the time to hesitate.

It's only a second before the door swings open. The man on the other side is older than I expected; he can't be a day younger than sixty, despite the fact his son appears younger than I am, and he leans on a light-coloured wooden cane. His gaze is cold, appraising. "Come inside, then," he says. Something in his voice reminds me of Amara: the vowels are longer than is usual, the words taking on a melodic quality. Is this the accent with which their language is meant to be spoken?

I enter the cabin. It's no bigger than it appeared; it contains only two threadbare armchairs, a shelf filled with notebooks and papers and a padlocked suitcase, and even that makes the space seem crowded.

"Sit down," the man says, obeying his own order by collapsing into the nearer of the two armchairs. I step around it and gingerly lower myself into the other chair. Despite its ancient appearance, it has no difficulty holding my (admittedly small) weight.

"I'm Omar. And you're Tallulah."

"Yes," I say, although it's not a question. "It's… nice to meet you?"

"Is it, now?"

That is a question, but not one with any good answers, so I hold my silence.

He sighs. "I'll be honest with you, girl. Amara asked me to teach you a little of my people's language and history while you're here, and I intend to do that. But I think she's wrong to ask it."

I blink. "…can I ask why?"

"I suppose she told you that you were one of us? That our language and our traditions and rituals belong to you as well? She's wrong. You've got the skin colour, sure, but it's so much more than that. You're not one of us unless you were raised that way."

Ah. Of course Amara's people would be divided on things like this, at least internally. I realise that I must have caused quite the controversy amongst them, between whatever the anomaly means I could someday become and my begging for help on behalf of my oracle friend. It's not a pleasant feeling. I almost miss the days when my problems were mine and not the rest of the world's.

But how am I supposed to respond to something like this? "I – I won't betray your people's secrets, if that's what you're worried about."

"Not intentionally, I'm sure. But when you keep the company you do, when you have the attention of the people you do, even interacting with you is a terrible risk."

And one he doesn't think is worthwhile.

Amara disagreed, though, and I don't think it was out of naivety. She must think the long-term benefits of my having this knowledge and being favourably disposed towards her people will be worth it. Which implies that some combination of the anomaly and my Blackthorn connections is going to be worth an awful lot in the future.

Stars.

"Is there – anything I can do?" I ask. "To make it easier, or safer?"

He pauses for a moment. "Assuming you're not keeping written records, and you're not visiting when people will miss you, and you're careful not to be followed… short of walking out of here and not coming back, no."

Maybe he'd like it if I walked out of here and didn't come back. Or maybe he'd end up in trouble because of it.

I search around for something to say and fail to find anything that doesn't sound either rude or overly self-deprecating.

"Well, then. I suppose we ought to start by seeing if you've really understood that vocabulary."

And he proceeds to test me, throwing words in both Rasina and the language of shadow-people at me to translate. My pronunciation is a little off at first, but I remind myself that I've never heard these words spoken aloud by anyone other than myself and I can't be expected to have it perfect first time.

I'm not sure if he's taking that into account. He'll be a hard teacher to impress, I think, given that he's so blatantly biased against me. A few months ago that thought might have terrified me, but now I find that I don't care all that much what he thinks of my language abilities. I'm not sure if that's because I've overcome my problems or just because I have bigger ones now.

But after a few minutes with only the occasional error on my part, he nods grudgingly. "So you can learn vocabulary, I suppose. I hope you don't think that's all there is to a language."

"Of course not," I reply obligingly, hiding my dismay at the thought of verb conjugations. I'm reminded, for a reason I can't quite place, of Electra.

I thought Sirgalese grammar was nasty, but this makes it look about as friendly as grammar comes. Tenses are all indicated by modifying the end – or sometimes the beginning – of the verb, giving dozens of prefixes and suffices to memorise, not helped by the intricate rules for how they change when the verb starts with a vowel. There are even more pronouns than in Rasina; I'm informed that the additional ones don't translate well because Rasina is a closed-minded binary language, whatever that's supposed to mean.

Thankfully, I'm released from my suffering without having to prove I've memorised all the endings and their precise uses, even if there is an ominous reminder about our next lesson. I flee the cabin as soon as I'm dismissed, relieved.

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