The Prince Has Sold His Shadow

How it begins

The prince's shadow sent Sofia Marsh a refusal before the prince sent his carriage.

I AM NOT LOST, it wrote across the sunlit wall of her workshop.

She set down her needle. Shadow-mending usually involved torn hems of darkness, detached silhouettes and the occasional reflection behaving badly. None had previously submitted a written statement.

The carriage arrived at noon. Prince Emil Vale stepped out into full sun and cast nothing. His clothes looked richer without the inconvenient darkness around them. His face did not.

'I was told you recover shadows,' he said.

'I mend them. Recovery depends on what happened.'

'A temporary financial arrangement.'

'You sold it.'

He looked at the message on her wall. His mouth tightened. 'It was supposed to be reversible.'

Sofia showed him a chair away from the window. At thirty-five, she had learned that wealthy customers used temporary for anything whose consequences they intended someone else to manage. Still, the prince's hands were shaking. She offered water before asking the next question.

'Who bought it?'

'A collector. The payment funded the flood walls.'

That complicated matters. Sofia's sister lived behind those walls. A good use for the money did not make the contract kind. It did make refusing the commission less satisfying than she had expected.

Across the workshop, the shadow's words rearranged themselves.

I HAVE A JOB NOW.

Emil stood. 'What job?'

The letters stretched toward the street. Outside, a children's theater was raising its afternoon curtain. A dark figure moved across the white cloth, bowing to a small delighted audience.

Sofia watched the prince recognize the angle of his own head. Then she watched him realize the gesture no longer belonged only to him.

'The coronation is in nine days,' he said.

'Yes,' she answered. 'We should ask whether it wishes to attend.'