Sarin fished for the heavy iron key that had sunk into the depths of her apron pockets. At least that's where it should have been. Damron kept a spare in the register drawer, but if she used that one again she’d never hear the end of it from Yinric. Luckily last time it was found the next morning in the inventory ledger.

She’d never been great at keeping track of her things, but the Amber Antiques was a maze of rabbit holes and customers who liked to ramble on as she was trying to sort through the inventory of cooking tomes; never able to find the one they were looking for even though they couldn’t recall the title nor the author. Then they would pick up something-a-ma-bob and she’d have to find it in the inventory log; a mirror that shows a younger reflection, a ball that bounces back, a wet specimen of intestinal worms harvested from a goat. Ad nauseam. It was impossible to keep a clear train of thought in an environment so rich with distraction.

The bottom of her pocket harbored dust. Even if the key had somehow disintegrated, she’d need to get the spare. She sighed, hiked up her skirts, and back tracked down the stairs.

Damron’s squeaky wheel indicated that he was near the front door. There was no way he wouldn’t see her rummaging around near the register. Instead of waiting for the inevitable embarrassment of being called out, she announced herself.

“Damron, are you quite sure the key you gave us doesn’t sprout legs?”

He was flipping over the open sign in the front window so that it read “closed” to the street. He barked a laugh. “Any trinket is in danger of sproutin’ legs if you’re around. I found yesterday’s tea cups underneath a set of spice encyclopedias as soon as you headed up!”

She exhaled deeply. “I promise I’m not always this scatter-brained.” She lifted the latch on the counter to step behind it. The register had already been counted, emptied, and locked for the day. Damron rolled up next to her. He took a large key ring out from one of the bags that hung along his arm rests. There were keys of every shape and size. Most were old and tarnished. He used a small golden one to pop open the register drawer.

“It’s probably hiding inside the inventory ledger. That's where my wife always misplaced it while she was pregnant with our daughter.” He chuckled awkwardly as if he’d said more than he’d meant to. “We’ll find it in the morning.” He handed her the spare. Sarin took it and held it tightly to her chest, afraid to lose it otherwise.

“I didn’t know you had a daughter,” she said carefully.

“She doesn’t live in the city anymore. Went off with a group of friends to travel. She sends letters home about once a month.”

“That’s nice that she keeps in touch.” Sarin said. A pang of homesickness stitched her heart. Damron noticed her face fall.

“Lyra’s more than a handful. Never could control her. Despite the worrying, it was better to let her go. She always comes back eventually.” He shut and relocked the register drawer. “Are either of you expecting mail? I can ask the postman to leave it with mine.”

Sarin could still see her father’s cherry red face, smell her mother’s disappointment drowning in a bottle of wine, and hear Yinric’s father slap him. “No, I’m afraid not.”

“I’m not gonna pry into your business,” Damron tucked the ring of keys back into its designated bag, “but if you want to talk about it I’m all ears.” He sounded more like a father than hers ever had. 

“There’s not much to talk about.” She bit into her bottom lip to keep it from trembling.

“Being on your own isn't easy. Granted you’ve got your husband, but it’s still hard.” He reached up to pat her shoulder. The touch was fleeting and acted as a sharp reminder of how desperately she wanted to be held, to break down like a child. She fanned the threat of tears from her face. 

Did she have a husband? That's what she told people. Neither her nor Yinric wore rings. They hadn’t talked about it. 

Figuring out finances consumed all of her focus the first two weeks. Yinric wasn’t good with money and didn’t know what a budget was; whereas She’d grown up around inventory logs, investment details, and salesmen. She negotiated their lease, her position working in the shop, and rental payment arrangements. 

Yinric worked nights at… somewhere, doing… something bard-like. When trying to place details she came up empty. He brought home enough money that she hadn’t questioned it. 

She needed answers from Yinric before she could even consider venting to Damron.

“Maybe tomorrow. I have to get Yinric up and start the fire.” Her voice wobbled, unstable, similarly to the rest of her situation.

Damron cleared his throat. “Alright, don’t lose that spare key now or Yinric will be trapped up there.” He didn’t say this like a joke. A laugh bubbled out of Sarin at the absurdity.

“Understood.” The key mirrored her body heat.

“I’ll be having a few old friends over again tonight. They’re a quiet bunch, but Yinric might bump into them on his way back from work. They like to smoke around the water pump out back.” 

“I’ll let him know before he heads out.” They nodded to each other, a habit of farewell she had quickly parroted off of him. The gesture made her feel streetwise.

“Have a good night, I’ll see ya’ in the morning.” He parted the curtained doorway behind the counter and rolled into the back of the shop.

“Have a good night.” Sarin said, peeking around the curtain as he passed through it. The back door had a plethora of deadbolts. A ramp led down into Damron’s personal quarters.

The various clocks chimed in unison throughout the shop to sound the seventh hour. Everytime Sarin was sure she had located all of them a new layer of chimes would emerge. They didn’t regularly buy or sell many time pieces, and they didn’t all consistently go off everyday. There would be stretches of days where one wouldn’t tick at all. She reported them to Damron, fearing they needed repairs or maintenance, but he’d told her not to touch them. Time was especially finicky, apparently. She wasn’t sure what he’d meant and was too afraid to ask.

The oil painting on the far wall followed her with its eyes. It was of a bandit scaling a wall at night, the only witness being a frightened alley cat. Both sets of eyes watched her frozen behind the counter, waiting for the chorus of alarms to pass.

After what felt like an eternity the chimes faded away. Left in their wake was a stark fresh silence. No, it wasn’t silent. Hushed indistinct voices pricked her ears. The hairs on her arms stood on end. Slow shuffling footsteps approached from… somewhere. Their direction was difficult to discern.

“Hello?” She asked the empty shop. The sounds stopped all at once. The floor boards behind her creaked. The hairs on her neck stood on end. She gripped the key like a dagger and sprinted back through the shop and up the stairs. The key shook in her hand until finally the door to the apartment unlocked with a loud clack.

She closed the door hurriedly behind herself and leaned into it to catch her breath. Warm evening light threw amber rays across the room. The smell of day-old bread and hard cheese were a welcome contrast to that of the day's dusted parchments.

Yinric was sitting at the end of the bed, his eyes barely open. He wasn’t asleep, but he wasn’t awake yet either. His bruise-black hair was pressed flat on one side and static straight on the other. 

“Were you pursued?” He asked with a dumb smirk. She blew a loose curl of hair from her face.

“Stuff it,” she huffed. It would get cold as soon as the sun set if she didn’t start a fire straight away. Gods knew Yinric wouldn’t do it before he left for the night. He watched her kneel to feed split logs to the oven.

“Rough day?”

“Yes,” she answered curtly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asked. Reluctance oozing from the words.

“I did not lose the key. It was stolen.” She stuffed tinder between the logs and struck a match to set them a light. “By ghosts.”

“You should be a medium with all your talk of ghosts.”

“And you should be a-um-Oh I don’t know! An insult!”

He quickly brought his hand to his chest and flung backwards onto the bed as if struck by an arrow. A mortal blow. Sarin cursed herself for giggling.

“I’m getting on well with Damron.”

“Despite the horns?” He asked, stretching out across the bed.

“I’ve started to forget they’re there even when he has his hat off.” She sat next to him on the bed. He abruptly stood to dress.

“That’s nice,” he yawned. He pulled his overshirt on and adjusted the cuffs.

“I’d like to be more earnest with him.”

“Alright?” His pants were high waisted. He fastened the row of buttons quickly with nimble fingers.

“We told him that we’re married.” Her heart was beating in her throat.

“We did. Do you want to tell him the truth? He might not be so agreeable if-”

“-If not married, I want to know what we are.” The back of her eyes stung. She twisted the bet sheets in her fingers. The air was still.

“Sarin, I need to get going. Can we talk about this when I get back?” He checked the contents of his lute case, quickening his pace.

“Every night I’m afraid you won’t come back. That you’ll leave me here. I don’t even know which pub you play at.” Hot salty tears blurred her vision.

“Sarin, please, I will be back. If I were planning to leave I would have done so already.” He checked through the pockets of his case. His hands were shaking.

“Have you… you haven’t.” She covered her mouth with her hand. She didn’t know if she had the right to ask, but did know that the ambiguity would eat away at her if she didn’t. He looked at her with a mixture of fear and concern.

“Are you feeling alright?” His question felt bizarre. Out of place. A weak attempt at diversion.

“Are you spending your nights with other women?” Her body trembled with wracked nerves. Bitter bile hovered in the back of her throat. Yinric looked pained. He choked down the expression.

“No.” His answer was firm.

“No?” She asked, surprised. Her relief was belated by his sour demeanor.

“I’ve not slept with any man, woman, or mischievous devil since moving in with you.” He slammed the lid of his lute case shut. Sarin flinched.

“And that upsets you.”

“I do not enjoy being hysterically interrogated!” He struggled to keep his volume level.

“Hysterical? I’m hysterical for wanting to know the nature of our relationship?” Sarin sobbed.

“There is nothing natural about our relationship.” He took the spare key from the table. She didn’t remember setting it there. “I have to go.” The door slammed shut behind him, rattling the window pane.