From the window of the abandoned mill, the woman scrutinized the shadows along the path. She thought she saw a glimmer among the trees, but it was so fleeting she couldn’t be sure. She was getting a little nervous. To make matters worse, it was cold. Not a single pane of glass was intact, all the windows were bare, and the wooden roof barely held up, half-collapsed. The wind came in wherever it wanted, and that night it seemed particularly playful.

She had been very clear about it, she thought. The third hour past midnight, at the old mill. It was already the third hour. She was at the old mill. And no one had arrived yet. She turned and began pacing in circles, hands behind her back.

“No matter how many circles you make, they’re not going to arrive any sooner,” commented a sleepy voice from the back of the room.

She stopped her aimless pacing and fixed her gaze on the girl who had just spoken, with a certain disdain.

“How can you sit there doing nothing? Aren’t you even a little nervous?”

“I’m more sleepy than anything else, honestly. Maybe something happened to them, but I’m sure they’ll come,” the young girl replied, yawning and leaning against the wall lazily.

“They better, or I’ll find them and send them such a curse they’ll wish they’d never been born,” the woman growled, exhaling puffs of breath and kicking an old bucket that hadn’t moved from its spot for years.

She turned, trying to hide her grimace of agony from her sister. The bucket was full of rainwater, and although the kick splashed some of its contents onto the floor, it hadn’t budged an inch. In contrast, her big toe was throbbing with pain.

She thought she heard noises outside and limped cautiously to the window. Crouching in the shadows, she remained for a while examining the path leading into the forest. A minute passed. Nothing. Another minute passed, which felt like an eternity. Finally.

She immediately recognized the silhouettes outlined against the muddy ground. They were the three men she had hired a few days ago to get the amulet, unmistakably. The one in the lead was tall and thin. And somewhat lanky. Behind him, a shorter but three times wider figure seemed to support the third man, who was limping with difficulty. The three were dressed similarly: dark clothes to blend in with the shadows, vests with numerous pockets for their tools, and high riding boots.

“Zari, they’re here. Hide and be ready in case I need your help,” she said to the girl in a low voice.

There was no response. The girl had fallen asleep on the stairs, leaning against the wall, mouth open. A thin line of drool began to trickle from the corner of her mouth.

“Damn it. Shh. Hey. Zari. Ssshhh… Zarinia!” she whispered loudly, making frantic hand gestures as if the girl could see them.

There was a loud knock on the mill door downstairs. A moment later, a strong push opened it with a great creak. It wasn’t blocked or anything like that. The door was simply too old, and the lintel wasn’t keen on facilitating entry either.

Zari jumped up, startled. She glanced at her sister for a moment, then ran towards the dilapidated attic. Meanwhile, the woman sat on the windowsill, adopting a mysterious pose backlit by the window. “Appearances matter,” she thought.

Another minute passed. This time it felt like two eternities. “Why aren’t they coming up already?” she wondered. She began drumming her fingers nervously on her knee. “To hell with it.”

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“I’m up here!”

Moments later, a tall figure appeared on the stairs, carrying a small oil lantern. Without a doubt, it was the man she had hired. Tall, dark-haired, short hair, dark eyes, a well-groomed beard starting to show some gray, a slightly hooked nose, but not too much... and thin. Very thin. That’s probably where his nickname came from, she supposed.

“You’re late, Master... Toothpick,” she said to the man, slightly embarrassed to have to use such a silly nickname. But since he didn’t reveal his real name, it was all she had to go by.

“Forgive us, we had a small mishap that delayed us,” he replied, in a serious tone.

“What kind of mishap?” she asked, trying to keep her tone as formal and dignified as possible. “Something I should be concerned about?”

“Well, actually, yes,” the man replied, sounding angry. “You told us there would only be a few guards protecting the goods, and we encountered nearly a battalion.”

He strode towards her, and she suddenly realized that maybe sitting on the windowsill hadn’t been such a good idea. A simple push and she would go flying out the window. A short and direct fall to the ground, too.

“We barely got out of there alive. And one of my men is injured! Of course, now the payment won’t be the same. You’ll have to pay double if you want that damn medallion.”

Clearly, she was losing control of the conversation, something she wasn’t going to allow. Just as she was about to respond, raising her hand in a gesture to interrupt the man, a young, sweet voice came from the staircase above.

“Did one of your men really get hurt? Is he okay? Is he here?”

“And who is she?” he asked, raising his arms in disbelief.

“To hell with the element of surprise,” she thought, letting out a sigh of resignation and covering her eyes with her hand.

“Zarinia, I told you to stay upstairs,” she said very seriously.

“Oh, I see, she’s your bodyguard. A bit young, perhaps,” the man continued mockingly.

"I'm her sister! And I can help your friend..." the girl responded, quite annoyed.

“To hell with anonymity.” She brought her other hand to her face as well.

"Isn't that right, Lysa?" she continued. "I'm a sorceress and I can heal your friend. Tell him!"

Lysandra had no more hands to bring to her face.

“Well, well. So, a witch,” he said, putting his hands on his hips and looking mockingly at the girl.

“Not a witch. A sorceress. Your companion, please?”

It seemed the man’s joke ended almost as soon as it started, as he was now facing an angry young girl, arms crossed, impatiently tapping her foot on the floor.

“Uh, sure. He’s down here, come with me...”

Before he finished, Zari was already trotting down the rickety stairs. The man turned, still with his mouth open.

“... Is she really your sister?”

“Uh-huh,” Lysandra replied, defeated, now leaning carelessly against the windowsill.

“And is she really...?”

“Yes, she is. We both are,” she sighed again. “Back to our business, I’m very sorry for the misunderstanding. My sources seemed reliable. I’m willing to increase the fee, but double seems excessive.”

She studied Toothpick’s gaze. He didn’t seem very happy, although her sister’s untimely appearance had caught him a bit off guard. He regained his composure. It was time to take the initiative again.

“Besides, she’s a very good healer. She’ll have your man as good as new,” suddenly, the image of her little sister downstairs alone with two unknown and probably very angry mercenaries came to mind, “Better yet, let’s go down and check it out, shall we?”

She put her still aching but almost forgotten foot on the floor, right on the puddle left by the bucket, and slipped. Instinctively, she tried to lean on the nonexistent wall behind her. Sitting on the windowsill was definitely one of the worst decisions of the night, she thought. As she thought about how her head would sound hitting the ground from that height, she found herself half hanging out of the window. The man grabbed her hand and, with a pull, brought her back inside. They were face to face, very close.

“Maybe we can negotiate the price if you have other things to offer,” he said, narrowing his eyes and bringing his lips closer to hers.