---
The morning air kissed his skin, cold and honest. The fifth bell rolled overhead, deep and unhurried, and the city finished waking. Doors slammed open. The smell of fried onions mixed with the sharper tang of horse sweat. Apprentices in gray coats streamed toward the academy, their voices carrying like a flock of birds.
Fizz hovered beside him, still trailing sparks. "Well, that was a satisfactory amount of roasting," he said with a sniff. "But not enough. I have more fire in me. Always more. They have no idea."
"They will," John said, eyes scanning the street. He saw the Bent Penny's crooked sign swaying at the end of the lane, tongue-shaped and ridiculous. "First we get the token."
They ran, dodging carts and baskets, slipping through a gap between a washerwoman's dripping sheets that smacked John across the face like they were insulted by his haircut. He did not have time to care—until Pim saw him.
