On a Thursday afternoon, around three o’clock, the Pickled Gargoyle is alive with scholars. I wander in as if on a whim, stepping­ toward the bar as I discreetly eye the room and the gathering of flushed faces. They’re clutching tankards of frothing, ruby rhyn, delivering opinions in drawling nasal tones, and I realize the brand of scholar I seek isn’t here yet. I signal to Pewter, the barman, and he half turns, revealing an array of drinks at his back. Honey-­gold toquay in glinting, chilled bottles, a black currant variety steeped to taste like autumn, and my drink of choice, forest-­green velvane, smoky and silky smooth, with a lingering taste of toffees.

Pewter raises an eyebrow, grabbing an octagonal glass, and pours two fingers of velvane before sliding it my way. “Not your usual haunt at this hour, Sophia.”

I pick up the glass and take my first sip, the feel of warmth and silk slipping deliciously down my throat. “Just came to see my favorite barman.”

“Liar.”

I grin, sliding over a floren note, and he tops up my glass. “Yours is the best velvane in the city?”

He chuckles. “Still a lie, but I’ll take it.”

“Any wielders here today?” I ask casually, taking another sip as I survey the bar.

Pewter slings a cloth from his shoulder, wiping away a puddle of spilled rhyn. “None yet. I heard, though—”

“Yes?”

He frowns. “That Kill­marth entrance exam is soon. Wouldn’t be surprised if there’s a few hopefuls in here today. A round for courage, you know? It always happens toward the end of September.”