Liora swallowed, then nodded toward the dark brick.
"The shortcut," she said, like she was testing the word on her tongue.
Mina's grin came back—quick, approving. "That's the spirit. Stay close. And if anything asks you your name, you didn't hear it."
"That's… ominous."
"That's… accurate," Mina said, and stepped onto the dark bricks as if she'd walked them a thousand times.
The moment Liora's boot touched the street, the brick underfoot cooled, as though it had been shaded all day. A faint sheen gleamed on it like rain, but when she looked down, her soles stayed dry.
They started forward.
At first, the shortcut behaved like any other street, just narrower than the pale stone road. Buildings leaned closer. The lanternlight seemed more concentrated here, turning warmer, closer to amber than lavender. The signs were smaller too, more private, as if this lane didn't advertise itself to strangers.
Liora kept glancing at the bricks, half expecting them to shift under her feet.
They didn't.
Not immediately.
Mina walked with the steady pace of someone who had deadlines and no patience for whimsy. Her parcels bumped lightly against her side, the wax seals catching the lantern glow. Every few steps, one seal flared faintly, as if reacting to something in the air.
"What kind of courier work is that?" Liora asked, mostly to keep her mind from climbing out of her chest.
Mina glanced sideways. "You know how normal post is letters and bills and invitations?"
"Yes."
"My work is the things people don't want to hand to the wrong person. Or the things that might bite the wrong person." She adjusted the stack. "Or the things that should've been delivered years ago, but took their time."
Liora tried to picture a parcel taking its time.
Then a sudden squeal burst from above them—high and delighted. Liora jerked her head up and saw a ribbon of paper fluttering between two balconies like a streamer caught in a game. It twisted in midair, folded itself into a crude bird shape, and dove straight at her face.
Liora flinched.
Mina lifted one hand and snapped her fingers.
The paper bird froze, hovering inches from Liora's nose. It quivered, as if angry to be stopped. Tiny ink eyes blinked.
Mina leaned in and spoke to it in a low voice. Liora couldn't catch the words, but the tone had the flat confidence of someone scolding an overexcited pet.
The paper bird drooped. Then it unfolded itself, meekly, into a note that drifted into Mina's palm.
Mina read it and rolled her eyes. "Advertisements," she said, and crumpled the paper with one practiced squeeze. The crumpled ball squeaked once, offended, and then went quiet.
"Does that happen a lot?" Liora asked.
"On this street? Sure." Mina kept walking. "It's a shortcut. Shortcuts get bored. They entertain themselves."
Liora did not like the idea of a street getting bored.
They passed a shop wedged into a building so narrow it looked like it had been pressed there as an afterthought. The door was open. Inside, shelves glittered with jars of buttons, thimbles, and something that might have been teeth—too neatly arranged to be ordinary teeth.
A bell above the door rang, though neither of them had entered.
A voice called out from within, sing-song and cheerful. "New apprentice, new apprentice, what will you trade for speed?"
Liora's steps faltered.
Mina's hand shot out and caught Liora by the sleeve without looking. Her grip was firm. She kept walking.
"Don't answer," Mina muttered, still smiling politely at the air like they were merely passing a friendly neighbor. "It's fishing."
The voice from the shop followed them, coaxing. "Just a little trade. A small thing. A spare thing. A thing you don't even use…"
Liora's throat tightened. Her first instinct was to protest that she had nothing to trade. Then she remembered the Tileway and the way the sign had made her think of the ribbon from her mother, and realized how dangerous it was that the city could put memories in her mouth like bait.
She stared hard at Mina's back and said nothing.
The voice sighed theatrically. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But do come back when you need something found."
The door swung shut on its own. The bell rang again, one last bright note, then silence.
Liora exhaled shakily. "How do you know what's safe to answer?"
Mina's pace didn't change, but her eyes flicked to Liora, sharp as a pin. "If it sounds like a question that's too personal for a stranger, it is."
"That seems… like advice for life."
"Yeah," Mina said. "The city likes life-advice. It's always practicing."
They turned a corner and the lane narrowed further, funneled between two tall buildings. Here, the lanterns hung lower, close enough that Liora could see tiny moths of light drifting in their glass, slow as thoughts.
The brick underfoot began to shift.
Not physically, not like a trapdoor. It was worse than that: the pattern of the bricks changed when Liora looked away and looked back. A long brick where there had been two short ones. A chip in the corner that moved from left to right. Like the street was rearranging itself to shorten the distance, shaving off pieces of the route and stitching it back together behind them.
Liora's stomach rolled. "Is it supposed to do that?"
"It's doing it politely," Mina said. "Sometimes it gets enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic how?"
Mina opened her mouth, then paused as if listening. "Like this."
A soft tapping noise came from ahead. Tap… tap… tap…
Liora leaned forward, eyes narrowing.
A figure walked toward them down the lane.
At first it looked like a person in a pale coat, head bowed. Then the lanternlight struck it and Liora realized the coat was not cloth. It was paper. Layered sheets, folded and stitched, moving with the faint rustle of turning pages.
Where a face should be, there was a blank oval of parchment.
The tapping sound was the figure's shoes: ink bottles, tipped on their sides, walking on glass bottoms. Each step left a tiny dot of black behind it that evaporated as soon as it appeared.
Mina stopped.
So did Liora, because Mina's hand tightened on her sleeve.
The paper figure halted a few paces away.
It lifted one arm. Pages fluttered. In its palm, a strip of paper unfurled with neat handwriting.
WHAT IS YOUR NAME?
Liora's heart jumped into her throat. She remembered Mina's warning as if it had been branded on her tongue.
Don't answer.
Liora kept her mouth shut so hard her jaw ached.
Mina, however, smiled with bright, unbothered charm. "She's with me," Mina said.
The paper figure's blank face tilted slightly, like a bird listening.
Another strip of paper slid out.
WHO IS "ME"?
Mina's smile didn't falter, but her parcels shifted as if they didn't like the question.
Liora's mind raced. If Mina answered, would the street take her name? What did it mean for something like this to have your name?
Mina's eyes flicked to Liora for the briefest moment. A silent question.
Liora understood, suddenly, with a clarity that felt like stepping onto cold stone: Mina was asking her to choose. Not the road this time, The moment.