Phaelan took off the hat and ran one hand impatiently through his shoulder-length black hair. “Mago’s certainly taking his time.”

“He has to see to his luggage,” I reminded him. “The man travels with even more clothes than you do.”

“I have a reputation to maintain.”

“Best-dressed pirate?”

“Someone has to maintain the standard.” He took in what I was wearing, sighed, and shook his head.

I didn’t need to look down at myself to see where Phaelan was going with this. “I happen to like brown and black,” I said. “They’re great colors for redheads.”

“So are others that you’ve never tried.”

“I’ve never tried painting a target on myself, either.”

I’d adopted the mantra of blend and survive. Thanks to the Saghred, people could feel my magic coming a mile away; I was determined the same wasn’t going to be true for seeing me. If wearing brown or black or both helped me blend in with the background and kept me from being a target at least some of the time, then they were officially my favorite colors. Red hair and pale skin made me stand out enough; I was going to camouflage as much of it as I could as well as I could.

Mago would be joining us here shortly. As a vice president at the First Bank of D’Mai, he couldn’t be seen associating with criminals, either known or supposed. Mago knew the drill. He’d arrange to get his luggage sent ahead to the Greyhound Hotel, the finest accommodations Mid had to offer, and then we’d have a little private meeting. The warehouse’s owner was a friend of the family, meaning he was paid to store stolen goods until they’d cooled enough to be put on the market. That pay also bought us certain benefits like a meeting place that could be counted on to be completely private. These walls only had ears if Phaelan wanted them to.