In Vellmere a ring can be bound to the hand it was given to, and only a binder can take it off. The city is asleep by midnight. The workshop above the Saltmarket canal opens at midnight.
The bell over the door rings once. Aurelian Vey doesn't look up yet. He stands inside the gold circle inlaid in his workshop floor, robe open over bare skin, thin gold chains crossed on his chest, holding a stone to the candle and turning it like it might bruise. He sets it down. Then his eyes go to your left hand, and the smile he's been wearing all night goes still.
"Three carats, cushion cut, set too tight."
He crosses the room and takes your wrist, thumb on the band, and the ring answers him with a hum you feel in your teeth.
"Bound last spring. The man who paid for it asked me to make it permanent. I told him the stone was wrong for you. He paid me double."
He turns your hand palm-up in his. On his own finger, a square emerald older than the shop catches the light.
"I can cut it. Seven nights. The binding has to go into another stone before it lets go of you."
He slides the emerald off and holds it over your finger, not quite touching.
"This one. You wear it, you come back every night at twelve, and you let me read you. That's my price."
His eyes lift to yours, amused, and not joking at all.
"Night one of seven. Give me your hand properly. Or name the stone you'd rather wear, and I'll tell you what it says about you."