by Heidi Heilig
“I’m fine,” I murmur back, letting her hold me close even though my skin is crawling. “It’s Leo who needs help.”
“What happened?” Papa says.
“They won’t bother us anymore.” Leo sinks down on the back step of the roulotte. Wincing, he shifts his weight, pulling the recherche out of his pocket. “But they won’t be the only ones looking.”
Papa takes the paper gingerly—it is wet and stained from Leo’s tumble down the ditch—and I take Maman’s arm. “Can you get some clean water?” I say, but she hesitates, trying to watch as Papa peels the folded paper apart. I squeeze her wrist gently. “He risked his life to bring me back, Maman.”
At last she nods. “There’s some morning glory growing on the side of the house,” she says. “I’ll brew some tea. Come, Samrin. Bring the paper.”
Together they go to the house, leaving me to pick through my supplies—silk and steel, needle and thread, and a long strip of clean cloth from my once-best dress. By the time I have what I need, Maman has brought the fire back to life, and the water is starting to steam. She pours a little into a bowl and adds a handful of morning-glory seeds to steep. I toss some rags into the pot to boil as Leo balls his jacket into a pillow and lies down to rest his head.
Papa is still holding the poster, but his eyes are far away. At last he puts the paper down with a sigh. “What do we do?”
“Just keep going.” Maman uses a long pair of chopsticks to lift a piece of steaming cloth from the pot. “Stay on the back roads. Out of sight.”
“What about when we get to Nokhor Khat?” Papa says. “There will be soldiers at the gates.”
Gingerly, I take the hot fabric, letting it cool for a moment. Then I peel away Leo’s bloodstained bandage and squeeze the clean cloth out over the wound. Red water drips across the skin and through the bamboo flooring; Leo grits his teeth but makes no sound. “We could split up,” I muse. “The poster doesn’t mention you, Papa. They’re less likely to recognize us if you and I go together, and Leo goes with Maman.”
“It could work,” he says slowly. “But what about the roulotte?”
My hand stills as I consider it. The description is unmistakable—and I have never seen another roulotte like ours. Papa built it himself, along with his brother, when they were both young and had just begun to tour. They carved and painted each frieze with their own hands.
There is a silence in the room. Maman lifts another strip of cloth from the bubbling pot, letting steam rise toward the ceiling. The water drips and drops from the fabric. I take the cloth in my hand—hot enough to redden the skin of my palm.
Finally Papa answers his own question. “We have to leave it behind.”
Leo’s eyes spring open, and I lift my head quickly. “Papa—”
“We would have had to leave it at the dock, anyway. We can pack the best fantouches on Lani’s back,” he says gruffly. “That’s all we’ll really need. The fantouches and the instruments and each other.”
Across the fire, Maman nods slowly, and though the thought hurts, I know Papa is right. Gently I dab at Leo’s wound, but in my mind, I am making an inventory. What we have to bring, and many more things that we’ll have to leave. But then Leo pushes himself up on one elbow, shaking his head. “No. No, we’ll find a way to bring it with us.”
Papa smiles gently. “I’m open to suggestions.”
“A secret entrance?” I say, hopeful, but Leo makes a face. “A lava tunnel under the city?”
“If there is, I don’t know about it,” he says, but Maman looks to Papa, and there is a soft silence between them—like the pause before a nervous actor says her line.
“Maman,” I start, but she shakes her head.
“It’s not wide enough for the wagon!”
“A hidden route?” Leo’s face is eager. “You have to show me.”
“I’m not going back there,” she says, her face ashen. “I’m never going back.”
“Then tell me and I’ll go,” he says, trying to sit up. I push him back down as fresh blood flows from the cut on his chest. “The location could be worth hundreds. Thousands—”
With a clatter, Maman throws down the chopsticks, pushing back from the fire and starting toward the other room. Leo looks to Papa, but Papa shakes his head; in his eyes, a warning. “Money doesn’t solve as many problems as you think.”
“Maybe not,” Leo says. “But Jetta will be safest if she can avoid the soldiers at the gate. They don’t take money, either.”
Though Maman doesn’t stop, she falters as she passes through the curtain. Papa gives him a long look. “We all need some rest,” Papa says. “Let’s talk about it when we wake.”
Before Leo can say anything else, Papa follows Maman, leaving us by the fire in a strange and fragile silence. I can hear Maman whispering behind the curtain, her voice strangled, as though her words are trying to escape, as though she cannot catch her breath. But Leo turns to me. “How does your mother know a hidden route out of Nokhor Khat?”
“I’m not sure,” I tell him, though my own imagination is aflame. I know so little about her past, and she had no family for me to ask—no sisters, no mother. Strange in our village, though not unheard of—not after the fighting that lead to La Victoire. But what if she wasn’t from the village? What if she’d left her own family behind in Nokhor Khat? Leo is still watching me. To cover for my racing thoughts, I pass him the morning-glory tea, dark and bitter. “Drink up,” I say, dabbing at the wound with the last warm cloth.
He takes a quick swallow and wrinkles his nose. “Ugh.”
“The worse it tastes, the better you’ll feel.” I chew my lip, watching as he drinks, waiting for the tension to ease from his brow, for his breathing to slow. It only takes a few more sips. The tea is strong.
I pick up Maman’s chopsticks as he takes the last draft; delicately, I close them around the needle and dunk it into the boiling water. “Could we disguise the roulotte?” I murmur, half to myself. “Paint it, maybe?”
“That won’t fool anyone,” Leo mutters into his empty cup. “They’ll be searching every wagon—especially one with so many carvings.”
“What if the rest of us went through the gate separately?” I say, lifting out the needle. “We could send Papa on ahead with the roulotte. Even if they search it, they won’t find us.”
“That won’t work,” Leo says, chewing his lip, but I frown.
“Why not?”
His eyes slide away from mine. “We could do so much with a secret route into the city.”
I let the needle drip into the pot. “You didn’t answer my question.”
Leo sets down the cup. In the silence, steam rises to the ceiling. A soul glimmers in the thatch overhead. I thread the needle with a length of undyed thread. No explanation comes. What is he hiding? Or is it only the blood loss, the long night, the village, the tea? “How’s the pain?”
“Less.”
“Do you want to wait a while?”
Leo shakes his head and leans back, adjusting the pillow of his jacket. As he does, the gleam of metal catches my eye—the silver cigarette box, peeking out of the pocket. “Best get it over with,” he says, closing his eyes.
Putting the case out of my mind, I lean over his chest and start to sew. He tenses when I put my hand on his skin, to hold the wound closed, and again when the needle touches his flesh, but he suffers in silence, breathing deeply. At first I too struggle for calm—for focus. But as I sew, taking care to keep the stitching neat and straight and the edges even, my heart slows and I relax. It is no different than other fine work—except that I can feel his blood on my hands, his pulse under my fingers. As I tie the last knot, I glance up and see that his eyes are no longer closed. Carefully I cut the thread close to the skin. “Are you all right?”
He takes a slow breath, and when he speaks, his voice is thoughtful—dreamy. “You’re the expert. You tell me.”
“I think you’ll live,” I say with a smile. But he shifts his head, loo
king down at the wound with a grimace.
“I feel like I could use a little more paint and polish,” he says, and I laugh.
“It’s a bit more serious than paint can fix.”
“Sequins, then? Glitter?”
“Rhinestones, maybe.”
“That bad?”
“Might be best to scrap you. Start over.”
“If you do, build me better next time.” He gives me a wan smile—there is such sadness in his face. I reach out to put my hand on his arm; his other hand comes up to cover mine. It is tacky with blood and grime, but I do not pull away, not for a long while, not until his breathing is slow and easy. And as he sleeps, the fire burns low, but the light still gleams on the corner of the silver cigarette box.
What’s inside your violin case?
A violin.
But I have never seen Leo smoking.
So I slip the case out of his jacket pocket with my free hand, and slowly, gently, snap it open. Inside—no cigarettes. But there is a piece of paper, folded in thirds, then in half. This must be what he is smuggling.
My mind races through the possibilities. Secret plans for the next rebel attack? A map of the locations of armée camps or ammunition? A schematic for a new weapon? Gingerly, I unfold the page, making sure it doesn’t crinkle, but the paper is worn and soft, as though it’s been read many times, and when I tip it toward the dying light, I see it is a letter.
Dearest Leonin, it begins, in the precise, delicate hand of a lady. I was so saddened to hear of your mother’s death, and so is our father, though he’ll never admit it. And yes, I say “our father,” for you are my brother always, no matter what he says. . . .
My stomach flips; shame chases my eyes from the page. Hurriedly, I fold the letter and tuck it back into the case, sliding the whole thing under his jacket. After all he’s done—the risks he’s taken, the knowledge he’s shared, from the first day outside the theater when he opened his door to us. What is wrong with me?
With a sigh, I pull my hand free of his, but when I move, he stirs. “Where are you going?” he murmurs, eyelids fluttering open. I can’t meet his gaze.
“I need to get more betel,” I say, hoping the dark hides the flush on my cheeks. “Make a fresh bandage.”
To my surprise, he struggles up to his feet, searching his jacket for the gun. The cigarette case clatters to the floor; he grabs for it, but he is still wobbly from the tea, and it takes him two tries before he picks it up and tucks it back into the pocket. “You can’t go alone.”
I want to protest—then again, I did not know who might be lingering outside. And though I’d used the leaves as an excuse, it wasn’t a lie. He did need a new bandage. So I peek through the curtain at my parents; they are lying together on the makeshift bed. At first I think they are sleeping, but then I see Maman’s eyes, glinting in the glow of the firelight. “I’m just going to the garden,” I say, and she nods a little. By the time I turn back, Leo is waiting by the door.
I glance outside, but the clearing is empty save for Lani. Aside from the call of the birds, the jungle is quiet. Over the tree line, the rising sun is chasing away the shadows. So I step outside into the morning light, Leo right behind me. His hand is on his gun, but his steps are slow, tentative, and his focus is not on the trees, but on the roulotte. I do not know how well he could defend us, if he had to, but no one rushes from the jungle or bursts from behind the house as I make my way through the kitchen garden.
Past waving stalks of chive and the feathery fronds of carrots, there is a bamboo trellis sewn with a bright green betel vine. I pluck a handful of leaves and turn back to Leo, but he’s still staring at the roulotte, his eyes like glass.
“We have to find the secret route,” he murmurs, almost to himself. His words are slurred . . . his guard is down.
“Why is it so important to you, Leo?”
Emotions cross his face—shame, fear, frustration. “Can I tell you something?”
A knot forms in my stomach. “You’d better.”
Leo hesitates a moment longer. Then he beckons. I follow him to the side of the roulotte, where he kneels in the grass. I lean down, following his finger as he points between the wheels. Then I gasp. Beside the new axle, a dozen rifles are strapped to the bottom of the roulotte.
* * *
Dearest Leonin,
I was so saddened to hear of your mother’s death, and so is our father, though he’ll never admit it. And yes, I say “our father,” for you are my brother always, no matter what he says.
But perhaps you will say I’m only making his excuses. I found your letter on his desk. I know you blame him. You may blame me too, for not insisting he send Mei to Aquitan to take the cure there. You aren’t wrong. I regret it too, with the perfect certainty of hindsight.
Of course my own regrets are unimportant . . . but I cannot sleep at night for trying to find something to do, something to ease your pain or honor her life. She was a beautiful person, a bright star—she shone on stage with a light of her own. At the very least, I will not forget her.
And if there is anything you need, any help I can give, any favor you ask, tell me and you shall have it.
Your sister,
Theodora
* * *
Chapter Seventeen
I straighten up so fast I nearly hit my head on Leo’s chin. Then I shove him, hard, my hands connecting with his bare stomach. “I trusted you!”
Leo staggers backward, losing his balance, one hand out as though to defend himself—his actions. But when he straightens up, it’s there in his bleary eyes: the apology. “I took the rifles the night we met,” he says quietly. “The night of the explosion. I was supposed to send them south from Luda with the rebels after the dust settled. But the general had other plans for the Tiger’s men.”
There is regret on his face—it tugs at my heart, but I ignore it. My mind races, trying to put it all together. “You had the mechanic put them under the wagon,” I mutter. Then my eyes narrow. “You brought them out in Cheeky’s linen box! And you had the nerve to ask me what I had done?”
“I had to get the guns out of the theater! I was afraid the soldiers would search the place,” Leo says, desperate. “They were supposed to run toward the explosion, not wait at my door while you drove my couriers into their hands!”
“You said you weren’t a rebel!”
“I’m not,” he says wearily. “I only made a deal—”
“A deal with the rebels!”
“A deal to keep the girls safe!” Leo’s cheeks are flushed, his eyes wild. He runs a hand through his hair. In his other hand, the gun gleams as he gestures. Is it a threat? “Look, cher. Everyone knows the Tiger is coming south. Everyone also knows who my father is, and that the girls have made quite a bit of money from the soldiers. But the rebels swore they’d overlook it all if I only did them this favor. And I would do anything to protect the girls!”
“Anything?” I can’t help it—my eyes cut to the gun. I don’t think he’d shoot us to take the wagon . . . but I never imagined he’d strapped guns beneath the axle, either.
But Leo’s face falls. “You think so little of me?”
“I don’t know what to think.”
With a grimace, he opens the chamber and tips the bullets out into his hand. The tightness in my chest eases. “I have money,” he says softly, but I shake my head.
“Money won’t buy our way out of prison. And you said it yourself, they’ll be giving the wagons extra scrutiny. They’ll find the guns in a search.”
“Then the secret route.”
“Maman said the wagon won’t fit through the passage, and you can’t carry a dozen rifles by yourself.”
“You could help me carry them.”
“And risk my life?”
Leo grits his teeth, rolling the bullets across his palm—six of them. Most of them are only casings, I can see now. “I could get you a place on the boat to Aquitan.”
There is silence in the clearing,
so long that a bird nearby starts to call. I watch Leo; he sounds so earnest—but he has fooled me before. “You’re lying.”
“I never lied,” he says, but at my look, he drops his eyes. “I . . . may have kept things from you. But I’ve never gone back on a deal.”
I bite my lip, thinking it over—but this, at least, was true. And it isn’t so unbelievable that Leo Legarde would have a way aboard the ship where his sister will spend her honeymoon. “What about the recherche? There are bound to be soldiers on the boat.”
“The wagon is the real problem. Cover your scar and that description could be of a thousand other girls. You can use a different name. And no one will suspect a wanted criminal to be La Fleur’s special guest. Is it a deal?” He tucks his gun into his belt and holds out his hand, Aquitan style. “You help me bring the rifles through the passage, and I’ll get you a place aboard Le Rêve.”
I look into his eyes, hoping for a sense of clarity. All I see is his own apprehension; he needs my help at least as much as I need his. “It’s a deal,” I say, and the relief on his face is like the dawn breaking.
We shake, once. The copper casings jingle like bells in his other fist. “How are you going to convince Meliss?” he says, and I sigh.
“Because it’s the only way.”
“I know that feeling.” He turns my hand over and pours the empty shells into my palm. “These should work for rivets, by the way.”
“Rivets?” It takes me a moment to understand what he’s talking about. Was it only yesterday he held my work in his hands and called it beautiful? I close my fingers over the metal, still warm. What else he could want in exchange?
Before I can ask, the door opens, and Maman peeks out at me, worry written all over her face. “What’s taking you so long?”
“Just checking on Lani,” I call back. Under my breath, I murmur to Leo. “I’ll talk to her. You take the guns off the roulotte. Hide them in the jungle till we can figure out a better place. And then get some more betel leaves,” I add—I had dropped the others in my surprise. “You can make your own bandage this time.”
