by Sara Wolf
“Here. I got it. You can sell this to the pawners for a good amount.”
She looks over the thief’s shoulder and points to me.
“Who’s that, Whisper? A friend?”
“A stalker,” he corrects.
I make a bow with flourish. The girl giggles at it. The sound reminds me so much of Peligli it makes my unheart ache. She starts to walk over to me, but “Whisper” holds her back.
“Don’t,” he says. “She could hurt you.”
“He’s right,” I agree lightly. “Never trust strangers. They’re sometimes mean and oftentimes smelly. And occasionally, they’ll even call you a hypocrite.”
“You are one,” he insists.
“Oh, I know. But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt to hear.”
He turns to the girl and says something softly. She looks to me, then walks off with the watch in her hand. When she’s gone, I speak.
“You stole it for her, huh? I misjudged you, Whisper.”
His black eyes turn hard, like the edges of knives. “Why did you follow me?”
“I was bored, and you were making quite the ruckus.”
“The real reason,” Whisper insists, cutting through my lie. I smile.
“When I see people do the things I do, and do them better, I get curious. Offended, but also curious. I had no choice but to follow you!”
I circle him once, looking him up and down for any indication of who he really is. But there’s only black leather, gloved hands clenched, a lean frame, and those narrow midnight eyes.
“There’s always a choice,” he says. He wears the heavy words with ease, as if someone’s said them to him a hundred times before. Practiced. Resigned. They aren’t his words, nor are they his experience, and it shows.
I laugh, the sound scaring a nearby sunbird from its perch on a laundry line.
“The only people who say that”—I manage to catch my breath—“are the people who never have to make hard choices. People with luxury. People in power, who are never well and truly backed against the hard wall of life.”
…one young, one old, one with no left eye, one who never screamed…
I can smell Mother’s blood, see Father’s insides, hear the bandit’s screams, even when I close my eyes.
“Sometimes, Sir Whisper, the choices are made for you, and there’s nothing you can do except make up for them.”
The emptiness in my chest is proof of that. But I don’t say any of this. His eyes glare out from beneath his hood—I had no idea obsidian could burn so hot.
“You speak as if you’re much older than you look,” he says finally.
“And you steal in broad daylight from a Goldblood. Either you’re a madman or desperate.”
“You’re the one going to court to become one of those repulsive, gossip-stuffed morons.” He scoffs, a sudden venom in his words. “If anyone’s desperate here, it’s you.”
It wouldn’t take a polymath to figure out I’m a noble from the terribly fancy silk I’m wearing. First he steals from a noble, now he insults them. I’m beginning to think this is personal. I make a bow.
“A noble girl, at your service. I’d curtsy at you, but I assume you get enough of that already.”
He glowers. “You think me noble?”
“I know you to be noble.”
“You know nothing about me.”
Angry. Imperious. So quick, too. Defensive—like he’s hiding the truth I got far too close to. He might be a good thief, but he’s a terrible liar.
“Listen to that tone. You really are a noble,” I marvel. “Let me guess—a lord’s son? No, something higher, something so high you have to slip out of the court and steal in the streets just to breathe. A duke’s son.”
As I inch closer to the truth, his eyes get narrower. “He doesn’t like girls like you,” he says.
“Who?” I blink.
“Prince Lucien.”
“You’re friends with him, then? He’s told you gold-haired girls with little in the way of modesty aren’t his type?”
“A dozen girls just like you have pined after his looks, his power, his riches. Or all three. You’re no different—he’s an object to you, a symbol. Something you can obtain for your own selfish ends.”
“And what if I told you I’m not after any of those things?” I ask.
“Then what are you after?”
I put a hand over my empty chest. “I might be a thief, but I’m also a romantic. I’m after his heart.”
He scoffs. “You’re a liar is what you are. The court isn’t the playground you think it is—if you underestimate it, it will rip you apart, leave you in scraps for the dogs. The prince isn’t worth the pain. Leave, while you still can.”
I ponder this deeply for a half second before smiling.
“I’d love to, but I can’t. I’ve got something to do. And if I left now, I’d hate myself. There are lots of things in life I can live with—world hunger, plagues, my terrible bedhead, the inevitable end of civilization as we know it—but I just can’t stand hating myself.”
I saunter toward him, all smiles, until we’re nearly touching. Ever since leaving the woods, the scents of the world assault me; he is all leather and rainwater and sweat. He’s a noble—one of the many I need to fool. He’s also a boy. If I can’t soften this one up, what chance do I have with the prince?
Whisper’s frozen in place, dark gaze never leaving my face.
“Aren’t you the same way?” I ask, tracing the leather over his broad chest with one finger. “You’re a noble, and yet here you are, stealing from your peers and giving to the poor. As if that will make up for the fact you live in an overly gilded cage while the common people starve and get purged by that madman of an archduke.” I laugh. “And you had the gall to call me a hypocrite.”
Through the gap in his cowl I watch his eyes. Nothing. He doesn’t so much as blink or swallow. He’s stone. If he’s affected by my touch at all, he’s very good at not showing it. There’s some halfway decent willpower in this one. I stretch my hand up to his jaw, cupping it, and he makes no move to stop me.
“Poor thing,” I croon. “Trying so hard to be good in a world that’s bad.”
It feels strange to touch someone new for the first time in a long time. Someone tall, someone with eyes that bore beneath the silk of my dress, down to my very skin. This close I can see his strict brows knotted beneath his cowl, the faintest outline of his lips. His frozen state breaks at my fingertips against his cheek. His gaze turns livid, and he slaps away my hand as if swatting a fly.
“How dare you touch me?” he growls. Such an indignant tone! If I was unsure of his lineage before, I am no longer—he sounded almost exactly like Y’shennria.
“You’ll quickly discover I dare a lot of things.” I smile. “Including the court. Your warning is pointless—you won’t stop me.”
“You’re so determined to suffer,” Whisper scoffs. I can’t help the giggle that escapes me, born of despair. Of irony. He knows so little. About me, about the world. About what’s coming for his precious friend the prince.
“Have you considered that maybe I deserve it, milord?” I ask.
Deserve every painful grain of it, the hunger snarls.
There’s a beat of utter silence. This time, he’s the one to approach me—two long strides and we’re barely grazing chests again, the warmth from beneath his leather armor pouring into me like a heady brandy. The hunger all but goes wild, clawing at me to tear his throat out. I’ve been close to humans before, but not this close. His voice is low, his will behind it iron.
“And what, pray tell, did you do to deserve it?”
I giggle again, this time lighter, and twirl away. “Now, now—a lady must keep her secrets, or she’s not very interesting.”
“A lady who chases down a thief so stubbornly would be interesting no matter the number of secrets she kept under her skirt.”
It’s a sideways compliment and a taunting trap all at once, and it sends a
strange electric thrill through my spine.
“How do you know I keep my secrets under my skirts?” I ask.
“You’re right, I don’t know. I could check if you’d like, but something tells me your secrets aren’t the only things you want to keep intact.”
This time, my own laugh catches me by surprise. “You’re going to have to do better than maidenhead jokes if you want to get anything out of me, milord.”
“Not all of us are born with razor wits such as yours, milady,” he counters. I put on a halfhearted imperious air.
“Then get practicing. I expect you to be fluent by the time we meet again at the Welcoming. You will be at the Welcoming, won’t you?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Miss?” A shout echoes then, the voice undoubtedly Fisher’s. “Miss, where are you?”
As entertaining as this is, Y’shennria will have my head if I linger. I turn to Whisper one last time, and curtsy facetiously at him before walking out of the alley.
To say Y’shennria is upset with my “reckless behavior and thoughtless cavorting” would be like stating there are three moons—painfully obvious and undeniably true.
“I said I’m sorry,” I remind her in the carriage. “I also said I didn’t undress myself in front of a bunch of nobles and dance in a fountain. So I really see no reason for you to be mad at me.”
Y’shennria’s lips purse tight. “Your lack of respect for what I’m—what we’re—trying to do is unacceptable. That heart locket of yours alone cost us four—”
“Witch lives,” I finish for her. “I know.”
“And then there’s the intelligence, the amount of paperwork and right bribes at the right time to get you declared as my kin—” She kneads her forehead and snaps, “Fisher, take us home.”
Fisher cracks the reins of the horses. “Right away, mum.”
“Don’t take it out on him,” I say. “I was the one who did all the ‘thoughtless cavorting.’”
“He let you,” she says. “It must not happen again.”
“No one ‘lets’ me do anything. I do what I want.”
“You do what I tell you to, or you don’t get your freedom.”
There’s silence in the carriage. I bite back helpless, angry words. She’s right. She’s right, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. All I can do is watch the world change from modest buildings and storefronts to vast emerald lawns and perfectly manicured gardens. Like a gemstone in a crown, the noble quarter rests in the center of the city, gorgeous sandstone chateaus half hidden by greenery and grand statues.
“The Firstbloods reside here,” Y’shennria says, chilly. “Along with the Ministers. There is the Minister of the Brick, who deals in Cavanos’s construction of roads and ships and buildings of import. The Minister of the Blood is the one in charge of overseeing the Firstblood and Secondblood family trees. He allocates funds and ensures the proper inheritances go to the proper inheritors. He’s the one who ‘found’ you and granted your title back to you.”
“What did you bribe him with? It must’ve been something utterly mind-blowing.”
“The Minister of the Coin keeps tabs on Cavanos’s wealth.” She ignores me, speaking louder as if to cover the stain of my words. “And he’s also in charge of overseeing all trade routes in and out of the country.”
As we pass, I pluck a radiant geranium flower from a bush, burying my nose in its orange petals and breathing deep. The carriage comes to a stop not before one of the cream-bricked mansions but at a much smaller, more modest darkstone house. Hard iron spikes decorate the eaves and parapets, looking every part the spines of an angry animal. Unlike the bare, crisp green terraces of the other houses, this terrace is kept in careful chaos with black rosebushes and long, wispy swathes of translucent ghostgrass. Thorns and black petals litter the ground, rotten crimson berries spread and mush in the dirt like trodden hearts of tiny things. Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d find somewhere gloomier than even Nightsinger’s forest.
When we pull up, three people in dark uniforms line up before the carriage. Fisher helps Y’shennria and me out, and Y’shennria dismisses him and a shy-looking boy to take care of the horses. The only ones left are an older woman practically folded in two with her ancient posture and a slightly less old man with a dapper white beard and mustache.
“Maeve, Reginall, may I introduce Zera Y’shennria, my niece.” Y’shennria extends her hand to me, and they bow, though Maeve does more of a stiff nod. The urge to insist these formalities aren’t necessary nags at me, but then I spot the mansion next to ours over the hedge. A very well-dressed man and woman taking a walk watch us with eagle-eyed interest from beneath the woman’s parasol. Of course the formalities are necessary, if I’m going to fool these nobles.
“Maeve is our masterful cook,” Y’shennria says. “And Reginall handles the housekeeping. Reginall, if you’d help Zera bring her luggage in—”
“I don’t have anything.” I show him. “Don’t worry about it.”
“On the contrary, miss.” Reginall points to the top of the carriage, where several trunks wait. “You look as if you brought quite a bit.”
My eyes go wide, and I turn to Y’shennria. “How much did you buy at the tailor’s?”
“Just some underthings and shawls,” Y’shennria insists. “Reginall, please be sure to burn the old dress at the bottom of the blue trunk when you get a chance.”
Reginall bows. He pulls a trunk down with surprising speed, but I hurry to catch the second one.
“Milady, I will take these. Please rest inside,” he insists.
“Nonsense. I’ve got two working arms, don’t I? I can help carry my own underpants at the very least.”
Maeve blinks her bleary eyes, as if she doesn’t quite believe what I’ve said. The noble couple at the hedge laughs, the sound carrying over.
“Are the Y’shennrias so poor they have to lift things themselves, now?”
“Oh don’t be crude. They can hear you!”
“Look at their manor—it’s barely standing! Let the last one slander me. No one believes the word of Old God worshippers, anyhow.”
Their words are so cold I practically shiver. I knew nobles were cruel, but this is stepping over the line. Y’shennria looks to them, then to me, and grasps my arm, leading me through the darkwood doors of the house. I try to yank away, but she’s deceptively strong. She leads me to a drawing room, plopping me down on a slate-gray sofa. She sits opposite me in a high-backed chair, posture regal.
“You will not offer aid to the hired help.”
“Your hired help are ancient!” I protest. “You can’t make them haul stuff that heavy!”
“Reginall is more than capable of hard labor.”
“That doesn’t mean you can—”
“My household is not the royal court,” she says fluidly. “I employ wages, freedoms. The royal court holds no such tradition—their servants are to be seen and not heard, in every sense. What if you help, and a noble sees? They might say that servant is incapable of doing their job. They’ll be let go, to the streets of this cruel city, shunned by all other employers because of an incompetence rumor.”
“That’s…mad.” My stomach churns, a tornado nestled in a hurricane. Y’shennria fixes me with her impassive hazel stare.
“That is how Vetris turns, and how you will turn. You will train with me in this room every day until sundown. Breakfast is at seven sharp. Cake is at noon, and we take dinner at eight. You will dress in one of the garments provided for all three occasions.”
“Three different—but that’s absurd!”
She doesn’t miss a beat. “Your room is up the stairs, fourth door on the left. Meet me in this room tomorrow morning at seven thirty. Any later, and we will have problems. Is that clear?”
“Clearer than the ice on your heart,” I mutter. Y’shennria’s lips form the barest of smiles as she stands, her dark, fluffy hair flouncing. It’s the first time I’ve seen her cold mask
of composure truly loosen, truly warm, but something in the weak way it peters off seems deeply hopeless.
Her gaze fixes on an impressive oil portrait in the hall of a very handsome man, his skin dark and his smile white. We blazed past it when she dragged me in here, but now I can get a good look at him. He’s young, much younger than Y’shennria is now. The artist’s talent is great, but it’s not strictly the art that makes the piece startling—it’s the subject. Something about him is so comforting; his gray-black eyes hold infinite wisdom, shards of precious diamond suspended in a space we can never reach. The regal gold-trimmed coat he’s wearing marks him a noble, and with the tender way Y’shennria looks at him—he must be Lord Y’shennria. The husband she lost to the Heartless. To the war.
“That’s a nice sentiment, isn’t it, Ruberion?” she asks the painting softly. “That my heart could still be clear, after all this time.”
The painting is quiet, and I’m quieter.
5
Hunger
Like a Blade
If I were human, I would’ve entered my modest room and collapsed on the four-poster bed immediately. We’d spent almost a day on the road, by my count. But I’m not human, so instead of wasting time sleeping, I count the diamond pattern on the ceiling and productively reflect on my impending doom.
Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty.
I should be scared. I was brave in front of Whisper, but he’s right. The court waits, vicious. My goal waits, precarious. I should be terrified.
Twenty-one. Twenty-two.
But I’m not. All I feel is queasy. Fear is so distant, a howl of a wolf too far to reach me. I haven’t been truly afraid for three years, but it feels like a hundred. A hundred years, deathless and ageless and roaming the woods, flirting with starving wildcats and hell-bent mercenaries just for a change of pace.
No, I’m not afraid. Not yet. But I’m sure I will be.
Twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six. One tilt of my head, and the dark diamond pattern on the ceiling becomes eyes, the same ruthless birdlike tilt as Whisper’s. I’d been stealing alone for so long, it was comforting to see someone just as skilled as me. To know that the world moves like me, outside of me, whether or not I’m free.
