by Jory Strong
Ella laughed and said, "Is that your way of saying you need another treatment?"
A meow had Ella taking a small brown bottle from a shelf. She unscrewed the cap and the scent of the oil she'd formulated in her father's workshop wafted upward, filling her nostrils and blocking the market smell of butchered animals and unwashed bodies, of fruit that had become overripe as the day heated.
The cat purred as the oil was applied and she gained instant relief from the fleas that had burrowed into her fur as the last treatment lost its potency.
"Maybe she'll pay you for your trouble by leading you to her next litter," Jon said, quiet desperation in his voice.
Ella kept her attention on the cat, not wanting to see that same desperation in his eyes. "If she does, I'll tell you."
He could claim ownership if he got to them first. And unlike the feral gray-striped kittens that darted out when the scent of meat became too tempting, the calico's kittens were thought to bring luck, and any of the kittens that were also calico would bring a good price.
Ella finished applying the oil then gently pushed the cat away. It jumped to the ground.
She capped and packed the small brown bottle, lifted more empty crates, placing them in a line on the wood counter.
Slowly, methodically, starting with the expensive items, she filled the crates with herbs and potions, with the medicines her father openly sold. At this time of day, the only shoppers would be those without much coin.
When each of the crates had its top in place, Jon's sharp whistle ended the game of marbles and brought his sons to the stall.
They put the filled crates on their sleds as Ella lined the counter again. It took less time to fill the crates as the items decreased in value.
In the quickening dusk, hunters and fishermen moved through the marketplace, confirming orders with the meat sellers. Tomorrow they'd pay the fees that would allow them to leave New San Jose and venture out into the wild lands to hunt and fish.
Two stalls away, Tomas, the man her father bought from, finished speaking with a plump butcher whose apron was streaked with blood from the chickens and geese and pigeons he'd slaughtered.
At Tomas's side was Thor, his deerhound. Ella smiled as man and dog came toward her. With his narrow face and wiry mop of gray hair, Tomas was a human version of Thor.
Jon and his sons cleared the counter of all but one unpacked crate. Tomas stopped at the stall. "Is your father ready for more venison?"
"He said next week."
"Good enough."
Thor stared into her face and wagged his tail. She laughed and said, "He knows me too well. I saved something for him."
"You spoil him."
She lifted her lunch basket from beneath the counter, opened it and removed a jerky strip. The gray deerhound took it gently from her fingers.
It disappeared in two crunches.
She scratched behind his ears. Tomas said, "The terrier pup is still yours for the asking."
"I wish, but…"
It was pointless to bring it up again at home. Her mother refused to relent, claimed that even if Ella promised to keep the dog in the workshop, hairs would be brought into the house.
"The offer stands," Tomas said and moved on.
Ella put the lunch basket in the last crate, finished packing the herbs and potions, leaving out the scale and a single canister when she saw the widow Katherine approaching.
The widow pressed a purple cloth to her lips and despite the noise of the marketplace, her hacking cough reached Ella. It sounded worse than the last time, but that wasn't a surprise, not when she'd either been going without medicine for several days or had stretched the dosages by using less.
It was hard to tell the widow's age, though Ella thought she was probably far younger than she looked. Her face was lined, but even the furrows didn't mask that she'd once been a beautiful woman.
A familiar chill swept over Ella. The widow's husband was said to have found a tunnel in a different part of New San Jose and used it, rather than report it to the Peace Force. Supposedly he'd been executed along with his two sons, while his wife, Katherine, had been spared because one of Merati's officers wanted her for a mistress, willing or not. And when he'd gotten tired of her, he'd relocated her to this borough, Borough Y, where she'd survived by picking food in the fields during the summer while her body was strong enough, and mending clothes in the winter once she was no longer fit enough to win a laborer's job.
Ella believed the rumors. She could imagine being executed along with her parents while the widow's fate became her sister's. She wasn't the beauty Victoria was.
"You got here just in time," Ella said when the widow reached the stall.
"I was afraid I wouldn't make it."
The widow's breath wheezed in and out. A hacking cough erupted and Katherine pressed the rag to her mouth.
When she pulled it away, flecks of blood were visible at the corners of her mouth. "I bet you've been here all day by yourself," the widow said.
"This is my job." It'd been years since her father worked the stall.
"Your sister should be here helping you."
"She's working on a new dress."
Victoria was known throughout the borough for her dress designs and her talent with materials.
The widow Katherine dug her hand into a dress pocket, pulled out three city-stamped copper pieces and a small battered box, a cheap version of what the elite used for snuff or medicines or illegal drugs.
"For some of that power," she said, placing the coins and box on the counter.
Ella set the scale for three coppers' worth of antibiotic. Lifted the metal canister and poured the pink powder onto the brass measuring plate.
When the scales balanced, she moved so the widow's view was blocked, tapped out half a copper's worth more before setting the canister down.
Ella scraped the powder off the scale and into the small medicine box, closed the lid and handed the box to the widow.
Their eyes met and held. The widow's glistened, her pride warring with her need. She'd purchased this amount enough times to know the weight of three coppers' worth.
"I've got some mending that needs doing," Ella said, both of them knowing she wouldn't remember to bring it to the marketplace.
The widow slipped the box into her pocket. Her lips thinned and Ella was thankful Katherine didn't mention Victoria's unwillingness to mend or sew clothes for Ella.
Ella put the scale and canister in the crate, sealed it with the final lid. Jon swept the crate off the counter and onto the sled. "We'll be off now."
"I'll be right behind you."
She glanced around the stall to make sure she'd gotten everything. Startled when the widow's hand caught hers.
"You deserve a good man," Katherine said. "One of these days, he'll wander into the marketplace, see you and become determined to make you his bride."
She squeezed Ella's hand. Released it and turned away, leaving ache where she'd meant to leave hope.
Ella lifted the barricade and left the stall. More than half the stalls were already closed. Those still open had clusters of people there to bargain.
Drawn by crumbs left out to lure, a plump light gray pigeon with white-tipped wings landed near a group of children. Ella's heart beat a little faster and for a second, she allowed herself to pretend that the widow's words were a prophecy and that the bird was a sign she'd soon be a bride.
She pictured the man who'd ordered the bird released, though it was supposed to go directly from coop to coop rather than detour to the marketplace. She knew that just like wanting to one day see the sun set, wanting Josiah was a dangerous wish. Could a man who lived a life of violence be a good man?
She pushed thoughts of the warlord away. He could have any woman he wanted and he would never stride into the marketplace, much less choose her for anything other than a quick, heated tumble that would leave her reputation in shreds.
The pigeon escaped a small dark-haired boy's
running grab. It boldly landed on a cage full of doves at the butcher's stall, strutted back and forth then flew off the cage when the butcher touched a long-handled net.
The same small boy chased after the bird, its white wing tips the only thing distinguishing it from all the other pigeons that risked ending up on someone's dinner table by scavenging in the marketplace.
Both boy and bird disappeared from sight, but the message had already been delivered.
Ella hurried and caught up to Jon.
They traveled past houses that were little more than shacks. The farther they got from the wall, the better the homes.
Miles in front of them, city sections bore names like Oakhaven and Willowplace instead of the alphabetic distinction of the districts along the wall. She'd found the word borough in a book that had survived the Final War, understood why the elite had chosen to use it. In their minds, borough probably became burrow, because they saw little distinction between those who lived near the wall and those who lived beyond it in the warrens.
On either side of her, crowded tenements with tomato plants tied to stakes in tiny front yards gave way to neat row houses with more space for vegetable gardens and auxiliary buildings.
The distance from the marketplace made the haul a good one for Jon and his sons. Almost weekly, someone offered to do it for less. But loyalty was important to her, and Jon was reliable, making her glad that her father left it to her to oversee the task of getting the crates to and from the workshop.
They reached the single-story yellow adobe that was their destination. Tended white flower boxes lined the porch, the marigolds in them giving the house a welcoming, cheerful appearance.
Jon and his sons pulled their sleds along a path at the right of the house, then past the orange and lemon trees and the vegetable garden.
He kept his attention forward, on the windowless building that was the workshop, but the boys cast longing glances toward the watermelons and cantaloupes visible among leafy vines.
She looked toward the back of the house. Her mother was framed by the kitchen window, blonde hair in a fancy braid, lips a tight line of disapproval, as if any minute Jon or his sons would rush into the garden and steal food.
If not for her mother's presence in the window, Ella would have offered them something, but… Better that Jon and his sons leave with coin and pride.
They reached the workshop. To the left of the door was the pigeon coop.
The pigeon from the marketplace pecked at the door to the arrival box, impatient to get to friends and easy food.
Ella pulled a key from her pocket, felt the swell of pride that her father trusted her with access to the workshop and the deadly secret it contained.
She unlocked the door and went in, breathed the scent of eucalyptus oil and herbs.
From floor to ceiling, the walls were covered by cabinets and racks containing glass jars full of ingredients. The list of items to be replenished and packed before the next market day was on a front table, not that she needed it to remember. Other tables held scales and beakers and burners.
Jon and his sons made quick work hauling the crates in and stacking them beneath the front tables. Her workstation was at the back, crowded with projects.
She moved to her station, freed the suckers she'd made for the boys from the waxy paper they lay on. The treats were the size of her hand, round swirls of pink, green, red and blue sugar.
Returning to the front of the room, she offered the candy. "I was experimenting with color and taste and texture, something to add to some of the medicines. Enough was left over to make these."
The twins glanced at their father for permission. Jon nodded and the boys each took a sucker, thanking her. She pulled the coins from her pocket and gave them to Jon.
"Your father need any work done before the next market day?"
"I'll ask him and send word if he does."
Jon tipped his head. "Appreciated."
He and his sons left, leaving the door open. The sound of pigeons cooing had her glancing at the wide, heavy cabinet against the back wall.
The elite of New San Jose pretended publically that those who lived in the violent warrens had no access to the walled city. They liked believing that only those whose ancestors had been chosen in The Civilizing could enter or exit New San Jose.
But then the elite could pretend and believe anything they wished. What tunnels existed were far away from the elegant structures and secured fortresses where they lived.
Fodder, that was the derisive term the elite sometimes used to describe those who lived between the area they inhabited and the wall separating them from the warrens.
It would require widespread alliances for the warlords to raid New San Jose, and Merati, the head of the Peace Force, was said to interfere in the warrens, to ensure a lack of unity.
Thinking of Merati and her fate if the tunnel was discovered, Ella shivered and left the workshop, locking the door behind her. She stopped at the pigeon coop and put her hand out to serve as a perch.
The pigeon from the marketplace hopped onto her finger and fluffed its feathers. "You haven't been home for a while," she murmured, stroking its head and neck and back.
The bird cooed and pecked at her wrist.
She laughed softly. "I guess you do deserve a reward."
From a small metal canister in the feed compartment, she took the seeds she used as a reward, and in her cupped hand offered them to the bird.
Five rapid pecks and they were gone. She opened a hatch door, letting the homing pigeon that had been released on Josiah's order rejoin the flock.
Picturing the warlord, her heart fluttered. It was foolish to be infatuated by a man she'd never spoken with, to be drawn to his strength and the heat she'd seen in his eyes the few times she'd caught him glancing in her direction.
In the warrens, a woman could answer that heat, yield to it without destroying her future or risk damaging her family, but not in New San Jose. If a man discovered his wife wasn't a virgin on their wedding night, he could petition to have the marriage set aside and it would become public record. He could seek punitive damages from the woman's family.
Not that there would ever be an opportunity to act on her heart's foolish obsession with Josiah. And even if there had been, she wouldn't risk her future for the passion and pleasure the warlord's dark eyes promised.
* * * * *
Chapter 3
Ella entered the house through the kitchen door, her mouth watering at the scent of cooked ham.
"Set the table," her mother said without turning from the stove.
Ella washed her hands, removed elegant placemats from a drawer, but then everything inside the house spoke of her mother's dreams for Victoria.
How will she move up in society if she lives in a hovel? If she's denied the finer things?
Pushing the often heard refrain aside, Ella blocked the painful memories that now came in their wake. For a brief time, she'd gained her mother's attention and approval with the possibility of marriage to a gifted doctor everyone knew was destined to one day serve the elite.
Her father sat at the kitchen table. Her sister stood next to him, showing him swatches of fabric and pictures she'd drawn of a dress she intended to make.
Reaching the table, Ella pushed a swatch of fabric aside to set her mother's place.
Victoria glowered. "You've got cat hair on your dress. I better not find it on my material."
Ella ignored her, suppressed a flair of anger that would only lead to hurt if she acted on it. She set a placemat in front of her father. "Did Mother tell you there was a pigeon on the coop?"
His gaze flicked to Victoria in an unnecessary warning. He said, "Is it one of ours?"
"It's been gone for a while. It's a light gray bird with white-tipped wings."
She'd held it as a baby. Taken it throughout the borough, releasing it with other birds at first, and then by itself, to make sure it had the instincts of a homer. She'd been there the da
y it was giving to one of Josiah's men, because it was far less risky to use pigeons to signal a desire to meet than to pass notes or verbal messages.
Knowing her father wouldn't say anything more in front of Victoria, Ella asked, "Do you need Jon to do anything for you between now and the next time he'll come to haul goods?"
"Maybe. If I can strike a satisfactory deal with Krebs."
"Isn't he Varga's supplier?" her mother asked, her tone heavy with disapproval.
"He is."
Her mother turned to glare. "You know Varga isn't above starting vicious rumors. Victoria—"
"I care about our daughter's future as much as you do, Patricia."
Her mother's mouth tightened. She turned back toward the stove. The oven door slammed open.
Victoria gathered her material and put it on a side table next to the china cabinet.
Ella finished setting the table and, along with her mother, served a dinner of ham and sweet potatoes and green beans.
Once they'd all put food on their plates, Victoria's eyes met Ella's across the table. Her mouth curved upward in a smile that was as sharp as a knife. "I'm going to a party in three days. Gina was responsible for the invitation."
The ham became tasteless in Ella's mouth. Her heart twinged at the memory of walking into Griffin's office and finding Gina in his arms, the two of them locked in a passionate kiss.
Until that moment, she'd believed that she and Griffin were heading toward marriage. And though she no longer loved him, the betrayal was still painful.
Ella swallowed and took another bite of ham, refusing to let Victoria see that mention of Gina—and with it, the reminder of Griffin—had the power to hurt.
Victoria's smile shrunk to a pout then lifted again. "The house I'll be going to is a block away from Orchid."
To the right of Orchid was Peony, to the left, Carnation, because the elite surrounded themselves with flowers. Though even those places weren't all viewed as equally desirable.
Ella remained silent, endured as the dinner conversation centered on which members of the elite might show up at the party.
Finally the meal was done and her father stood. Ella caught his eye. "Do you need my help?"
