18

I DIDN’T TELL PENNY, BUT I KEPT LOOKING FOR KRISTOS ALL evening. I even wandered into the cathedral as an evening service was ending. The placard by the entrance noted that the service was dedicated to the Sacred Nature of the Galatine Sea, and sure enough, a dozen fishwives clustered near the front of the sanctuary. They bowed their heads in contemplation as a choir’s harmonies pierced a thick cloud of incense.

My brother wouldn’t be here, I chided myself, and not only because his particular trade and interest was not the sea. Galatines gathered publicly to worship the divinity of the land and people who formed the nation; Pellians maintained reverence for their own ancestors and the family spirit and kept their prayers private, at home. The concepts were not so different, interested in an innate sacredness of either a national or personal nature. Kristos had never considered either worth his time. Still, I stopped for a few moments, appreciating the intricate vocal harmonies and the way the last of the sunset filtered through the stained glass and splashed pools of color on the long flagstone aisles.

A small alcove opened on my left, and I slipped out of the main sanctuary as the fishwives joined the priest in the final prayer of the service. The walls in the alcove were mosaics, depicting all of the Sacred Natures of Galitha—the sea, the fields, the forests, the spirit of trade and commerce, the divinity of governance. Candles punctuated the images, inviting the penitent to illuminate the alcove with a visible representation of their prayers. Flames flickered below the faces and landscapes, casting strange shadows. I hesitated, as this was not truly my faith or my brother’s, but I picked up a long taper and lit a votive beneath the mosaic depicting the sunburst-flocked Day’s Coin, honoring the labor of the working class, as though any small prayer, even half-believed, could help me.

Then I went to the Fair Isle, intent on keeping vigil in what was far closer to my brother’s house of worship than the cathedral.

Midway through my first glass of subpar wine, someone tapped my shoulder. I nearly flew into the rafters, but it was only Emmi.

“You’re not here by yourself, are you?” I said when I recovered my breath.

“No, my brother and his friends are playing dice—what is the matter with you?” She sat next to me. “You look like you’ve seen a demon.”

Only a Pellian would say that, I thought as I laughed quietly. “No, I’m looking for someone. I thought—it’s no matter.” I glanced at the group of men, mostly Pellian, tossing dice and passing dice cups at a long table by the window. “You don’t play?”

She wrinkled her nose. “Only old grandmamas play dice,” she said. “And boys, of course. I’m just—watching.” She blushed, and I understood; she was sweet on one of her brother’s friends.

I remembered that feeling, the excitement of joining your brother for a game of cards or dice, hoping that his whole set would show up. What had that boy’s name been? Maro. I smiled into my wine, forcing another sip. The only Pellian boy I ever thought handsome, another dockworker like Kristos, who walked me home a few times but was warned by his mama and grandmama against charm-casting girls, who might just be tricking you into loving them with a spell, even though the ethics I’d inherited from my mother prohibited making charms for my own benefit, and most charm casters followed similar self-governing rules.

I wondered if Emmi had the same problem. For me, of course, it was probably for the best—I knew now that the complication of a family would be impossible to balance with the shop, and that coverture laws meant a husband or his family could take everything from me. But for a girl like Emmi, who brought in a few coins each market day with her charms but little else, marriage was a necessity.

“Do you—Sophie, are you listening?” I turned my attention back to Emmi. “You’re not married, are you?”

It was as though she were reading my mind. “No, Emmi.”

“Is it—is it because men like their charms at the racetrack but not in their own kitchens, like Mama says?”

I laughed. “No, I’m—it’s too complicated, owning a business. You won’t have the same trouble I do if you keep selling charms at your stall in the market, though.”

“I know, but—I guess I don’t understand the laws well enough. What kind of awful man would steal from his wife?”

“I thought the same, once.” I sighed. “I knew a woman who had a millinery shop. It was—she made the loveliest things.”

“Did you make charms for her?”

“No, she was my first assistantship.” I remembered Mrs. Davies, a plump, happy woman with a halo of blond curls, always festooned with one of her elaborate creations of organdy and silk. I had been very fortunate, finding a shop owner who was not only masterful in her field but also willing to hire and train a novice Pellian orphan. “I just sewed caps—sewing caps is the best training for any kind of fine sewing,” I added. “Her husband would never have hurt her. But he fell ill, and the doctor’s bill came, and then another, and his brother took over managing his finances while Mr. Davies was sick.”

Emmi’s eyes widened. “Her brother-in-law stole from her?”

“It wasn’t stealing, legally. He just sold the shop, to pay the bills.”

“And what did she do?”

“What could she do?” I gulped some more sour wine. “She couldn’t recover the money to buy another storefront, and the Lord of Coin had blacklisted her as a failed business owner anyway. She does mending and some sewing now, but only what she can sell from her house.” Laws prohibited hiring assistants or taking apprentices unless a person had an established business. I had tried, when my shop first opened, to see if she needed extra work, but she cheerfully declined, saying that her eyes were failing for fine work but her son’s butcher shop would keep the family comfortable. I wasn’t sure I believed her on either count as I watched her whip gather a length of delicate organdy.

Emmi nodded, understanding a little more. A little more how unfair the world could be, how I tried to even the field for myself by avoiding a husband.

“I’m sorry, Emmi—that was a sad story on a nice evening.”

“No, I’m glad you told me. I wondered why—I mean, you’re very pretty, Sophie. And you’re not—before we knew you, we thought you must be unkind, to have a successful shop and no husband.” She pressed her lips together while I laughed. “I’m sorry … I didn’t mean—”

“No, I understand.” I caught my breath. A harpy, that’s what they thought I must be. “You don’t have to worry about any of this, Emmi,” I added, softer. “And I want you to come by the shop sometime soon, if you’re still interested in picking up work. We’re getting busier, and I could use a spare set of hands a few hours a week.”

Emmi grinned. “Thank you! Do you think—if it’s not too impertinent to even ask—I might learn a few new stitches? Maybe watch your assistants drape?”

I laughed. Emmi was as enterprising as I had been at her age. “I think that can be arranged.” She gave a giddy little hop and returned to her table, sitting a little closer to one young man than the others. I thought again of what Mrs. Davies had done for me, her patient, plump hands demonstrating stroke gathers or a rolled hem, the faint scent of rose hair powder wafting over her shop, and felt a faint twinge of guilt. I had been very lucky, I conceded—worked hard, of course, but without a benefactor I might never have learned the skills of my trade. Plenty of shop owners would avoid hiring a Pellian or even a provincial girl, worried that she would seem unrefined or bring bad habits with her, blemishing the shop’s image. It was past time that I consider providing that kind of benefactorship with my own shop.

The freckled waitress I had spoken with about Kristos passed by me, and at first I thought she was only going to ask if I wanted more wine. Then, her thin hand gripped my elbow like the fire tongs I used to move logs in our fat stove at home, and I knew she had news. My throat tightened.

“Over there,” she whispered.

“What?” I asked, shaking her conspiratorial pinch from my arm.

“That man’s back,” she answered, pointing. I swatted her hand down. Drawing attention to ourselves wouldn’t help.

But I followed the line her finger had made across the room and saw him. Distinctive, like she had said; his shadowed profile was not handsome, precisely, but somehow authoritative. He turned his face so that the firelight illuminated him more fully—it was Pyord Venko. I inhaled the smoky air, and it burned my throat.

“How long has he been here?” I asked, trying not to stare.

“Most of the evening,” she answered, rubbing her swatted hand. “It’s like he’s waiting for someone.”

“Kristos,” I whispered. What now? Did I hide here at the bar and pretend to drink while I watched him? Probably best, I thought. I didn’t know what he was planning, or if it was even safe to talk to him. There was a dark edge to his regal looks, an arrogance that hinted at danger. I hadn’t liked it when I was safe with my brother at the university or surrounded by my charm-casting friends at the coffee shop. I certainly didn’t like it now, alone and vulnerable. I untied my cloak and began to slide onto a bench.

He looked up at just that moment and met my eyes. I felt cold, but knew immediately—there was no hiding from him.

“You recall that I am Sophie Balstrade,” I said, my voice squeaking ever so slightly. “I am looking for my brother.”

“Indeed.” The word crackled like the logs in the fire behind him.

“Yes. And the barmaid said she had seen you with him.”

“Nosy little wench,” he said. Not angrily, but amused.

“You looked like you were waiting for someone. And I thought—”

“It might be him? No, I’m not meeting Kristos here.” His smile turned up the corners of his mouth, but it didn’t change his stern eyes. That was it, then. I felt empty defeat as my eyes prickled with hot tears.

“No,” he repeated, “I’m not waiting for Kristos. I’m waiting for you.”