crowded back there
Felicity Greave’s eating alone again when I arrive the next evening. She tears her slice of bread to bits, using them to swipe the bottom of her stew bowl clean. She waves me over enthusiastically when she spots me.
“Hmm, goodness –” she licks two fingers – “I’m going to get fat staying here!”
“Not at all!” I smile, though I think she could stand to put on some weight – she’s sinewy-strong, but almost as bony as Zako.
“I talked to the magistrate today,” she tells me.
“How is he feeling?” I ask, hoping for a relapse.
As though she knows what I’m thinking, she says, “Heartier than ever. Very pleased with himself too. He’s bought a massive mansion in the Steeps. Calling it Lovemore, can you believe it?” She grimaces. “I went in – he’s fixing it up. His wife’s staying at the country estate.”
“So he wants to live in town now?” On our doorsteps. Panic tightens my chest. How many months before we can spirit Zako away – and under the very nose of his pursuer?
“He says he needs to be more present at the Registry,” Felicity says. “Inspire greater dedication in the staff.”
“Hence buying a mansion and naming it after his boss?”
She smirks. “I suppose he didn’t get picked as the first governor of the New West without a bit of bootlicking. He says the Registry needs an overhaul. There are rumours, apparently – papers and things going missing. He wants a squeaky-clean town before Lovemore gets here.”
“Right,” I say. “I haven’t heard anything about missing papers – I thought the Registry was iron-clad – but then I wouldn’t know.”
“He’s put in some new vault doors. Ultra secure, fireproof – all that. And have you heard about the capture of the Artist?”
I hesitate. “I did hear a rumour,” I say.
“Goodness me! Venor wouldn’t stop bragging. It’s a feather in his cap and no denying it.”
“What’s he like?” I ask curiously. “To you, I mean.” I know what Venor’s like to those in his power.
“I’d say … a mixture of paranoid and self-assured,” Felicity says. Then her expression turns grim. “Have you heard what Venor is planning for the Artist?”
“No.”
She hesitates, as though she might tell me, then tosses her plait back. “You shouldn’t be hearing it from me. It’ll be all the news by Skivårnat!”
“What will?”
She taps the side of her nose with one finger, then gets up.
“Look at the time. I’ve an appointment to keep!” She waves at me. “See you soon, Mora. It’s nice to chat. I’m too used to my own company.”
I’m not sure that was a chat – a one-sided one if so – but she’s let slip something interesting. Our favourite magistrate has plans for the Artist, and they’ve shocked even Felicity.
Kit’s not in the kitchen for once. I find him in his room, sprawled over the covers. My knock has woken him up. I’m suddenly worried he is poorly after all. Perhaps that’s why he was in such a mood last night.
I’m at his side before I can overthink.
“Are you unwell?” His forehead’s hotter than my hand, but most things are. His eyes shine with surprise in the dim light.
“Just tired.” He sits up.
“Is it that extra factory work?”
“What? Oh. No. I’m fine. It’s just been busy here – getting ready for the holiday.”
I know the preparations for Skivårnat are intense. It’s the Skøl’s spring equinox festival – their main holiday. They go mad about it for a month before.
He cradles his head in his hands, fingers splayed.
I remember those fingers at my neck. Kisses melting me like the spring thaw. I’m the silly flower that popped open too early.
“I talked to Zako,” he says, releasing his head and getting up to light the lantern on his desk. He splays a small pile of books across it.
I realize with a wave of excitement they’re not Skøl. Most look Crozoni, though Crozoni books were burned en masse in the Cull.
I recognize a collection of recipes we had at home. Memories of it pierce me with frightening force. I can see Pa laughing, white flour on his brown hands, a cloud of it rising from a bowl. Enca and Eben clamouring to stir; my turn, my turn now.
Kit selects a small cloth-bound book, its script in Xan. Didn’t see many of those around even before the Skøl came. I can’t imagine where he found it. He flips it open to a picture that looks like a stubby, plaited whip, and taps it.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Prayer grass.”
I’m none the wiser. I think of the stories about Xan witches weaving dolls from grass and casting dark magic.
“Well, we called it prayer grass,” he goes on. “The Skøl use it too. They put it in schinn when it’s done distilling.”
“Why are we reading about it?”
“If you burn prayer grass before you sleep, breathe in the smoke and think of a time you’d like to relive, the memories come back – in your dreams.” He mimes wafting smoke to his face. “That’s what it says here.”
“What’s this book about?”
“Salar – Xan medicine. Herbal tonics, dressings to treat scars…” He turns to look at me, his pupils huge, small lanterns dancing in each.
“So burning this grass could help Zako remember what he overheard?”
“Could do. Xan medicine worked for my people for years. Can’t hurt to try.”
My breath trembles. Memory can be more painful than just about anything. But I know Zako will like this plan. It’s better than sitting around waiting to be killed.
“How do we get hold of it?” I ask.
“I know a man who might have some,” says Kit. “I’ll go first thing tomorrow.”
I nod. “All right. If Zako’s keen, then let’s do it. I’m sure he heard something important.”
He flips the book closed, then gestures at the others still fanned across his desk. “You want any of these?”
“To … to read?”
“No, to stand on so you can reach high shelves.” He laughs and shoots me an of course to read face. I feel a flicker of relief to see his warmth return.
“I can reach all the shelves already, thank you.”
“Take some anyway. But don’t wave them around – black market and all that.”
“If they catch me, I’ll say I bought them for kindling.” I flutter the thin pages of one of the novels and bring it to my nose. “I love this booky smell.”
“Glue and ink and old dead trees?”
“Divine.” I grin. “Thank you.”
He gives me a look I can’t interpret. “My pleasure.”
When I get back to Opal Alley I make dinner for me and Ruzi. He’s changed since Zako’s escape. Before, we ate alone, mostly. Sometimes together in silence. To be honest, we still mostly stick to silence, but he’s softer. Like he actually wants to sit with me in the kitchen eating charred sweet potatoes.
I show him the books I’ve borrowed from Kit.
“I’ve read this one,” he splutters, surprised by the Crozoni adventure novel. “Wonder how Zako’s getting on with his Blenny and Tornado.”
“Tornelius. I’ve not had a chance to see him.” I haven’t told Ruzi about Zako’s nighttime wandering the night before last either, or our plan to get him prayer grass.
“And how are you?” he asks his bowl of dwindling potatoes.
What does he mean, how am I? I see him every day. “I’m fine, Ruzi. You know.”
He grunts and spears a charred mouthful. “Your mother was always fine too.”
Mother… Ruzi always gets that weird, closed-off face when he mentions her. I’ve never asked how he and my mother became friends.
Pa used to tense up around Ruzi. He never came with Ma and me to Ruzi’s shop. But I remember the two of them at her funeral, two years before the Cull, hugging each other and crying.
At least she got a funeral.
“You and Ma…” How can I ask? “You were close?”
He meets my gaze, though I know he’s not one for eye contact. “Once upon a time.” He looks away again, shovelling the last of his potatoes down. Then he stands up from our small table, retreating. “Night, Mora,” he says.
There’s something I want to ask him, something half formed, but it sticks in my throat. I push my questions to the back of my mind. It’s very crowded back there.