when you decide
I wake early the next day, feeling lighter for having done something at least. Feeling rested, despite the early hour.
It’s the first workday in ages I’ve woken with enough time to visit Kit before our day gets started.
The Lugger’s quiet and smells of vinegar – all the windows are flung wide for a deep clean.
Gracie and Renny are already here, folding flour and fat.
“It’s those clerks at the Registry,” Gracie tells me. She has flour on her cheek. “They can’t get enough. We’re selling a basket and a half of these every midday. Need to get a bigger basket.”
“Who knew reading and writing was such hungry work?” says Renny.
“And stamping things,” Gracie reminds her. “And filling up their little fountain pens. Pulling their hoods up and down.”
Renny laughs, but I think of those five clerks still stuck in jail. I bet they’re hungry for more than pastries.
Kit’s wiping the windows, but he puts down the cloth. “Walk to the market with me, Mora,” he suggests, and when Renny groans at him, he says, “What? We need a bag of grist.”
It’s still cool now, but I think it’ll get warm as yesterday later. The sun’s behind us, gently kneading our backs.
“Have you talked to Felicity lately?” Kit asks, and I flush guiltily.
“No. Why?”
“She’s been digging about those bloody glasses. Said she was round the ammedown shops and someone told her a repayer bought two pairs of old glasses not that long ago.”
“You think she suspects?”
“There aren’t that many of us. If she’s been asking, someone could have described Ruzi well enough.”
My heart flips about like a fish out of water.
“He can deny it. Or say he got them for himself, then lost them.”
Kit frowns. “Yeah. Anyway, you need to tell him she’s sniffing. He can have his answer ready.”
“I will.”
“I knew we couldn’t trust her,” Kit mutters. He forces a smile. “Ever since she criticized my sweet-onion stew.”
“Immediately suspicious.”
He tickles my neck. “Everyone. Loves. My. Stew.”
I remember Goldie Reedstone, the first time I saw her, sitting with Felicity. Then standing up and walking angrily away. “Do you know why Felicity interviewed Goldie Reedstone?” I ask.
“Oh yes. Goldie was furious. Seems our friend Felicity told Goldie it was an interview about GR Locks – the Reedstones are doing the security for the Hexagon.”
“But it wasn’t?”
“It was a lot of personal questions. About Goldie and Glister and their staff. Goldie’s very private.”
“What was Felicity trying to find out?”
“I don’t know. But she’s sharp, Mora. Like I say, we can’t trust her.”
I glance away. “At least she talks to me.”
One of his hands grips my shoulder, forcing me to stop. I turn to face him. His violet eyes bore into me like Skivårnat lanterns.
“You want me to talk?” he murmurs. “I’m talking. You’re not listening. We can’t trust a person like Felicity Greave.”
I can’t feel anything but his hand near my neck. It pulls me back to the pine forest, after I fell, when I kissed him.
I reach to peel his hand off me, but I find now I have it, I don’t want to let go. The sinews in his wrist are overlain by his thin bracelets, the beads darker than his skin, on long brown thread wrapped around his forearms many times over. He draws my hand slowly to his chest.
“Are you pushing me away or pulling me in?” His voice is still low, almost too quiet to hear in the ordinary sounds of Portcaye going to work.
I can’t speak. My ears are burning.
He drops my hand. “Let me know when you decide.”