We reached Ceyrun as the sky darkened. Dusty workers queued at the gates, and an Acolyte checked their names off her roster one by one. At the roadside, an ox cart waited for indentured labourers to climb aboard. The convicts would be taken to lodges in the Berai province—their home until the completion of their sentences.
Millie had not said a word since we left Verje’s estate. I was miserable, guilty, and increasingly anxious in the wake of her silence. This was unlike her; she was naturally expressive and carelessly sociable, but now her face was closed to me. Should I say sorry? Should I try to make conversation? Every topic that came to mind was either pathetically trivial or hideously self-involved, and while Millie had every right to be angry, I still wished that she would talk to me.
As a result, I was a little taken aback when she stopped at the corner of Swallow Road and apologized.
“What are you saying sorry for?”
Civilians passed us; we stood like rocks in a river. A grumbling man moved from one streetlamp to the next, lighting them.
“Oh, I don’t know. For being insensitive, mostly,” she said. “And for not being able to help you more. With, you know, Renewals. And your mother.”
“Oh, come on, Millie.”
“No, I mean it. A lot of the time, I kind of forget your situation.”
“If anything, you’re more patient than I deserve.” I rubbed the back of my neck. My face felt too hot. “And actually, I wanted to say thank you. For today. And all the time, really. I, uh … I appreciate you.”
Without warning, Millie stepped forward and hugged me. I made a small sound. Her grip tightened.
“You don’t have to thank me,” she whispered. She smelled like grass and dust and sweat, like summer. “But if anything else comes up, make sure that you tell me. Anything else your Herald asks for, I want to know about it.”
I suddenly felt flustered by her closeness, acutely aware of her warmth and the softness of her hair. I swallowed. Nodded. She let go of me and smiled.
“Visit Finn, okay?” she said.
“I will.”
I watched her until she vanished at the end of the road, feeling the ghost of her arms wrapped around me. She was renting a cheap room in Major West, six blocks from the South Gate. I knew that she could afford better, but Millie avoided spending money on herself. She had been that way ever since her parents died.
For the first time I could remember, I wished that I owned an estate. Maybe someday. Hanna could sleep in the barn.
The streets bustled as I made my way back up Pearl Boulevard. Merchants were setting up stalls for the night bazaar, laying out jade-coloured scarves and bronze jewellery, carved soapstone figurines and blown-glass ornaments. Moon Tide Eve was only a few days away, and business was thriving. Hungry, I stopped at a vendor selling deep-fried bean cakes. The seller dipped her ladle into the shimmering oil and fished out two, then wrapped them up in maize husks and handed them across.
As I accepted the greasy parcel, a quick movement in my peripheral vision distracted me. I looked to my left. The road was full of people, all of them moving, talking, bartering.
“Everything okay?” asked the seller.
“Fine,” I replied quickly. “Thank you.”
I paid her and hurried up the road. It was probably nothing, but I felt like someone had been watching me. I glanced backwards. Probably nothing.
The Candle was a double-storey bar, with a covered wooden deck that overlooked Milner Road. It had been converted from a run-down bakery eight years ago, and two of the old bread ovens remained to heat the place in colder months. Four large chimneys poked through the shingled roof. The tiles had a distinctive orange gleam, which, in the right light, made the building look like it was on fire.
I entered through the wide front door, sidling past a group of loud patrons. One of them—already reeking of alcohol—attempted to hug me, and I ducked out of the way. His friend reined him back in, calling out an apology. The night had scarcely begun, and already the place was packed. People shouted to be heard.
On the far side of the room, Lucian was working the bar. When he saw me, his expression soured.
“Hello to you too,” I muttered, nodding in acknowledgement. A bull-necked merchant’s son, Lucian had always disliked me—and since I had started working at Food Management, that dislike had morphed into outright animosity. While I was not personally responsible for taxing his father’s business, I was the nearest available Sister. Lucian remained only too happy to hold me accountable for the sins of my department.
In all honesty, I didn’t take it too personally; it was common for people to resent the Order. I mostly just tried to stay out of his way.
I made my way along the timber wall to the stairs at the back of the room. The air was stuffy; people occupied every one of the trestle tables, and still more were arriving through the front door, yelling to their friends over other patrons’ heads. The mood was relaxed, good-natured. I felt prickly and out of place.
A stage filled a corner of the second floor; the sides of the platform stained deeper brown by years of smoke and spilt drinks. A few regulars swayed to the music. I leaned against the wall, out of the way of everyone else.
A wispy woman with black curls sang and beat a slow rhythm on her hand-drum. Finn sat in her shadow, picking at his eight-string with close concentration. His light hair had fallen forward over his eyes, but it didn’t matter—he played by touch. Up there on the stage, he never noticed much; not the lights or the clamour, not even other people.
Some of my anxiety eased, and the pressure inside my head faded.
After Sefin Vidar wheezed out his last, spiteful breath, his grandchildren had inherited both his house and bookkeeping business. Neither of them wanted the business; Millie had run away six years earlier, and Finn would probably have preferred to burn the offices to the ground. So instead they sold it and used the proceeds to pay for college tuition. Millie studied counselling, but Finn went into music and philosophy, subjects without obvious practical applications. Which I suppose was the point. We all knew it would have killed Sefin to see his grandson happy.
But the old house, Millie kept. Neither she nor Finn would set foot inside it, but they still tried to rent it out. I wasn’t sure if they were successful in finding tenants; when it came to matters related to their grandfather, I tried to ask as few questions as possible. Better not to re-open old wounds.
The song came to an end. The singer bowed, and the audience clapped, a few people cheering. Finn pushed back his hair at last and took a sip of water. The shifting play of the lights made him look gaunt and strange, but he was smiling, enjoying himself. He typically performed three or four times a week, more than that during the festival seasons. His gaze travelled across the room, and his face brightened when noticed me standing in the corner. I lifted the bean cakes in greeting.
It had been a while since I had watched him play. Work had kept me busy, especially as the drought dragged on. I headed back downstairs to wait for him while he packed up for the evening.
The Candle’s loud, drunken atmosphere was only getting louder and drunker; the ground floor teemed with people. Someone had shattered a glass over by the door, and Lucian was clearing up the broken pieces. As I tried to sidestep the mess, he looked up and saw me.
“Here to meet Finn again, huh?” he said, with a knowing smirk. “You two seem to spend a lot of time together.”
I kept my face neutral. “Hi, Lucian. Nice to see you.”
“I heard about the Haunt from the other day.” He straightened. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? Wonder where he caught it.”
“Have a good evening.” I stepped out the door. “Pass my regards to your father.”
I scored a point there; before I turned away, I saw rage flash across Lucian’s face. I smiled grimly. Good. Not that I should provoke him, but after the day I’d had, I allowed myself a small moment of satisfaction.
Milner Road felt pleasantly cool compared to the Candle. A row of magnolia trees grew on the other side of the street, their glossy leaves lit warm yellow in the lamplight. I crossed over and sat down on the old bench under the branches. The sounds of laughter and shouting were muted here; I stretched and leaned back, tracing the weaving flight of a moth above my head. People passed by—couples, lovers, groups of friends. I was half in the shadow, and most of them didn’t appear to notice me at all. Strange, how far away they seemed.
I breathed out slowly.
Millie could be right; I might just be under too much pressure. But the vision I had experienced today … I didn’t even want to put words to it. Sick. Something was very wrong with me. And maybe my paranoia was foolish, maybe I should just ask the Order for help. Maybe someone would actually be able to fix me. Yet, even now, a deep-rooted instinct held me back. I could not shake the conviction that if the Sisterhood found out, they would martyr me.
Finn emerged from the bar. I sat up straighter, but before I could call out, Daje appeared behind him.
“—question of loyalties,” he was saying. “It looks odd, that’s all. It’s not that they don’t trust you.”
“And Millie?” snapped Finn. His shoulders were raised; he seemed annoyed. “How is the situation any different for her? I know where my loyalties lie.”
Daje made an exasperated gesture. “As I said, I trust you. But you need to realise that appearances still matter. People don’t think you’re serious.”
“Which people? Because if we’re talking about Millie’s favourite bad choice again, I really couldn’t care less.”
“Just be there, all right?” Daje performed a small gesture, a practised swivel of his left wrist meeting his right fist. “And try to understand where they’re coming from.”
Finn scowled, but returned the gesture. “Fine.”
Careless, out in the open like that. Anyone could see you. I watched Daje turn and walk back into the Candle. Then I stood up.
“Finn?” I called.
He started and turned. Just like when I had surprised Millie earlier, Finn’s face went a little pale at the sight of me. Wondering what I might have witnessed, what I might have overheard. That’ll teach you to be more cautious. But he smiled, covering up his unease, and walked over to the bench.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked.
“Because it’s out of the path of the drunks.” I lifted the parcel of bean cakes. “These were probably better hot, but I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving.” He gestured thanks and took one, his fingers brushing mine. “I didn’t know you’d be coming tonight.”
“Spur of the moment decision. That was a new song at the end, right?”
He nodded. “Did you like it?”
“Very much.” I took a bite of my own bean cake. Spicy but soggy. Definitely would have been better earlier. “What did Daje want?”
Finn winced.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“It’s nothing. Just people being stupid.” He took a bite. Chewed and swallowed. “I’m going with him to sort it out tonight.”
“So you’re saying that you’re too busy for me. You’ll just take my terrible food and leave?”
His expression was pitiful. I reached out and lightly punched his arm.
“I’m joking.”
“I know, but…”
“Finn, it’s fine. Stop looking so serious.” I held out the remainder of my bean cake. “Do you want the rest of this? Because I don’t.”
He wavered, then took it.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, glancing at me sidelong. The lamplight caught on his cheekbones. “I promise.”
It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what Finn was involved in. I wandered back up the road alone. For his sake, I pretended to be oblivious. Well, maybe it was also a little for my own sake. Being a Sister, what could I possibly say? It seemed kinder to feign ignorance, easier to act like it didn’t matter.
I sighed and crossed the bridge to the Wheren District, heading back toward the dormitories.
Eleven years ago, a group of civilians had formed an underground movement seeking to topple the Sisterhood. They were not very successful, creative, or organised, but they were loud. Subversive slogans appeared on the walls, department buildings were raided, unsubtle threats of violence hung in the air. It was nothing new; Aytrium had seen hundreds of similar protests. At the time, most Sisters regarded the latest iteration of the “Resistance” with something between exasperation and contempt. With one notable exception.
I remember feeling afraid when my mother broke rank. I’m still not sure how she won their trust, but she started attending a few of the civilians’ meetings in secret. Once she even took me with her. I sat in a dark hall, listening to strangers while they talked about justice and tyranny and righteousness, and knew that—while everyone was polite and friendly on the surface—my mother and I were the enemy. Not to be completely trusted, but to be tolerated. Perhaps used.
Then someone in the Resistance poisoned a Herald. And although the Sister survived, the Order’s patience finally ran out.
The night of the incident, the Resistance had met in a school hall in Major West. A lamp tipped over. What followed next was never made entirely clear; the Order only reported that flames caught, spread, and engulfed the room.
Not a single person made it out. In one night, Finn and Millie lost both of their parents.
Although it was never publicly acknowledged, my mother later told me that the doors to the hall had been locked from the outside.