“So the Council believes that you did it?” Millie examined the slim-fitting trousers in her mirror. Her eyebrows knitted together. The colour was wrong.
“Maybe. Probably not. Commander Asan thinks that certain factions want the investigation expanded or diverted.”
“‘Certain factions’ means the Chief Archivist, right? Who you saw in Lokon that night. Doesn’t that suggest, you know”—she turned and looked at herself from the back—“guilt?”
I shook my head. “They found Zenza on Herts Street, so she was probably attacked minutes after we parted. I didn’t see Celane until nearly an hour later.”
“Are you okay talking about this?”
“I’m fine.”
We were inside Millie’s apartment. I sat on her bed while she sifted through her wardrobe in search of a suitable outfit. Clothes spilled over the shelves and onto the floor. I folded the rejected items and stacked them neatly on the carpet beside me.
Millie pulled off her trousers, tossed them to me, and reached for a different pair. “All right, but if Celane’s innocent, why try to pin it on you?”
I averted my eyes to be polite, although Millie was entirely unselfconscious about her body. If anything, a bit of a show-off, actually. “I’m not sure, but I think she was trying to push the idea that only a Sister could have been responsible for the murder. She said so during the inquiry.”
A slight pause. “Isn’t that the case?”
“Not at all. If a civilian caught Zenza off-guard, she might have been too slow to defend herself.” I tried not to imagine how she might have felt, how afraid, how confused. How helpless. “It would have been easier for one of us, but that doesn’t necessarily mean it was one of us.”
“I see.” Millie crossed the room to her jewellery box. “Hm. I would have thought it better serves the Sisterhood’s interests to blame an outsider.”
“Or at least to reserve judgement. I don’t know if any of the Councilwomen actually bought Celane’s idea, though. Aside from Verje and Morwin, but they’re clearly operating as a block.” I flopped over on the bed. Millie owned more scatter cushions than I would have deemed strictly necessary. “The only explanation I’ve come up with is that Celane wants to make the investigation itself impossible. Drag it out, pursue too many leads, drain resources. Anything that makes Commander Asan look incompetent.”
“Oh, so it’s political.”
“Probably personal too. I’m sure the Commander offends most members of the Council.”
Millie picked out a pair of red earrings to match the trim on her blouse. “Does this look okay?”
“Looks nice.”
“So Celane wants to unseat the Commander and replace her with a different Reverend.” She checked her reflection one last time. “But Rhyanon is clearly in with Enforcement, and thus with Commander Asan, who is probably in charge of your faction.”
“Probably,” I agreed.
“Meaning that your people are under attack.”
“Kind of.”
“And we’re going to Celane’s party anyway.”
“Accepting the invitation was the least suspicious thing to do under the circumstances.”
It was also my opportunity to figure out what Reverend Celane wanted from me. I might have entertained the possibility of her invitation being genuine, had she not tried to compulse me into accepting it. And in spite of what I had said to Millie, her presence in Lokon had been suspicious.
Better the enemy you know, I figured. At any rate, tonight I planned to be as bland as Food Management’s emergency gruel rations. After my outburst at the inquiry, I occupied a strangely powerful position. On the one hand, I was fairly certain Celane would love to shove me off the Edge. On the other, if I came to any harm, she would instantly become Commander Asan’s prime suspect. It wasn’t the most comfortable situation, but confronting the Chief Archivist had offered me a great deal of unexpected security.
Osan waited at the end of the road. He stood beside the horses of his cab, feeding them from a bag of withered apples.
“Hello, Kamillian,” he said.
Millie, pale at the best of times, went white. Her mouth opened, then closed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. There was a hint of bitterness in his voice, a hard edge beneath his smile. “I know it’s been a while, but you seem surprised to see me.”
She struggled to speak. “I didn’t realise that you worked for a Herald now.”
“Hm. How the times have changed, hey?” He presented his last apples to the horses, then hoisted himself up onto the driver’s seat. “Let’s go. Don’t want to be late.”
Millie looked shaken. I let her climb inside the cab first.
“You know I disapprove, right?” Osan muttered to me.
“It sort of just … happened.”
Through her job, Millie had learned of the Council’s inquiry, and I had found her waiting outside the dormitories when I got home from work. Relief had broken across her face the moment that she saw me, quickly followed by outrage.
I was, she had swiftly informed me, a terrible friend for keeping her in the dark; how dare I worry her like that, what had I been thinking?
And so now Millie was attending Celane’s party as my partner.
There was no need for Osan to look so disappointed in me; I felt guilty enough as it was. I stared out of the window as we rolled down the road. Millie would be effective; I didn’t doubt her ability to worm her way into private conversations. But I didn’t want to make a habit of putting her in harm’s way either.
She elbowed me in the ribs. “Relax, gorgeous.”
“I shouldn’t have brought you along.”
“No one’s going to pay any attention to me. Well, unwanted attention.” She smoothed her hair. “I can handle this.”
Celane’s city manor was smaller than Reverend Kisme’s, a double-storey building at the end of Benevolence Street. Smaller, but still one of the largest private residences in Ceyrun. It sat a few blocks from the dormitories, and three streets from my mother’s old house.
As our cab trundled toward the gates, the thought crossed my mind that I had no idea who lived in my childhood home now. After my mother’s martyrdom, her property rights reverted to the Sisterhood, along with the credits she had earned with Civil Obligations. In my mind, it was an empty, haunted place; broken plates and smashed glass and angry silences. I couldn’t picture other people sleeping where she had slept, eating where she had eaten. Yet the property had belonged to a different Herald before my mother, and another Herald before her.
Osan tugged on the reins, and the horses drew to a stop. He leaned back in his seat.
“All right, I’ll be waiting here,” he said. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“It almost sounds like you care.”
“Don’t push it, Just El. I’m not done being mad at you.”
Millie hopped down and offered me a hand. Her grip was sure and steady.
“Let’s do this,” she said.
An Oblate, around sixteen years old and looking exceedingly bored, waited by the gate to Celane’s house.
“Eater’s grace upon you,” she said. “Invitation?”
I drew out the small vellum card from my waistband and gave it to her.
She squinted. “Elfreda Raughn?”
“And I’m Lariel Sacor, her date for the evening,” said Millie brightly.
The Oblate nodded and handed the card back to me. “There are refreshments in the garden. Go through, it’s on the left.”
Millie looped an arm around my waist and steered me up the path. She tilted her head and murmured, “I thought perhaps, an alias…”
“I’m going to forget what to call you.”
“Oh, don’t be difficult. You met me at a theatre production, and we’ve been together for two months.”
Eight tables were clustered together at the far end of the garden. Filled wine glasses glinted against white tablecloths, and the afternoon sun cut through the leaves of well-tended cedar trees. An open stretch of grass divided the main house from a small guest cottage, where a group of around twenty women played a ball game. The participants called to one another, trying to gain possession of a plain leather ball, while a few spectators watched from the sidelines. Verje, dressed in a flowing blue dress, was deep in conversation with another Reverend. To my surprise, I also saw Commander Asan slouched at one of the tables, holding a half-empty glass between two fingers. Her eyes met mine, and she raised an eyebrow fractionally. I looked away.
“Which one is Reverend Celane?” asked Millie.
“Over there, in the yellow. I should thank her for the invitation.”
“Sounds like a good idea.”
We wound down the curving stone path to the tables. Reverend Celane noticed me and smiled.
“Ah, Elfreda! I’m so glad you could make it.” Her hair fanned out behind her head like the wing of a bird. She gestured at the wine glasses on the table behind her. “Please, have something to drink.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“It’s only a pleasure.” She inclined her head toward Millie. “Hello. I don’t believe we’ve met?”
Millie gestured reverence smoothly. “I’m Elfreda’s friend, not a Sister. It’s an honour to meet you, Councilwoman Celane.”
“Oh, no need to be so formal. I always like to see new faces around here. You are?”
“Lariel Sacor. I work in a theatre in Major West. Assistant set designer, but I’m hoping to be a production manager one day.”
A strange expression crossed Celane’s face, fleeting and difficult to identify. Her eyes flicked toward me. Then her smile returned.
“That sounds wonderful,” she said. “I love the arts; it’s part of the reason I chose to work in the Department of Memories. What is the theatre’s name?”
“The Jarn Holt Theatre. Just past Coronon Commons, with the bronze sculptures of the Eater’s first daughters outside?”
“Ah, I think I’ve seen it. Perhaps you could tell me about your upcoming productions later this evening.”
“I’d be happy to, if you’re interested.”
“I am, but I’m afraid I need to excuse myself for the moment. There’s a friend of mine who has just arrived.”
Once she was out of earshot, Millie muttered, “I don’t suppose you know what’s upcoming at the Jarn Holt Theatre?”
“Haven’t got a clue.”
“I’ll have to continue improvising, then.” She picked up a glass of wine and drank, frowning slightly. “Or hope that she forgets.”
“With luck, she won’t talk to us again.”
“I doubt that. She wanted you here for a reason. Maybe to charm you, get you to rescind that statement about you seeing her in Lokon.”
“Not a chance.”
“I know. But she doesn’t. Not yet anyway.” She set the glass down. “I’m going to poke around and talk to some other guests. Can you join that ball game?”
“Why?”
“So that people will see you indulging in some harmless fun. If you skulk around in the background, it’ll look like you’re up to something.”
That made sense, although I found the idea of being watched discomforting. “Okay, but be careful.”
She gave me a gentle shove. “Go on.”
I wandered closer to the field. Tryst, the game at play, might have appeared rather laidback to anyone unfamiliar with the rules. Participants paused for drinks or to greet their friends mid-match. A few women seemed to have forgotten they were playing at all, and stood in the middle of the field, chatting with their opponents.
But the obvious shows of indifference were a ruse, and integral to the fun. This wasn’t a game of physical prowess. Tryst was all about social strategy.
Four teams—yellow, red, blue, and black—competed for possession of the ball. The objective was to catch it while standing within an opposing team’s base. Squares of chalk staked out the territories. If one team member held the ball, the rest of her team froze, while all the other players were free to move and block passes.
To score maximum points, a team needed to retain players in all sections of the field. This necessitated forming alliances with opponents, who might at any point betray their promises and steal the ball for their own purposes. And so no one wanted to look too invested in winning. It made negotiating for passes more difficult.
A Herald in the black team saw me watching the game. “Do you want to join?”
“If it’s no trouble.”
“None at all,” she said, amused. “What’s your name?”
“Elfreda.”
She raised her voice. “Hey, Mirene! We have a new teammate. She’s called Elfreda.”
A broad-shouldered woman waved from the yellow team’s base.
“Mirene’s captain, and Ilva and Fresia are also on our side.” She pointed them out. “And I’m Guin.”
Ilva. I felt a shock of cold. The woman from Kisme’s party.
“You can just hang around the midfield for now,” said Guin. “Try to block passes.”
I nodded and walked to the most crowded section of the lawn—the neutral territory between the four base camps. The ball was in the hands of a grey-haired Herald from the yellow side. Her teammates had been cut off by other players.
“Need help, Devlin?” a red player called.
“Eater, no.” Devlin threw the ball to a different woman. “I’m not that desperate.”
Other players laughed—clearly this was something of a running joke. The rejected woman did not look overly upset by the remark; she only sighed and moved to block a new pass.
My anonymity proved to be a disadvantage, and I soon discovered that my primary purpose was to obstruct frozen players by standing in front of them. Still, on the whole, my teammates worked well together. We had formed a casual alliance with the blue team, who needed help more than we did. They reliably backed up Mirene’s manoeuvres.
But Ilva was clumsy. She made bad calls, missed opportunities, and caved too easily when singled out. I could tell that my teammates were frustrated with her.
“Jesane! Hey, come on! Work with me,” she called.
The woman in possession of the ball was a Herald in a fitted black dress, with lovely brown skin and thick dark eyebrows.
“No thanks,” she said. “I’d rather not.”
Ilva’s cheeks darkened with anger or embarrassment. I glanced at Mirene, who motioned for me to cover the red player to my right.
“You sure about that? Not even for old time’s sake?” Ilva pressed.
“I think I’ve made it clear I want nothing to do with you.”
A few other players winced. Ilva laughed, acting as if Jesane had been joking, but the sound was so forced and uncomfortable that no one joined in.
“You don’t seem to have many other options, though,” said Ilva. “So do you want to stand around all night waiting for something better?”
It was true. Jesane’s own team was completely blocked, and she had no obvious alliances with anyone else. Yet she could not, or would not, lose face by acquiescing to Ilva.
“Someone better, yes,” she said.
I don’t know why I did it, except that the expression on Ilva’s face made me feel like something terrible was about to happen. I stepped sideways to open a path for Jesane to pass to her teammate. She saw the gap and threw.
From around the field, I thought I heard a collective sigh of relief. The tension eased. Ilva continued to smile, teeth bared, but after a few minutes, she abandoned the game. No one stopped her. She wandered over to the drinks table and found herself a glass of cider.
I took over her position inside the black base. The pace of the game picked up; there was less begging now. Alliances had settled and the patterns of play became predictable. The Herald in the tunic dress would always pass to Herald Loks, Mirene helped whichever side was losing, and Devlin was reliable in returning favours. My team scored twice more, benefiting from Ilva’s absence, but it was clear that we wouldn’t win the game.
“It’s getting late,” called Reverend Celane from the sidelines. “Last point!”
Oh well. The ball was two bases away and in Devlin’s hands once again. I was unmarked by other players, but too far from the action to matter.
“Jesane,” said Devlin, “kindly pass this over to Heide.”
She tossed the ball across to Jesane without waiting for confirmation. Jesane caught it, then paused.
“Sorry, Devlin,” she said.
She threw hard, and the ball soared over the heads of the other players. Toward me. Despite the distance, it seemed that the ball would still pass out of my reach. I raised my hand, and yes, it was too high, my fingers grazed the stitching, and …
It was in my hand.
I blinked. The ball rested warm and solid in my palm. I lifted it.
“Does this mean we win?” I asked.
The women around me looked baffled, but Mirene whooped and punched the air, and then a few people clapped. I clearly had the ball; therefore, I must have caught it. Devlin complained about Jesane’s betrayal, but without venom. The game was done.
When I turned around, I caught Commander Asan watching me. When we made eye contact, she swivelled on the spot and marched off up the lawns toward the house.
Millie jogged over to me. “How did you do that?” she asked under her breath.
I looked at the ball again. Innocent, brown, a little scuffed. “I’m not entirely sure. It felt like someone dropped the ball into my hand.”
Lace? I wondered. But who would care whether I won or lost?
“More refreshments are available in the parlour,” called Reverend Celane.
Perhaps it was just a lucky catch, after all. Millie and I walked up the path toward the house, where warm orange light spilled out the windows. Maybe small good things were allowed to happen to me, every now and again.