part0003

“But then you may very well end up dead, and I would never see my money again.” Zura let the last item of clothing slip from her fingers into a puddle of silk on the table. She meandered over to her cushions and lay back on them, then used a finger to trace patterns in the velvet. “I am merciful. Though you stole these garments, I can see the skill with which you reconstructed them.”

Cinder felt a glimmer of hope. She had reworked the clothing at night, counting every stitch as her eyes strained in the dim light thrown by the oil lamps. She had taken the dresses to the city’s tailors to show them her skill, but they had turned her away. Every single one.

Zura smoothed out the velvet and began drawing again. “So I will give you this chance you so desperately seek. Succeed, and you will become the seamstress for the House of Night. I will pay you one daric every three months, in addition to your room and board.”

Cinder’s mouth came open. A daric was a large gold coin, and what Zura offered was about double what the other tailors made. The numbers flooded Cinder’s head. Her thumbs tapped against her fingertips, her mind spinning with calculations. She would be able to pay off her own debt in less than one year. Her mother and grandmother’s debts in six. Seven more years—2,556 days—and they could all be free.

Zura smiled, showing perfectly straight teeth that gleamed, white and sharp. “We will place your creations on the new companion I plan to purchase. If she earns two hundred attalics in bids, you will begin the next day.”

Magian handed another scroll to Cinder, but aside from the numbers, the characters made little sense to her. Sweat broke out on her brow. Magian scooted next to her and began reading out loud, her voice as smooth and sure with the words as Cinder’s fingers were with a needle.

“Very well,” Zura said with a sigh. “First thing tomorrow morning, you and I shall make a trip to the moneylender of your choosing. He or she can read the document and you can see for yourself.”

Cinder considered the offer. Zura was a snake, but the woman wouldn’t have anything to do with deciding Cinder’s fate—that would now be decided by the patrons. And deep inside, Cinder knew the clothing she was making would be well received. “And if I fail?”

Cinder pressed her lips together to keep her acid words from leaking out. Zura thought she would fail. But Cinder would show her. Clanwomen were strong as stone. More supple than a sapling. “I accept your bargain,” Cinder said.

Zura watched her with emotionless eyes. “Tomorrow, after we visit the moneylenders, I will take you into the market and you will purchase whatever fabric you need. Be ready to leave first thing in the morning. If you can prove yourself worthy, the job will be yours.”

Zura poured herself some more tea. “Of course, I will have to add it to your debt. If the companion proves worthy of my house, I will repay the cost of the material.”

Cinder figured the numbers. The finest fabric and the best ornamentation would cost around forty attalics. Her total debt would still be well below the four hundred Zura needed to claim her as a slave. “My dresses are good enough.”

Magian circled around the back of her table and placed the ledger in its cube. Sick to her stomach, Cinder turned toward the door. How was she ever going to tell her mother and grandmother what she’d just done?

“And Cinder,” Zura called. Cinder paused, one hand stretched toward the door. “The outer gate is locked for a reason,” the older woman finished. She called for Farush, who opened the door, cane in hand.

Cinder clenched her fists, her breaths coming hard and fast. But there was nothing to be done. She marched back into the room and lowered her robes. Standing naked from the waist up, she braced herself against the desk as the cane whipped through the air behind her.

Cinder was surrounded by colors. Hundreds of them, deep and rich, bright and airy, soft and subtle, bold and striking. The textures were nearly as varied. For once, she had no desire to count them. Instead, she could have spent hours sinking her hands into the plush fabrics, skimming her fingers across the slippery ones. But there wasn’t time. Forcing herself to focus, she wandered through the aisles, searching for something that matched the vision in her head. Something that would look like lust-come-to-life under the lights.

And then she saw it. Wine-red, rich as blood. She touched the fabric, which shone like satin but was sturdier somehow, so it would hold her stitches without puckering. Cinder didn’t know the name for the fabric—no one had ever taught her. But a name didn’t matter, not when her hands knew by the feel and texture. She glanced at the price on the end of the bolt. Fingers tapping, she quickly calculated in her head. Six attalics. “I’ll need a bolt of this one and another bolt of white,” she said.

Where is this all being sent?” the apprentice cloth-maker asked sourly. This shop was the first place Cinder had come for a job months ago. Apparently, they wanted her shopping here only slightly more than they wanted her working here.

“The House of Night.” Cinder started to move away to look over the threads when she saw three girls about her own age, all of them leaning close to listen. With the gold bedecking their bodies, and the three slaves trailing behind them carrying bolts of fabric, the girls were upper class.

Growing up in a brothel, Cinder should have been used to this by now. Yet it never ceased to infuriate her. Right now she was a servant. But soon her gowns would be so well renowned that these girls would be begging for one.

The girl nodded and started gathering up the order—eighteen attalics in as many minutes. It was enough to make Cinder sick. She watched to make sure the girl didn’t cheat her.

“You can always tell a clanswoman,” Sadira whispered loudly enough to be heard by the entire shop, “because they’ve had all the color washed out of them.”

The welts on Cinder’s back burned anew. She would not ruin her chance at freedom over this girl. She took a deep breath and counted doubles: two, four, eight, sixteen, thirty-two, sixty-four . . .

Losing count, Cinder rounded on her and said, “Jealous that you can’t even get a man to look at your goat face for free?” The moment the words left her lips, she wanted to snatch them back from the air. Not because she regretted them, but because she knew they would get her in trouble. Too late to worry about that now.

Cinder turned on her heel and marched away without a backward glance. Sixteen steps later, she was outside the shop. The heat hit her. It was the hottest time of the year—the end of the dry season when the humidity had picked up but the rains hadn’t cooled things off yet. She sagged against the stone wall and braced herself against her bent knees. She had to remember that while she might not be a slave, neither would she ever be those women’s equal. They could mock her and bully her all they wanted. Fighting back would only make it worse.

She heard the girls coming her way, all indignation over her insult. Cinder hurried down the street. Maybe, just maybe, she would never see them again. Maybe Zura wouldn’t hear of her insubordination. Counting her steps, Cinder broke into a run. She still had one stop to make before meeting up with Zura at her friend’s house, and she was already behind schedule.

Holding her veil over her face to protect her pale skin from the relentless midmorning sun—and to hide her clannish features—Cinder crossed the dusty street and wove through the market of lesser goods. She kept her head down to hide her eyes, not wanting to elicit jeers or nasty glares, and picked up counting where she’d left off: 128, 256, 512 . . .

When she reached the glassmakers’ district, she stepped into the billowing heat of one of the finer shops. Forcing herself not to count the panes of glass waiting to be picked up, she made her inquiries. The master glassmaker wasn’t too receptive at first. But once Cinder had convinced him she worked for the House of Night and had proven she could pay for half of her order up front, he reluctantly promised to try to make what she asked. One more stop at the cobblers, and then she was practically running back the way she’d come. She was supposed to meet the mistress at Tya’s house long before now.

Cinder checked back over her numbers and started up where she’d left off: 1,024, 2,048, 4,098 . . . or was that 4,096? She was concentrating so deeply she didn’t notice the girls from the cloth-maker’s shop. Didn’t see them as a pair of hands were planted firmly in her side, sending her sprawling into the path of an oncoming chariot. Cinder landed face first, her nose smacking the flagstones in a burst of pain. She looked up into the deep red of the horse’s flared nostrils, its hooves poised to pound down on her. With no time to scramble out of the way, she curled into a ball and braced for impact, but the horse gathered itself on its hind legs and leapt over her. Two wheels churned as the chariot passed over her, the base of the axel scraping across the welts on her rounded shoulders.

Her back on fire, Cinder let out a breath. She felt warmth and wetness running down her chin, tasted blood, and realized her nose was bleeding under her veil. After unhooking it, she leaned forward so her blood would drip onto the dusty street instead of all over the front of her brown servant robes.

The driver hauled back on the reins and called out to the frightened horse, while another man leapt from the chariot, rushed to kneel beside Cinder, and pressed a bit of cloth to her face. “Are you all right?”

The group of retreating girls froze. Sadira reluctantly turned her head, while the other girls stepped back from her as if she had some sort of disease. “Darsam, I didn’t see you, my lord,” she said.

Cinder’s eyes widened. The House of Night was a hotbed of gossip, and the wild son of the city lord featured in many of those stories. It was purported that Darsam ran his own gang of tribesmen thieves, and because of the connection with his father, the city watch was powerless to do anything to stop him.

Darsam’s fists were clenched, his jaw tight. Slowly, as if by force of will, the tension drained out of him, and he affected a careless stance—eight fingers tucked under his folded arms. "Haven’t you heard? Murder is punishable by instant beheading in Idara.”

The girl’s gaze slid to the side, searching the shadows between buildings as if for help. No help came. Sadira straightened. “You can’t murder a slave. Only put them down like a dirty animal.”

The man’s gaze shifted down to Cinder. She shot to her feet, blood running down her face, and yanked off her headscarf to reveal the cobalt tattoos on her scalp above her ear. “I am no slave.”

Cinder spit blood into the dirt. “You’re just mad I called you goat-face. But really, it’s your parents you should be angry with. I had nothing to do with it.”

Still grinning, he swept his gaze over Cinder, lingering a beat on the blond hair settled around her shoulders. He was perhaps a handful of years older than her seventeen, and his dark chest was bare to the unforgiving sun. But instead of a shaved head and long beard, his face was clean shaven, and black curls framed his face. Cinder made the mistake of looking into his eyes—black like the strongest orray and lined with kohl. She could have sworn she saw admiration in their depths.

He was beautiful, she realized. Beautiful and powerful—two things that made him very dangerous for her. She tore her gaze away, tapping her thumb to her fingers to distract her from the disconcerting warmth spreading through her.

The man’s admiration shuttered off, leaving behind a dark rage he fastened on Sadira. “And what about my chariot? Or my horses? My team is the best in the province. One of them could have broken a leg.”

“I’m sure you know all about whores and their rights,” Sadira snapped. “Why don’t you pay her a visit later? Check for injuries yourself.” She sent a scathing glance back into the shadows, whirled around, and stormed down the street. Her friends didn’t follow.

Cinder spit blood onto a flagstone and did her best to wipe her face clean with her sleeve. “I’m not a whore.” She wasn’t sure if she was shaking from indignation or shock or both.

She whipped around, glaring at him for the insult she was sure he’d just given her. But movement behind him drew her attention. A figure in black, wearing a veil. His gaze locked with Cinder’s, and her mouth came open in a silent gasp. She recognized those close-set eyes—the man carting the piss pots. The one who’d spied on her for Zura, and who was probably spying on her now.

Cinder forced herself to remember who this was—the lord’s son. She counted down from ten and then back up again before she trusted herself to speak. “I have to meet the mother.” Without another word, she turned on her heel and started down the street.

Cinder paused, fury coursing through her in waves. She could feel the watching Idarans’ gazes boring into her—two by two by two. A lord’s son could make unending amounts of trouble for her. Better to give him what he wanted rather than raise his ire. “Cinder,” she said before gathering her robes into her hands and running down the street.

When she arrived at Zura’s friend’s house, Cinder was breathless, having paused only long enough to wash her face and as much of her robes as she could in a nearly dried-out public fountain. This neighborhood had been fine once, but now chunks of plaster had fallen from the walls, and some of the shutters were missing.

Cinder slipped passed Zura’s guards, who smoked idly by the chariot, and passed through the little gate into the courtyard that used to hold flowers. Now there were fifteen rows of vegetables and twelve sapling fruit trees. Cinder knocked on the faded turquoise door with its chipped mermaid knocker. A moment later, a slave girl with the dark skin and tightly curling hair of the Luathan opened the door. Cinder entered the house, and the girl quickly shut the door behind her. The thick planks were designed to keep the heat out for as long as possible.

It took a moment for Cinder’s eyes to adjust to the dimness. The anteroom was meticulously clean, but some of the marble tiles were cracked, and the furnishings were a little sparse and worn.

Without saying a word, the slave girl led Cinder to the tea room. It was small and rather dim, with the shutters firmly closed against the sun. In the center of the room were cushions of purple velvet that had once been fine but now bore the permanent impressions of numerous rumps. Zura sat with her friend, Tya. The woman used to own the Star, one of the finer pleasure houses in the university district. But that was before it went bankrupt nearly a year ago.

Cinder slipped quietly into the room. While she waited to be acknowledged, she started counting the pearls struggling to escape the rolls of fat around Tya’s neck: one, two, three, four, five, six.

A little older than Zura, Tya gazed at the swirling dust motes caught in the shafts of light leaking through the shutters. “I think what I miss more than anything is the dancing.” The woman sounded constantly breathless. Her jowls jiggled as she spoke, making it even more challenging to keep track of the pearls. “The Star was renowned for it above all else. Patrons would come from all over the city to see my girls dance.”

Cinder was so distracted she lost count of the pearls altogether. She wondered what the two women were talking about. Surely Zura wasn’t in any financial duress. It was rumored that she had more jewels than the queen herself. It was also said that the meals the patrons ate were finer than what was served in the palace.

“If the brothels go down,” Zura went on as she pushed to her feet, “the slaves are only a step behind. Then we’ll both be out of business. It’s in Jatar’s best interest that we both flourish.”

Tya struggled to stand, and for a moment the pearls disappeared altogether. “He’s like a hyena on carrion, snapping the bones to suck out the marrow before the carcass turns to dust.”

Zura took hold of her arm and hauled her toward the door even as Tya waddled after them. “You’re late. Again. Apparently twenty lashings wasn’t enough to impress upon you the importance of punctuality.”

As the slave girl hurried to open the door for them, Zura really looked at Cinder. The older woman’s eyes widened. “Your robes are covered in blood. What happened?”

Zura looked back to find Tya watching them, arms straining to fold across her ample chest. “Not another word,” Zura said under her breath as she strode outside, the door closing softly behind them.

As soon as they were on the other side of the low wall, Zura pulled Cinder around and studied her face. “There’s no damage.” She relaxed a little and hauled Cinder into the chariot, the guards a couple of steps behind them. Zura picked up the reins and slapped them across the horse’s back. No one besides herself could ever drive a chariot to her satisfaction. They lurched onto the street. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

When Cinder finished with the story, Zura had pursed her thin lips into an even thinner line. “Darsam is one of Lord Bahar’s younger sons. He’s wild and willful. And you say he showed interest in you? How much interest?”

Cinder hated tribesmen almost as much as she hated Idarans. She’d been a child during the Clan War. She remembered cowering in the dark tunnels beneath the winter palace in Idara, hoping the clanmen would beat down the doors and set her family free. Instead, the tribesmen had given the city aid. Queen Nelay had become a goddess and driven the clanmen out in a storm of fire and ash.

In return for their aid, the tribesmen had been given lordships over all Idara’s cities. But instead of being grateful, the Idarans hated them for it—for their strict ways and sticky honor. And the fact that over the last decade, Bahar’s new tariffs had shut down much of the once-thriving pleasure and slave guilds.

Zura shot Cinder a cunning smile. “If Darsam finds our establishment favorable, the tribesmen lords may follow. And if enough men of power return as our patrons, Bahar will have to back down.”

No wonder Sadira hated any woman who came from the House of Night—her father was one of Ash’s patrons. At nearly forty-seven, Cinder’s mother still looked to be in her thirties. And she still had enough loyal patrons to remain a companion.

To Cinder’s surprise, Zura didn’t turn up the rise toward the mansion, but instead wove down twenty-seven streets to the poorer sections of town. Cinder watched as the buildings became more dilapidated, the people more ragged. Seven naked children played in filthy puddles in the street. The gloriously painted and carved doors that Idarans so prided themselves on became warped and rough, with paint chips of multiple colors embedded deep in the grain.

The chariot headed down a mean-looking street. A pair of thugs guarding the entrance to an alley looked over their shoulders at Zura and nodded before turning their backs. When Zura turned the chariot up that alley, Cinder couldn’t stop staring. Men and women lined the broken flagstone street. All of them were naked, save for a thin loincloth.

Cinder knew the story, though her grandmother Storm had told it only once. Of standing naked under the relentless sun with her suckling baby in her arms. Of the men parading past her, touching her, inspecting her teeth. Of a language she barely understood, spoken fast and loud. And then she had come to live in the mansion and become a companion.

Zura dropped from the chariot and paced forward, her guards a step behind her. “Cinder,” she called in exasperation. “Must I beat you to get you to keep up?”

Dozens of finely dress Idarans, all of them reeking of money, turned to consider Cinder as if she too might be for sale. Counting her steps, she rushed to catch up to the mistress as they strode past a line of slave men. Some were muscular and strong, others old and withered. There were children, too. Weeping children. Most of them looked like Cinder—pale, blue-eyed, blond. They were clansmen and women—her people—though there were some Luathans with charcoal skin and tightly curled hair.

Not bothering to answer, Zura stepped before a door featuring a carving of a grotesque face with distorted features. As the older woman straightened her veil, Cinder noticed her hands shaking, almost as if she were nervous. What could possibly make Zura nervous?

Cinder took three smaller steps so the number of steps would be an even sixty. Farood knocked, and a man who was missing half his teeth pushed open the door, releasing the smell of human waste and sweat mingled with a sickeningly sweet perfume. Cinder tied up her blood-stained veil and breathed shallowly.

Holding a scented handkerchief under her nose, Zura, along with the guard, disappeared inside the darkness beyond. Cinder didn’t want to go in there—didn’t want to see what awaited her. But then a muffled scream rose up behind her. She started and hurried the six steps after Zura. Inside was some kind of anteroom cloaked in shadows. A toothless guard stared at Cinder and Zura. More guards were posted at the entrance to each corridor.

To keep the slaves from escaping, Cinder realized. She tried to remember how many steps she’d taken since coming inside to add it to her total, but her mind was blank and panicked. She forced herself to concentrate. And the number came suddenly—sixty-six.

A moment later a man emerged from the dark corridor. His gaze flicked to Cinder, though he didn’t meet her gaze. He was perhaps a few years older, whip thin, with large ears framing a lumpy, bald head covered in swirls of tattoos that almost made her dizzy. He smiled an oily smile. “Zura, if you will follow me."

They started down the long corridor to a door—sixteen steps, bringing Cinder’s total to eighty-two. Durux gestured for them to enter. Zura looked back at Cinder. “Wait here.” She straightened her robes, then she and the guards stepped inside, leaving Cinder with the bald man who stared at her body as if he was trying to see inside it. Cinder closed her eyes, her lips working as she counted: seven, fourteen, twenty-eight, fifty-six . . .

In front of her, the door opened to a barrel-chested and finely dressed man probably in his mid-forties. A sparkling ring adorned each of his fingers. Squinting at Cinder as if he couldn’t see very well, he reached out and undid her veil before she could react. He studied her in the way a man might look at a horse he was thinking of buying. “So this is the girl who’s caused you so much trouble,” he said to Zura.

“Oh, I think she has everything to do with it.” Jatar stepped aside and motioned for Cinder to come in. Wanting desperately to run away, she glanced back down the corridor. There stood Durux, his face in shadow. Eighty-two steps past three guards and an alley full of slaves, buyers, and slave drivers.

Cinder stepped into the room and gasped at the lavishness of the decor. Eight gold cushions surrounded one table and a deep-red mosaic floor, the tiles of which she was itching to count. But the beauty was spoiled by twelve naked girls lined up along one wall, their dark skin oiled and buffed to a shine. They were all Luathan, their tightly curled hair braided or rolled together like rope.

From behind, Jatar rolled a lock of Cinder’s hair between his fingers. She spun around and batted his hand away. He stepped back as a grin overtook his face. “Well, she’s certainly beautiful enough for it. But she has not the desire to please. Of course, some men like that.”

Zura’s gaze raked the slaves, starting with a young girl with budding breasts, all the way to a woman with gorgeous curves. And Cinder understood. These slaves would not be auctioned off before the masses like the rest. No, these were reserved for men who had the money to pay for pleasures. Cinder shuddered with revulsion.

Still squinting, he stepped up beside her and pointed. “These three can sing. The middle five are fair dancers. All can serve and act when they have to—I made sure of that. The one on the end hasn’t the talent for either, but with her body, who cares.” He was referring to the woman with the generous curves.

The woman sighed. “You wish to be my seamstress, which means you will be in charge of making these women beautiful. You have more to lose than I do. Tell me, which one would you choose?”

Cinder knew she was being punished for sneaking out. For wanting something more. She wanted to turn around and leave the room. But she knew the stakes. If she didn’t take this chance, she’d wind up in the mines. When she returned, no one would hire her, and she’d end up in a common brothel. She took a hesitant step forward. Pretending the girls were dress forms, she covered them with cloth in dozens of colors, concealing their faults and enhancing their strengths. She imagined the way the girls would look under the lights as they danced. And she realized what would probably come after that dance.

Zura’s hand came up hard and fast, leaving Cinder’s cheek stinging. “You think it a burden to be one of my girls? The House of Night is the finest in Idara. Any girl who is chosen will live in luxury. My girls are well treated, and I do not allow abuse from their clients—which is more than I can say for the lives that await every other girl here. The false lord thinks he’s freeing whores, but he’s really just forcing them to live in the back rooms or shadows of the taverns or alleyways.”

Zura paced up and down the line of slaves. “It doesn’t matter,” she said finally. “With the right makeup and clothes, I can make any of them beautiful. With the right attitude, I can make any of them desirable. It’s talent that makes a woman stand out.”

She stopped before the last girl, who looked no more than twelve. She was pretty, with startlingly large eyes framed by thick lashes, and a nose dusted with freckles. Cinder thought she almost looked like a frightened kitten.

“You said this one can sing?” Zura asked. At Jatar’s nod, she announced, “I’ll take her.” The older woman’s eyes glittered with malice as she turned to Cinder. “And you will teach her.”

Cinder’s heart sank as she stared at the girl. Barely more than a child, she seemed fragile somehow. Of all the slaves, Cinder thought, this one was the least likely to be chosen by Zura. The one least likely to earn enough bids to become a companion. Zura was counting on Cinder failing! But she wouldn’t.

Zura slapped her again. This time, Cinder barely felt the sting. “You know so little about the lusts of men,” the older woman said. “But you’re about to learn.” She turned to Jatar. “Twenty attalics.”

Zura’s conversation with Tya snapped into place in Cinder’s mind. Zura was in debt to Jatar, but the woman was somehow convinced she would have the money in a few days. Did Zura really think this little Luathan girl would fetch enough bids to get her out of debt? Cinder was ashamed to admit that the idea gave her a queasy sort of hope. Maybe she could make something of this girl after all.

The door suddenly came open, sending a breeze through the room that set the lamps to flickering. Shadows danced across Zura’s and Jatar’s faces as if the light was afraid to touch them. Durux strolled in and stood beside the older man. “You’re needed.”

Cinder made to follow and then looked back. Durux had the girl trapped between the wall and himself, though no part of him touched her. He breathed deeply, obviously savoring the smell of her as his nose moved down her neck and followed her collarbone. “We didn’t have a chance to play, little kitten.”

Durux’s dark eyes snapped up to catch Cinder. “Oh, but I have left her alone. He made me promise I would.” The backs of his fingers stroked the girl’s cheek.

Cinder shot a look down the hall—at Zura’s retreating form, and Jatar ahead of her—and called loudly, “How will your patrons feel about your slaves being tainted?”

Durux slinked away from the slave, his gaze hot on Cinder as he stepped toward her. “Why didn’t you just say you wanted to play too?” He reached for her arm, but she jerked back.

“Sick, twisted little beggar,” Farood agreed. Such disgust from one such as Farood was telling. He looked down at Cinder, his expression a fraction softer. “Come along, for the mother loses her patience.”

Glancing back at the crying slave, Cinder suddenly felt glad the girl was coming to the House of Night. Ludicrous as it sounded, she would be safer in a companion house than with these slavers. Cinder grasped for the numbers. She was too rattled for doubles, so she settled on counting her steps—eighty-two of them from this horrible place and back to the chariot.

The girl was crying, one shuddering breath for every three hiccupping sobs. Cinder concentrated on the numbers to keep herself from losing control. She kept reminding herself that she was fine—she wasn’t being locked up. No good reason existed for the panic reaching up from her stomach to choke her throat and make it difficult to breath. No reason to want to whirl and run for it.

Zura slipped the skeleton key from around her neck and inserted it into the door. She waited for Farush and Farood to enter the cell and then followed. Cinder took firm hold of the tray and stepped into the dank room, which had been built into the cellar. The slave girl darted to her feet, her fists clenched around the gray sack she wore.

The girl staggered back, a welt in the shape of a hand print forming on her cheek. “Yes, Mother.” Cinder could hear more of an accent this time. The girl’s “th” almost sounded like “d.”

“Surely one of the companions would be more suitable,” Cinder said morosely. “One of the women from the Luathan section—they know their people’s dances and songs better than I do.”

Zura whirled on her. “If this girl fails, so do you. You have seen the dances and heard the songs all your life. If you’re not clever enough to know them by now, you have no place in my household.” She pushed past Cinder, her feet making measured clipping sounds—one-two, one-two—that slowly faded as she started up the stairs that led out of sight.

Cinder closed her eyes. I am not locked up, I am not locked up, I am not locked up. Zura is trying to make me fail. She wants me in the debtors’ mine. Cinder turned to face the girl, who stared silently back, tears streaming down her face. She would never do as a companion, even if she could sing.

“My name is Cinder. I wasn’t sure how well they were feeding you before.” Cinder settled the tray by the blankets and hoped the girl didn’t notice her shaking hands. “So I brought something easy on the stomach—broth and bread.”

Naiba stared hungrily at the tray. She resisted a moment then plopped down, picked up the bowl, and drank straight through. She tore off a chunk of bread and finished it in nine bites. “You have an Idaran mark?” she said, her tone almost accusatory.

Cinder winced. She knew what the girl really meant. Cinder was clearly clannish, so why the Idaran tattoo? “I was born here,” she answered, “so I’m free. My mother is clannish. I don’t know my father.” He could be one of dozens of men, none of whom had ever laid claim to Cinder, but she wouldn’t tell Naiba that.

Cinder hesitated before deciding she would rather know the truth if she were in Naiba’s place. “Your skills as a performer will be auctioned off—you will be hired out as an entertainer. After you’ve gained some notoriety, your virginity will be auctioned off as well. The highest bidders will have access to your bed, but I’m sure Zura won’t expect that from you until you’re older—probably around seventeen. The more money you earn, the more lavish and comfortable your life. The less you earn . . .” Cinder didn’t finish.

The girls eyes slipped closed as a horrified shudder tore through her. She shot Cinder a disgusted look. “You’re free to do anything you want, and you chose this?”

“I don’t have a choice.” Cinder picked up the tray and marched out the door, not caring if Naiba followed. “How am I ever supposed to reach two hundred attalics in bids on a girl the men can’t even bed?” Cinder muttered to herself.

Six steps to cross the cellar, filled with fruits grown in the Hansi Province, and half of a sheep carcass. Twelve simple wooden stairs and she stepped into the kitchen. The air was heavy with the smell of roast lamb and cinnamon. Cinder paused, counting to five for each breath, in and out, until her heart stopped racing.

Storm, her grandmother, was busy preparing breakfast in the outdoor ovens. She had aged out and come to work as a cook. At forty-seven, Cinder’s mother wasn’t far off from being retired as a companion, though there were rumors that one of her patrons wanted to purchase her—something Cinder refused to think about.

Scattered throughout the kitchen, six companion children peeled and sliced and kneaded in preparation for dinner. Their mothers were slaves, just like Cinder’s mother. They were all in debt, same as Cinder, though she was by far the oldest.

Naiba cast a longing glance at the food. Cinder didn’t bother. Servants would eat whatever was left over. If there was anything. “This is where the servants and slaves prepare the food,” she explained. “After the companions and their patrons eat, it’s our turn.”

“The House of Night has late hours,” Cinder replied. She crossed the kitchen in sixteen steps and wound up twenty circular stairs to the second-floor attic. Inside were two rows of sixteen blankets where the servants slept. Nearest the far window was Cinder’s space—a couple of worn blankets and the few treasures she had managed to collect over the years. A comb with most of the teeth broken off, a shard of a mirror, a few interesting rocks, and some pretty scraps of material. There was also a dress form she had made herself, stuffing the worn linen with threadbare rags and mounting it to an old broom handle.

She stopped before some clean bedding and an empty basket waiting to hold Naiba’s things, not that the slave girl had any. “You’ll stay here until you’ve earned your title as companion. It’s unbearably hot in the evenings and cold by morning, but you sort of get used to it.”

Naiba looked it over and said softly, “I used to share my bed with my sisters—there are five of us. We didn’t have any brothers. My father always said he was cursed with girls, but he always smiled when he said it so we knew he didn’t mean anything by it.”

Cinder had never known a father—never known a man’s love. All she knew from the House of Night was that men were never to be trusted, only subtly manipulated. Outright manipulation was only done by the men.

Twelve steps later, Cinder stood before the narrow window and motioned for Naiba to look out. From their place atop the rise, they could see the city spread out before them. The lord’s palace rose up on their right. Each district in the city had its own pleasure house, though many of them were boarded up now.

Below the window, the courtyard was covered in flowers. Cinder’s gaze lingered on one plant in particular. It wasn’t especially pretty, but its earthy, clean scent drifted up to the window at night, reminding Cinder of Holla, her aunt buried beneath it. Clanwomen were always buried, unlike Idarans, whose custom was to burn their dead.

“The mansion is inside a walled compound near the lord’s palace,” Cinder told Naiba. “The gates are locked, and Zura will beat you if you try to escape.” Even as she said it, she fingered the lock-picking tools hidden beneath her breast wrap. It would be fairly easy to set the girl free. But even if Cinder did, where would Naiba go? No one in the city would help her. On the contrary, she’d be turned in to the city watch and returned, probably before morning. And then she and Cinder would be beaten so badly they wouldn’t be able to walk for a week.

“Come on, let’s get started.” Cinder pulled out her measuring tape and memorized the girl’s measurements. For a while, her mind was lost to the efficiency and order of the numbers. While she worked, she told Naiba the house rules, which basically boiled down to doing as they were told, always referring to Zura as “Mother,” and remembering that she had spies among the companions, slaves, and servants. It was best not to speculate on who those spies might be, as they tended to shift when Zura had something to blackmail one of them with.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Cinder gave Naiba a pointed look before a breathless Marish appeared in the doorway and reported, “Storm says to get the serving done before you’re late.”

Pursing her lips, Cinder hustled back downstairs. Naiba trailed behind her. At the table, the girls were already plating the flatbread. Lugging a pot of khash—sheep’s head, brains, hooves, garlic, lemon slices, and cinnamon cooked through the night—Storm pushed into the kitchen. She set the pot on the long table and used her shoulder to wipe the sweat from her face. Nearly in her seventies, she was a beautiful woman, with wavy silver hair that matched her silver eyes and gently seamed skin.

Magian entered the room and gathered the breakfast tray. “You managed to traipse all over the city looking for a job and sew a dozen dresses. Compared to that, this shouldn’t be too hard. Now, move to it. Or I’ll be forced to tell my mother.” She turned on her heel and left.

“Seven,” Cinder muttered under her breath. “It was seven dresses.” She balanced five trays, two on each arm and one on her head. “You might as well see the mansion,” she told Naiba. “Bring a tray with you.”

The girl stuck to Cinder’s side as she hurried outdoors. The other children followed, carrying their own trays. Fifteen steps through a long colonnade that led to the main building. Thirty-eight thick stone columns decorated in beautiful tile mosaics made up the interior. Between columns was a pivot door that could be opened to let in the heat, or closed to keep it out. This time of year, the doors stood open to catch the morning breeze off the river that carved a fat brown path through the verdant valley. It wouldn’t be long before the monsoons came, flooding the river into a lake that would feed the rich fields. The building itself featured glittering marble floors, and ceilings resplendent with mosaics of circles within circles.

The group broke apart, two girls each starting for one of four wings housing twelve companions each. Cinder headed to the clanswomen section. Here, the walls were made of what looked like stones rounded from the relentless rushing of a clean river, but were really just plaster. Murals featured high mountains capped in white and green forests and fields. A poor substitute for the real thing, Cinder’s grandmother always said.

“Keep up,” Cinder said. With a start, the girl ran after her, porcelain ratting dangerously. “Be care—” Cinder began even as she backpedaled. But it was too late. The girl slipped on the smooth marble. Cinder watched as one teapot, one cup, one saucer, one bowl of khash, and one plate of flatbread came crashing down. Five things, shattered into dozens.

How was Cinder ever going to make this child into a performer so awe-inspiring that men would pay handsomely for her presence at their meetings? Cinder closed her eyes, counting doubles: 132, 264, 528. Calmer now, she let out a long sigh. “I’m so far in debt at this point, what’s three more attalics. Gather everything onto the tray. Hurry back to the kitchen, fetch another tray and bring it to me. Then you’ll have to hurry back and clean this up. The men will start to filter down any moment, and we can’t allow them to see such a mess.”

She hurried away without waiting to see if Naiba would obey. Cinder already risked another caning for being so behind schedule. She bypassed the great room with its center platform, banquet tables, and low tables surrounded with purple-and-gold velvet. At this time of day, the bedrooms, located on the building’s periphery, were closed tight, since most of the occupants still slept.

Cinder went from one room’s antechamber to another. She settled the plates on the small table, rang a bell to wake the companions and their patrons in adjacent bedrooms, and left to go to the next room. Cinder always saved her mother’s for last—luckily Naiba had finally caught up with a tray when she reached it. As usual, Ash waited at her small table.

Cinder quickly introduced Naiba to her mother and then sent the younger girl back to clean up her mess. After shutting the door behind her, Cinder settled the tray down and kissed her mother’s smooth cheek. Her golden hair and silver eyes still made her a favorite among the older patrons.

“Did you manage to find a job?” Ash spoke softly, as she always did in her rooms, for they never knew who was listening through the seven peepholes they’d found in the walls. Not to mention the fact that Ash’s patron was still asleep in the bedroom.

Counting as she set out the dishes, Cinder wondered if she should tell her mother about the deal she’d made with Zura. But there was nothing to be done about it now, and talking about it would only upset her mother.

Unfortunately, Ash was quite perceptive. She took Cinder’s calloused hands in her soft ones and said, “I’ve heard that Mubia is more open to those with clannish blood. Perhaps you should go there to seek a job.”

“Zura would never let me leave the city. Not with my debts.” Cinder didn’t say the rest. Zura was convinced Cinder would be on the first ship to the clanlands, never to look back, even though Cinder had no intention of ever leaving her mother and grandmother behind.

Ash sighed. “Pour the hot water.” She went to a side table and removed the lid to a little jar. Here was the safest place to talk, since the bedroom was on the other side and no one could read their lips to tell they were whispering—something strictly forbidden. Ash pulled out three leaves of the wedlock weed that would keep her from having a child. Cinder brought her a cup and stood so their shoulders were touching.

Her mother removed the leaves, stirred honey into the tea, and took a sip of her tea, and made a face at the bitter taste. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“I didn’t have a choice. Zura found the dresses I’ve been making. She accused me of stealing. It was agree to be her seamstress or go to the debtors’ mine.” Cinder shuddered at the thought. “I made her sign a contract. The moneychangers read it aloud to me.”

Her words cut off as the bedroom door opened. Wearing his sleep clothes, General Balthdur grinned at Ash. He was the main reason she hadn’t been retired yet; he was negotiating with Zura to purchase Ash as soon as his ailing wife died. Cinder couldn’t look at the man without wanting to strangle his fat neck.

“What are you two whispering about, my clanwoman?” Two arms snaked around Cinder’s mother from behind. Ash shot Cinder a fierce look that sent her scampering for the door. She closed it softly behind her, blocking out the wet sounds of their kissing.

Cinder had spent too long in her mother’s rooms. Already some men were in the corridors, reminding each other of the drunken business deals they’d made the night before—her grandmother often said the entire province was run from this brothel. Cinder kept her head down, moving smoothly to attract as little attention as possible. Still, she felt more than one pair of eyes following her.

If she couldn’t sew, Cinder decided she could at least train Naiba while she cleaned. On her hands and knees, Cinder counted strokes as she scrubbed the tile floor near the banquet tables. Naiba stood at the exact center of the platform like she was afraid the walls might collapse in on her. For the fourth time, Cinder stopped scrubbing to show her the Luathan dances. Soap bubbles dripped down her arms as she demonstrated the elegant curls and turns of the wrist and her feet stamped out the rhythm. The dance was meant to be graceful and powerful, but when Naiba tried it, she looked more like she was having some sort of fit.

Naiba took a deep breath and let out a few crystal-clear notes in Luathan. Cinder looked over the girl again with new eyes. Though she wasn’t beautiful, she had an innocent freshness about her. With Storm’s and Ash’s help with makeup, the girl could probably be made into something near pretty.

To a place where you will be used up like the rags I’m scrubbing the floor with, Cinder thought sadly. By helping with Naiba’s training, was Cinder trading this girl’s future for her own freedom? She pushed aside her guilt. Not training Naiba would only result in lower bids or the girl being sold off somewhere worse. “There’s no point in worrying about that,” Cinder said. “Right now, I want you to worry about what Luathan song you should sing.”

Naiba closed her eyes and opened her mouth. A somber, haunting rush of sounds broke forth. Cinder could sense the loneliness, even if she couldn’t understand the words. They worked on each note—when to hold it and when to let it go. How to build the song from something soft and gentle into a crescendo that left chills on Cinder's arms.

By dinnertime, the great room shone from top to bottom. Cinder hadn’t started on the dress yet, but she was beginning to feel a measure of hope that she could pull this off.

That night, she helped the companions serve their men and immediately cleaned up any spills or crumbs. As the evening wore on, Cinder grew increasingly tired. She’d slept so little over the last few months that she was rarely without a headache. She was tempted to try a bite of the lamb chops, but Zura’s spies were always watching.

When the last of the companions had retreated to their rooms with the men, Cinder went to the servants’ house. In the kitchen, Storm was clearing away the last of the dishes. Cinder took a bowl of lentils and counted each bite as she wound her way up the stairs to the stiflingly hot attic room. Naiba was already asleep. Cinder longed to join her, but she had only one day to finish the dress.

She sat down on her broken stool and gathered the rich fabric into her hands. Afraid of making a mistake in her exhausted state, she measured twice before cutting anything. Still, she cut the last panel too small. She stared hopelessly at the useless piece of fabric. No doubt Zura would make her pay to buy more. And she dared not try to hide it, because Zura always found out.

Cinder pressed her fingers into her burning eyes and rubbed them until they watered. Her thoughts would be clearer in the morning. The night had cooled considerably, as it always did in the desert. Bracing herself for the coming darkness, she blew out the lamp, then pushed to her feet and reached out to close the window. Below, a hooded figure slipping from the mansion made her pause. Instead of heading to the outbuildings, the person, clearly a woman, glanced around carefully. Instinctively, Cinder ducked behind the sill just as the shadowed gaze turned her direction. When Cinder peeked out again, the woman was moving toward the back gate.

Cinder tensed. Didn’t the companions all know about the new guard? Where was he, anyway? She searched the wall but couldn’t see him. The woman was headed straight for danger. Cinder almost opened her mouth in warning. Before she could, a form detached from beneath one of the garden trees and snatched the woman. Cinder swallowed a gasp.

What would he do to her? Worse yet, what would Zura do? The guard spun the woman around and said something too low for Cinder to make out. And then he laughed. Cinder scrambled to come up with some way to help that didn’t make things worse.

But instead of dragging the woman back to the mansion, he wrapped his arms around her and kissed her. Stunned, Cinder gaped at the two as they stumbled toward the garden shed. The guard broke away from the woman just long enough to push open the door. Before the pair disappeared inside the shed, golden lamplight bathed the man’s long face, revealing a strange mark on his cheek.

Cinder gripped the windowsill so hard her fingers hurt. A companion risked death by consorting with anyone other than her clients. Disgusted by the woman’s carelessness and lack of regard for her own safety, Cinder moved to the washbasin and wetted her finger before dipping it in salt and polishing her teeth—fifteen strokes on each side. She washed her face and shaved the sides of her scalp, then turned to go to bed. Beyond the window, the shed door swinging open caught her gaze. She shot a searing gaze at the two lovers.

The woman was adjusting her clannish dress, but the man grabbed her arm and pulled her back to him. Just before their lips met, her upturned face caught the light.

Cinder’s arms fell limply at her sides. It was Ash. Her mother kissed the guard, whose hands were all over her. Then she pulled back and tugged her hood over her head. The man slapped her behind on his way to unlock the gate, and Ash disappeared from view. Cinder’s mother would never be that stupid. Would never risk her life and the lives of her daughter and mother to slip outside the House of Night. Not unless she had a very good reason.

Before Cinder knew what she was doing, she had slipped into her own cloak and tugged the hood down low over her face. She grabbed the closest thing she had to a weapon—a pair of scissors—and tucked them deep in the pockets of her robes. Her gaze searched the shadows where her grandmother slept. At least Cinder hoped she was sleeping.

Cinder’s head swiveled toward Naiba’s dark form beside her grandmother. “Out to the privy.” She felt the girl’s eyes on her, felt her hesitation, as if she knew Cinder was lying. There was a rustling sound and a long moment of silence. Naiba must have lain back down.

Relieved, Cinder counted her steps as she stole past the row of women. Soon she slipped into the velvety darkness and rushed toward the shed. She chewed on the inside of her cheek—if her mother was caught, she would be sold. And despite her years in Arcina, Ash did not know the streets. Cinder had to know why she would risk so much.

He took a step closer. It was too dark to make out his features other than that he was lanky, with big ears sticking out against the star-strewn sky. When he grinned, his teeth flashed in the moonlight. “Twice in one night, and a new one at that.”

Before she could react, the guard had her pressed up against the gate, his wet lips plastered against her mouth. She struggled against him, but his grip was like iron. She jerked out her scissors, then grabbed the back of his neck and held the point to his throat. “Give me the keys.”

The guard tried to maneuver away from the knife, but Cinder held him in place and pushed the point into the delicate skin. He froze and she felt his throat working—one, two, three times. “And what do you think the mother will do when I tell her you took off?” he gasped.

Cinder gritted her teeth and pushed the scissors far enough that she knew she was drawing blood. She remembered the mark on the man’s cheek and suddenly realized what it was: a single-flame tattoo that was given to the queen’s redeemed—men who had once been criminals. In Idara’s time of need, Nelay had freed them, promising their marks of shame would turn to marks of honor if they proved themselves. But this man’s mark had not been finished. He had run, deserting his people in their darkest hour.

“And she would be more likely to believe the word of a fallen?” Cinder hissed. The guard didn’t respond. “You’re going to let me go. And you’re going to let me back in. If you don’t say a word, then neither will I about what you did to my mother.”

Very slowly, the guard took the key from around his neck and inserted it in the lock. With a snick, it gave way behind Cinder. She scrambled out and slammed it shut. Hopefully Zura or one of her spies hadn’t heard the commotion. Cinder held the gate shut for a moment, waiting for the guard to come after her. Instead, the lock snicked again.

Relieved, she whirled toward the empty streets. Her mother was nowhere in sight. Cinder’s gaze darted down the three possible routes, not knowing which her mother would have taken. She jumped up to grab the branch of a tree next to the tallest building and started climbing. When she reached the top, her hands were sticky with sap. She stretched out and took hold of a roof beam that stuck out from the mud-brick walls. She hooked her leg around the beam, pulled herself onto the roof, and peered into the night, glad for the light of the moon. She saw nothing to the west or south, but a dark figure moved to the east.

She had no way of knowing if the person was her mother or not, but Cinder didn’t have any other options. She took hold of a roof beam and dangled over the street before letting herself drop. She hit hard, her knees jarred and her feet stinging. Ignoring the pain, she sprinted silently through the deserted streets, counting her steps as she went. She carried her scissors firmly in her hand. The city watch was good at their job, but the shadows were deep, and this part of the city seemed eerily silent. Not even a glimmer of lamp light could be seen in the windows.

Cinder could taste blood on the back of her throat 1,958 steps later, when she caught up to the figure and confirmed it was her mother. Ash was hurrying along, the long dagger in her grip a deterrent to anyone who might think to molest her.

Tugging her veil over her face, Cinder hung back and tried to keep her steps silent. She’d counted 3,453 steps when her mother moved to the eastern side of the city, not far from the palace. Here, there were still lights on and people about, most of them drunk or up to no good, or both. Ash stepped toward a tavern called the Sand Snake. Cinder ducked behind an empty street-vendor cart just as her mother looked back. Breathless, Cinder waited to see if she’d been discovered. Seven heartbeats passed before Ash turned away. A moment later, she disappeared inside the tavern.

Frozen with indecision, Cinder watched two people stumble outside, sound and light coming with them. Despite the late hour, closer to morning than evening, the tavern sounded busy. Hoping she could blend in, Cinder checked her veil and hurried after her mother. Tribesmen filled the tavern. Rather than the rich colors Idarans preferred, the tribesmen’s robes were a nondescript tan, meant to blend in with the desert. They didn’t wear tattoos on their scalps, either. Their accents were fine and sharp, like sand blasting against Cinder’s skin.

Her mother sat at a table with one of the tribesmen, an untouched drink before her. Checking to make sure her veil was tightly secured, Cinder kept her eyes down and sat on the cushions at the short table behind her mother. She could hear Ash’s voice, low and urgent, but she couldn’t make out the words. She was speaking to a thin man in his forties with a piercing gaze.

Out of the corner of her eye, Cinder saw her mother hand the man something wrapped in a bit of cloth. He opened it, smiled, and leaned back in his seat. Cinder stood up, waving at the tavern maid as an excuse to see what the man held—rubies sparkled like crystallized blood. It was an earring Cinder had seen her mother wearing the night before.

She couldn’t even begin to guess the value of the items her mother had stolen. Fire and burning, Zura would kill her for it. Under her veil, Cinder pressed her hand to her mouth and tapped her fingers to distract herself from throwing up.

Cinder muttered some excuse. By the time she had her wits about her, her mother was already slipping out the door and back into the night. Cinder bolted after her, determined to catch up and demand to know what was going on. But Cinder had no sooner left the building than a hand clamped around her mouth, and a strong arm rolled her off her feet and spun her into the alley flanking the tavern.

She struggled, reaching for her scissors, yet his grip—he was too strong to be a woman—only tightened until she saw stars. He pinned her against the wall and searched her. He found her scissors and took them. “Who are you?” His voice was gruff and hard.

“I don’t have any money,” Cinder gasped. “Just scissors, and you already have them.” By the Balance, please don’t let him want anything else. She had managed to fend off the guard, but this man was obviously better trained and unbelievably strong. She didn’t stand a chance at stopping him if he wanted to molest her.

The man holding Cinder wrenched her around and tied her hands behind her with quick, efficient movements. Then he forced her toward the rear of the tavern, to a set of stairs leading below ground. She struggled all the harder, remembering all the times Zura had locked her in the cellar for the slightest disobedience. The other man grabbed Cinder’s legs, and they hauled her into a lamp-lit room, where they pushed her into a chair.

Her gaze darted around the room. She needed one window—just one. But there were only four cloistered walls, covered by city maps with markings she couldn’t read. She closed her eyes, and rocked, counting.

Cinder forced her eyes open. Standing before her was Darsam, the lord’s son who’d nearly killed her with a chariot. She tried to glare at him but was afraid it came off as begging. “What do you want with me?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “You followed a woman from the House of Night into the tavern. Eavesdropped on her conversation. I want to know who you’re working for. Did Zura send you? Jatar?”

Darsam loomed over her, his hands bracing the table on either side of her. “Girls go missing in the city all the time. The streets aren’t safe at night.” Fear churned in Cinder’s belly. “Now, tell me who you’re working for and—”

One, two, three, four hot tears of fear and exhaustion and anger rushed down Cinder’s cheek. She hated them—wished she could make them stop, but they only came faster. Five, six, seven, eight. “Zura punished us by locking us in the cellar. For days, sometimes. I can’t—” Panic welled up again, stronger than even before. “I don’t do well underground. I followed my mother to find out why she would risk her life . . . had to make sure she was all right. She doesn’t know the streets like I do. It’s dangerous out here.”

Darsam gazed thoughtfully at Cinder, then straightened and removed her scissors from his pocket. When she stiffened, he held out a placating hand. “I’m just going to cut you free.”

Not completely trusting him, she leaned forward. Three seconds later, her hands came free. She rubbed out the stinging in her wrists, wiped the tears from her face with her sleeves, and pushed to her feet. “Why did my mother come here?”

He didn’t answer. Grunting, Cinder edged around him and headed for the door. The man standing before it shot a questioning glace at Darsam, who must have given some sign that she could go, for the guard stepped aside and let her rush out into the dark night. She pounded up five steps before she stumbled and fell, bruising her knee.

Cinder resisted the urge to pull out of Darsam’s grip. “I would prefer to get there on my own.” He didn’t respond but simply walked beside her, his pace matching hers. “Why won’t you tell me what’s going on?” she asked him.

“You’ve already done us harm,” she replied through clenched teeth. She had to think of a way out of this. Some way to stop the events already set in motion. “Give the earring back to me. I’ll make it look like it was merely dropped. Ash will be caned for losing it, but—”

Cinder glanced up at the lightening sky and picked up her pace. “Too late for the spoiled son of the city lord to care about some lowly prostitutes?” When Darsam didn’t answer, she felt a moment of fear at the memory of his unforgiving grip.

“See, there was your mistake,” said the guard’s voice. “Zura would have known that I let Ash go. But she’s back now. And you aren’t—you, the girl with a history of sneaking out.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she followed him and said, “Why?” He didn’t answer. She rolled her eyes. “I’m sure this is all terribly exciting for a man for whom the consequences don’t apply, but I need to find a rope. So unless you’re heading to one . . .”

Darsam looked back and forth as if searching for something. Now it was light enough that she could make out his well-muscled body and the features of his face. He was breathtakingly handsome.

He dug his shoulder in, straining, and the cart inched toward the wall. Her mouth fell open. She’d seen a pair of donkeys struggle to move a cart smaller than this one. A beat later, she settled in beside Darsam, pushing for all she was worth. Once the cart was lined up against the wall, he climbed to the top and held a hand out for her.

Cinder considered not taking it—it had always been hard for her to touch men—but he had helped her without any obligation. She let him pull her up and was surprised to find thick calluses on the hands of such a rake. Darsam squatted down and braced himself against the wall. “Straddle my shoulders,” he said quietly.

Tapping her fingers in indecision, she looked at his broad back, then up at the slate-gray sky. There wasn’t time for another option. Cinder sat on his shoulders and he rose smoothly. “Now, stand on my shoulders and haul yourself up,” he told her.

She’d seen street performers do this before. Darsam held his hands up for her. She placed her sweaty palms against his dry ones and rose to her feet. Wobbling a little, she had to stand on her tiptoes to reach the top of the wall, but she didn’t have the arm strength to haul herself up the rest of the way. Without hesitation, he stepped up onto the raised edge of the cart and rose onto his tiptoes, boosting Cinder just high enough to hook her hands on the other side of the brick. She took hold of the wall and scrambled up. Straddling it, she looked down at him.

Cinder was reluctant to leave without answers to her questions, but she could already smell the smoke from Storm’s cooking fire. She swung her other foot over the wall and dropped to the ground.

Cinder paused at the door to the kitchen. Her grandmother was already at the long table, muttering to herself as the knife skinned mangos. Cinder didn’t see any of the other girls about. She swallowed hard, her fingers tapping frantically against her thigh, and stepped inside the room.

Cinder hesitated, reluctant to admit she had followed Ash when she didn’t even know what her mother was doing yet. “I went to one more place to see about a job.”

“I got up early this morning and worked on it a little for you,” Storm informed her. “If you take it to your mother, she can stay up today while you do your chores.”

Cinder sent the other servants downstairs so she could finish the hems. Naiba lingered by the window, staring out over the city. “Last night, where did you go?”