“If you don’t mind—I do appreciate all the food—but I would rather go straight to talking about Gill,” I say. I didn’t come here to listen to Villiam rant about politics.
His face softens. “Of course.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on the table. “As I recall, you said it was the stab wounds that killed him...not the suffocation?”
I stiffen as I picture the blood seeping through the back of Gill’s shirt. “Yes.”
“Perhaps the assailant only meant to scare him by shattering his tank, but when Gill cried out, he grew scared himself and attacked.” My chest tightens as the scene plays out in my head. The killer kicking away Gill’s ladder. Wheeling him helplessly to the stage. Smashing the tank and letting Gill fall to the floor. “You mentioned the wounds were messy, didn’t you? How many were there?”
“I didn’t... I didn’t count. But, yes, they were messy.” I clutch my stomach. I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all.
He studies my face. “Sorina, we don’t need to talk about this. The last thing I want is to upset you.”
“No.” What did Kahina say? That I couldn’t detach myself. Maybe she’s right. I can’t simply remove myself from my emotions the way Villiam can. But that doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. “I want justice.”
“It was more than likely a religious fanatic from Frice,” Villiam says. “I’m powerless to bring such a person to justice.”
“But I don’t think it was,” I protest. “How would a random visitor know that Gill would be alone in his tent? And how would they know that Gill can’t breathe in air?”
“Perhaps because he sleeps in a vat of seawater?”
“SomeonemurderedGill. They killed him, on stage, for me to find. And he’s not even real! I created him! They’re not supposed to be able to get hurt! I didn’t create a family so that they’d die!” I cover my face with my hands as I cry for the fifth time in the last twenty-four hours. It’s difficult to hold back the sobs, and Villiam quiets for a minute until I bring myself back under control.
“I already began an investigation into his death, you know,” Villiam says. “Not so much into the perpetrator but how someone managed to kill him. The guards last night have written me a report on what they found. I promise you I will find the answers.”
I wipe my nose on one of Villiam’s expensive table napkins. “What kind of investigation?”
“I’m not certain I want you involved. You and the others are grieving. It isn’t healthy to be focusing on revenge. Focus on healing, instead. You’re clearly still distraught—”
“I’m notdistraught—”
“You aren’t yourself. You’re on edge. You look like you’ve barely slept. And you’re only sixteen years old—”
“But I need to know who did this.”
“And I will try to find you as many answers as I can,” Villiam says, his voice tight. He has obviously already made his decision to leave me out of this. “We’re exploring all possibilities. Questioning people near your tent. Looking into our visitors’ book. Determining—”
“That isn’t going to tell ushowGill was killed,” I say.
“I was getting to that part, if you would only stop interrupting me.” His deep voice booms, and I sink into my seat, holding on to my composure by a thin thread. “I’m also trying to determine if there is some aspect to your jynx-work we don’t know about.”
I frown. “Like what?”
“As you know, illusion-workers aren’t common anymore. I’ve never met one. Perhaps there are aspects to your abilities that have been forgotten over the years.”
I stand and walk toward Villiam’s bookshelves, half to examine his collection and half to hide my face as its redness fades. “You have books all about illusion-work, though. You said you know everything about it.”
“I’m sure I do, but we’re investigating it, just in case,” he says. “I’m not suggesting you donothing. I’ve known you for thirteen years—you’re hardly the type of girl to sit still. So perform in your show. Go out and meet more people who aren’t illusions. You need to keep yourself busy. But not with this. This won’t help you move on. I’m worried about you.”
I only half listen and browse through his encyclopedias on jynx-work, most of which are on the floor. They’re massive volumes, each bound in quality leather with golden tabs on the side, marking places where Villiam has taken notes. They chronicle the types of jynx-work that have come and gone over the past few centuries. Many abilities cycle. Some die out. Occasionally one never seen before becomes common.
“Could I read through these books, as well?” I ask.
“I assure you that I’ve read them all multiple times. There won’t be any answers for us in there.”
“But still. I’d like to read them. You’re always telling me to read more. This would give me something to do.” I pluck a volume of jynx-work from the Eastern Kingdoms in the last century. On the cover is a sea dragon curled into a spiral, its scales embellished with a glistening glaze. “And if you’re not using books, how are you investigating illusion-work?”
“I keep detailed records on the jynx-work of everyone here, especially you.” Beneath the shelves sits a trunk large enough to fit a person, which contains the records of everyone living in Gomorrah. We are not an easy people to track. Some have lineages that trace back to the earliest days of Gomorrah, but more often, our members are misfits who joined on a whim. We have Down-Mountainers escaping criminal charges. Up-Mountainers persecuted for their jynx-work. People attracted to a nomadic lifestyle, to performance, to the magic of the Festival. Gomorrah is as large as many of the city-states we visit, so the role of the proprietor is no easy task.
“There may be something I’ve forgotten,” Villiam says. “Maybe you should revisit your original sketches for the illusions. Perhaps there was a fault in your blueprints.”
