“Does anyone have a match?” Crown asks. “I...forgot to bring some.”
We rarely needed matches. Blister lit our candles and charcoals for us.
“Here.” Villiam pulls a brass matchbox out of his pocket and hands it to Crown, who thanks him quietly and bends down to position the firework in the dirt.
It shoots off in a streak of gold. I wince at the sound of the explosion.
Boom, I hear the echo of Blister’s voice.
Tree gathers up the shovels and thuds back toward the Festival. Hawk spreads her wings and flies into the distance to be alone. The rest of us linger. And when we do begin to tread back to our tent, Crown lingers still.
I walk beside Villiam, the hot summer wind whipping my hair across my face and the grass against my ankles. “Why would anyone do this?” I ask.
He frowns. “Nicoleta told me that Blister’s death was an accident.”
“She’s in denial. First Gill and now Blister, barely a week apart? That’s too much of a coincidence. And Blister never would’ve gone near a dunk tank on his—”
“It’s not proper to speak of such things at funerals,” he says. “Let’s go—”
“Then when do you want to talk about it?” I snap. “Because all I could think about the whole time is that we’re out in the open, that the killer could be here watching us and we’d never notice. Who has to die next before you realize that these aren’t random—”
“Sorina.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I’m so rigid and anxious that I have to hold back the urge to shrug him off. I want space and air and for my heart to stop pounding.
“I... You’re right. Of course you’re right,” Villiam says. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I pull away. I don’t want him or anyone else to touch me. “The timing of these two tragedies is unusual and terrible. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I am looking into Blister’s death, as well. I’m doing...” His voice cracks. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Are you? I don’t want you to justlook intoit. I want a full-scale investigation, and I want to help. I want to make sure my family is safe.”
“Sorina... I really don’t think this is a good time for you. You know that I like to involve you with my work, but this is a decision I’ve made as your father, not the proprietor. Trust me to do my job. I’m trying to protect you.”
“How can I trust you with this when you think Blister’s death was an accident?”
His expression looks wounded, as if I’ve insulted him. Maybe I have. Of course Villiam is doing everything he can. He has a hundred things on his plate at the moment, all dire. “I will begin the ‘full-scale investigation’ you want. I will question everyone in Gomorrah if that protects our family. Of course I will. I’d do anything for you. But you need to promise me something.”
Why is it that every time I ask someone to do something reasonable and necessary, they always ask for something in return? At what point do my requests stop being opportunities to teach me some kind of lesson? I’m not acting like a child. Whether or not I’m an adult, I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be worried. It isn’t some fault in my character that I demand the right to ensure my family’s safety. The childish thing to do would be to dismiss the facts in order to avoid a truth you don’t want to face. I’m facing the truth head-on. Even if it hurts.
“Promise you what?” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so harsh, but it does.
Villiam winces and then hesitates before he answers. I swallow my guilt in a dry lump.
“All right. If you want to be part of my investigation, you can.”
My mouth drops open in surprise. Villiam never changes his mind.
“But,” he says, “the investigation methods will not be as you think. Based on a few interviews with your neighbors and a lack of evidence to the contrary, I’m starting to suspect the perpetrators are trying to get to me through you.”
“Perpetrators? You think there’s more than one person behind this?”
Villiam glances at the others walking ahead of us with sad eyes. He lowers his voice. “Tomorrow evening. Come to my caravan like you normally would for your lessons. There is much to talk to you about.”
“Like what?”
He embraces me, and I am overcome by his familiar scent of cologne and white tea. With his breath close to my ear, he says, “I wanted to wait until you were older, eighteen, before formally beginning your training as proprietor. But the burden of our legacy has reached you earlier than I ever wanted.” When he pulls away, his eyes glisten. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen Villiam shed a tear.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow night,” I say, though I’m still not entirely certain what he means. Why would someone attack my illusions to get to Villiam? Who are his enemies? What legacy? But I’m too taken aback by his emotion to ask any more questions, especially out here in the open. “I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too.”
* * *
