“Thank you for telling me what I already know,” I snap, my chest tightening in that awful, all-too-familiar way. That’s the reason Villiam originally thought a religious fanatic murdered Gill. “Freaks” are easy targets for those hunting the impure. “As if I’m not anxious enough already.”
The officials walk in a shoulder-to-shoulder line, forming a wall from one end of the street to the other. There’s no way to get past them without running through side streets. Their strides each fall at the same moment, so it sounds like a giant stomping down the street, rather than twenty men.
“What do you think this is all about?” I ask.
Screams ring out from the bazaar as the crowd stampedes through.
“I don’t intend for us linger long enough to find out,” Luca says.
The church bells above us toll a deep and hollow sound, and it warns all those not welcome here.Get out, Get out. With our fingers still intertwined, Luca and I slip through the alley, following several others who do the same. There are eight of us in total, and we crowd together in front of a gate at a dead end. Luca’s shoulders press against mine, and his touch is a small comfort when my pulse throbs in my chest and gut.
“They won’t turn down this way,” a woman says.
Someone shushes her. “You don’t know that.”
The footsteps of the officials approach.
I focus on the gate behind us, on its iron spires twelve feet high and on the royal crests engraved on its locks. Then, as usual, I return to my most trusted illusion—the moth. There are eight moths, hovering around the mud at the corner of the alley. Eight moths, no people, I tell myself. Eight moths, no people. I shove the illusion out of my mind and suspend it in front of us.
“You aren’t from here,” a man says to my right, nearly breaking my concentration. “You’re jynx-workers. You’re deformed.” I flinch. “You mustn’t let the officials see you.”
“What are they looking for?” Luca asks.
“Sin. They are looking to purge sin from this city.” The man’s teeth are rotted, and several are missing, so he whistles when he speaks.
“It’s why the baby prince was killed,” the first woman says. “Punishment for the city.”
“Or, if you believe the rumors, the royal family of Frice killed him. They’re looking to start a war.”
Why would Fricians kill him? Frice and Cartona are allies.
The officials in their white coats glance down the alley, and all of us hold our breath. I focus on the illusion of the moths and the iron gates, and the officials pass without suspicion. I relax and release Luca’s hand.
“A miracle,” a woman gasps. I roll my eyes. If she knew the truth, she’d just as quickly call it devil-work.
Once the officials are out of sight, Luca and I sprint down the alley back to the main street, my heart thundering worse than a summer storm, and then turn and make straight for the gates outside the city. The impressive wooden drawbridge is wide open, stretching over a stagnant pool covered in algae below.
“That was smart,” he says. “The illusion. I saw you concentrating.”
“Just because I’m not immortal doesn’t mean I’m entirely helpless.”
He shakes his head. “Shit. That was actually terrifying.”
Because my chest is so tight there is actual pain, pain like I could have a heart attack, I snap, “It’s not like you had anything to worry about.”
“Of course not.” He grimaces. “I only stayed up late to follow your sorry ass into Cartona to keep an eye on you and give you the white clothes I knew you’d need. But I can’t die, so what could Ipossiblyhave been worried about?”
His sarcastic remark startles me. I didn’t realize he cared so much about my safety. All of this time, I haven’t known whether Luca was merely a partner or more my friend. I know I should apologize, but I don’t. I’m too focused on escaping this place, which makes me feel disgusting and unclean. I need to bathe and wash everything about this city off of me.
I make up my mind to apologize later.
A crowd forms around Cartona’s gate. We mustn’t be the only ones trying to flee the city. Concealed by my illusion, Luca and I push forward.
Until we see the actual reason for the crowd.
In the center, a priest in white robes clutches a sun and sword medallion in his hands. He blesses a man in front of him, who, rather than accepting Ovren’s grace, cowers. “You cannot expect Ovren’s forgiveness if you do not accept His punishment,” the priest tells him.
All I can think about is the Beheaded Dame, potentially executed in this same public square hundreds of years ago. The fate of Gomorrah’s proprietors. Fear gnaws at my stomach as I study the priest’s robes, the crowd and Cartona’s golden walls.
