When he found that shortcut earlier today, did he only use it to bring us closer to the princess again? So that he would have his chance? I wasn’t watching him when the princess died. I was examining the statue.
Who else could be the spy, if not him? Luca is an Up-Mountainer,
an outsider in Gomorrah. He told me himself that he came from one of the wealthiest families in Raske.
“I don’t... He wouldn’t do this to me. He cares about me.”
But my denial sounds weak even to my own ears.
Once again, the questions were right in front of me, and I didn’t ask. I didn’t think. All this time...
Villiam hugs me, and I cry on his sleeve. “I’m so sorry, my dear. None of this is your fault.”
“I want to speak with him.”
“You will. I will send my guards to bring him here.”
“I meant Dalimil. Let me see him.” I need to know more about this spy. I need to know the truth before I face Luca again, before I accuse him of the unforgivable. “Where are you keeping him?” Gomorrah doesn’t have a prison.
“The Menagerie.”
* * *
Dalimil lies within an animal’s cage. His shirt has been removed, and his back openly bleeds from fresh lashes. On each hand, he bears matching burns, fresh and oozing.
“Back so soon?” he hisses, hearing the sound of my footprints rustling the hay. This back room is dark, lit merely by the lantern in my hand. We are alone.
My heart pounds, but I manage to keep my voice steady, to put on a show. “We have never properly met.”
He lifts his head at the sound of a female voice. “I was expecting the fire-worker.” His voice breaks. When he struggles to sit up to face me, I can tell how weak he is. Chimal and Agni have not been kind. Still, he lifts his head higher. “I haven’t been broken. Not by them. And I won’t be by you. You’re only a girl.”
I rest my lantern on the floor and then sit a few feet away from him, cross-legged. The metal bars of the cage are all that separates us. I can see the stubble on his chin and the dark circles beneath his eyes. I can see the hatred blazing in his eyes.
This man did not kill my family.
But he is all that stands between me knowing who did.
I untie my mask and let it fall into my lap.
He grimaces when he sees my face. “They have brought a demon to me. Whatever devil-work you have prepared, I will not break. The strength of Ovren burns in me. My mind doesn’t submit to the mind-worker. My soul doesn’t tremble at the pains of the fire- or shadow-worker.”
“You’re going to tell me the name of the Alliance’s leader, as well as the Alliance’s spy within Gomorrah.”
His voice is weak. “As I told the others...I don’t know the name of the spy.”
“I guess we shall see.”
When I perform a show, my mind isn’t necessarily with the audience. In order to conjure illusions, I must turn my focus inward. I must project and create. During the Freak Show, it’s the audience, the stage and all of my surroundings that fade into the back of my mind. The illusions are the reality. I’m more aware of the rushes of conjured wind and scents of imagined forests than I am the heat of the tent, the aromas of kettle corn and candied sweets.
It’s a blessing and a curse, so easily losing myself in my thoughts.
I seek out that unconsciousness now. The illusions burst forth, one by one, but I sink deeper into my own thoughts. I don’t want to feel what I am creating. I don’t want to witness this performance. I crouch in a corner behind my subconscious, allowing it to do as it will and as it wants.
I don’t have to hear the screams. I can tune those out. But as easy as it would be to entirely remove myself from reality, I need to be present enough to hear what I’m waiting for: the name.
Twenty-four minutes later, I hear it.
* * *
