“You might?”
“It will cost ya. Fifteen volts. Or a trade.”
Fifteen volts was hardly pocket change, but it was worth it. Vianca’s first paycheck had already arrived, both for Enne’s acrobatics performances and her other assignment. It was very generous. Enne would not hurt for volts in this city if she continued to work at St. Morse.
“I’ll pay in volts,” she said.
He eyed her skeptically. “Fine.” His straw arm hung limply as he walked to one of the tables and reached for a box underneath. He riffled through piles of old newspapers and pamphlets.
“How’d you lose your arm?” Lola asked.
The man smiled. His teeth were even yellower than his lips. “I sold it.”
Enne’s stomach did an unpleasant somersault.
He grabbed a thin newspaper and a small, cheap-looking orb—gray-tinted glass, with a murky look to it—from a soup can on the table. Enne wondered if it could even hold the fifteen volts. But she pulled one of her own orbs from her pocket anyway, unscrewed the cap and paid. His shoddy orb managed the transaction without shattering.
He handed her the paper. It was calledThe Antiquist. This issue must have featured one of Lourdes’s articles. Enne folded it and slipped it in her breast pocket.
“That’s the only one I got,” he said.
“Thank you,” Enne told him, and she meant it. She crossed her arms protectively to keep the paper close to her chest. “What’s your name? We haven’t met many who know about the Pseudonyms.”
“Sold my name, too.”
“Why—”
“Thanks for your help,” Lola said suddenly. She pushed Enne out of the stall before she could finish her question. Upon reentering the Market, however, someone sprinting down the aisle slammed into Enne’s side. She yelped and nearly toppled over Lola’s boots.
The girl who’d hit her had scars covering her palms. She ran out of sight, swallowed by the crowds.
In the stall across from them, a man cleared away his food cart. A pile of cabbages dropped and rolled on the floor, and a woman tripped on one as she hurried past. Everywhere, people packed. People ran.
A gun fired on the other side of the factory, and Enne’s heart jolted so fast she almost retched.
“Whiteboots. It’s a raid on the Scarhands,” Lola said, anxiously reaching for Enne’s arm. “We need to get out of here.”
Hordes of people rushed toward the exit of the factory, trampling each other and clogging the only escape route. Enne and Lola followed, but it was soon clear that the crowd wasn’t moving.
Even on her tiptoes, Enne couldn’t see ahead. “What’s happening?”
“The door must be closed.”
Behind them, whiteboots charged into the crowd, their guns and batons raised. They looked like wolves herding sheep to slaughter.
A man turned and smacked Enne’s side with his bag. She staggered as the heavy bundle knocked the wind out of her, and her heart slammed into her throat. Beside her, another person cursed when Enne knocked whatever they were carrying out of their hands. They were packed in here. Trapped.
Enne fearfully reached for the revolver in her pocket, but Lola grabbed her wrist and shook her head. “Don’t bother,” she said, her eyes downcast. “That first night, when I took your gun... I unloaded it. I never gave the bullets back.”
Enne’s eyes widened. She glanced down and opened the revolver’s compartment, and sure enough, it was empty.
She resisted the urge to snap at Lola. Of all the times to be out of bullets... Enne might’ve been able to escape any real punishment from the whiteboots—though any encounter with them was a risk of exposure—but Lola had the Doves’ white in her hair. It didn’t matter what she had or hadn’t done—she’d be marked as guilty. If anyone was feeling the pain of their lack of ammo, it was Lola.
“We need to find a way out,” Lola squeaked.
Enne searched for another exit or a place to hide, but with the crowd, she could see nowhere but up. Above their heads, the kids on the rafters climbed toward a window. A boy pulled himself through it onto the roof. To safety.
Her eyes fell on a huge piece of machinery, some sort of retired generator. Not far from that was a column with two bars that branched out like a Y.
