Very specific plans. Beginning with calling on the boy whose life she’d regrettably revived. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much to go on as to where she might find him. Judging from his obvious disdain for her request of goldquins before all service, he didn’t possess much of it, and while that used to narrow the range, now, more and more families fell into poverty. This left her with roughly half the town to scour, asking incessantly for a twelve-year-old girl named Aline.
What a nightmare.
Lux grimaced as she pushed back from the table. Her purse exceptionally heavy today, she shouldered through the door.
The Markets divided Ghadrainto jagged halves. On one half, the Light gave way to bricked shops, eateries and modest homes. Not to be outdone, the stone gardens and grand townhomes of the rich converged, hovering tall above them. Of course, then the mayor’s hulking mansion rose, paces beyond those, looming over them all.
Lux’s home, or now more so Riselda’s, ran along the seam’s outer edge, steps away from the wall, the forest’s path and the Dark. The Dark, with all its taverns, dank alleyways, and homes that more resembled unevenly stacked blocks of crumbling gingerbread than true stone and brick any longer.
Lux kept her head low as she turned down a street directing her toward the latter. This side of town always breathed quietly in the morning, casting a pulsing silence about the walls that often left her feeling watched. Which she likely was.
All those years ago, darkness had already nestled its claws within the edges of her soul by the time she’d grown hungry and desperate enough to leave her newfound home. She’d avoided the living, as their frigid stares burned her, but when the final bits of food were pulled from the shelves and the tin of coins rattled no more, Lux had finally come to terms with reality.
She had nothing, and she would starve if she didn’t muster the courage to do something about it.
She had experienced those invisible watchers of the Dark for the first time that day, a creased piece of parchment on which she’d scrawled a list of ingredients clutched in one hand, and a threadbare wrapping of trade-worthy goods in the other.
Irritation swept over Lux at the memory; fighting against the suspicion today would be quite similar to that one so long ago. Much less bartering, more so begging. She only hoped she’d turn out more successful this time.
Surveying the shuttered windows, crooked on their hinges, her ears picked up the soft creak of an idly swinging door, and just beyond it, the first echoes of voices. The Brewer’s Bog: one of the larger, more frequented taverns. They served breakfast, though no one ever ordered it, and now its seeping existence greeted her as she rounded the corner. The thought of going in sent a shudder through her core—so many eyes—but she knew it would be the likeliest place to glean information on the whereabouts of Aline and her pretentious brother.
The door tucked within the crumpling porch was nowhere near large enough for the frame it’d been meant to encompass. Raucous laughter pelted her ears through its wide gaps. Lux curled her lip. It was much too early in the morning for this, but gossipmongers abounded this place, and any information could be traded for a pint of the Bog’s signature brew. With a resigned sigh and leveled shoulders, she grasped the rusted handle and pulled.
She resisted raising a sleeve to her nose against the onslaught of puffed cigar smoke—mostly homemade marsh grass and much more potent than any that could be purchased in Ghadra. Clouds of it escaped out the door only to be replaced with the next breaths of conversation, arguments and laughter, and she couldn’t hold back a cough. It was soft, but it was also vastly out of place, and as her eyes adjusted to the dim haze of the room, she regarded the probing stares of the patrons attracted by her disruptive entrance.
Mostly men, a few women, and one head of hair, the back of which held a touch of familiarity as its owner leaned over the bar in a faded blue shirt. She marched straight toward it.
He sat slouched, broad shoulders slumped, absentmindedly spinning a worn copton beside the pint before him. Lux ignored everyone else.
“It’s a little early to be drinking ale, isn’t it?” She plopped upon the vacant stool beside him.
Tired eyes met hers from beneath a wool cap only to widen. The rest of him didn’t move. He spun the coin again. “Not for me.” To prove his point, he swallowed another mouthful. “In fact, it’s almost my bedtime.”
The prowler smirked into his cup, knowingly, hinting toward what she’d already guessed upon discovering two more bodies bound for the forest at dawn. Her jaw tightened in her fight to keep the scowl from her face. That tactic wouldn’t work on him.
“You don’t sleep at night?”
“Neither do you if the gossip can be trusted.” His eyes roamed over her face, and though their color appeared warm as ever, his gaze was decidedly not.
“If that were the case, go on and end my suffering now. I hate the moon.”
A breath of a laugh escaped him, and Lux loathed the way he looked at her afterward: like she was ridiculous. Ridiculous andinsignificant. She considered ordering a pint solely to pour it over his head.
“Who hates the moon?”
The question, for all its haughtiness, caught her by surprise. By all rights, she shouldn’t hate the moon. It was cold and pale and distant—like the dead. But for some foolish reason, a part of her still sought an unattainable warmth. A warmth that abandoned her long ago, and the moon mocked her for wanting its return. The few minutes of sunlight on her skin, however, were almost enough.
“It taunts me.”
The boy stared at her for a time, his brow furrowed. “Saints above.” He turned back to his drink. “What I wouldn’t give for a pretty girl open to a flirt. I’m too tired for this.”
Your own doing, imbecile,Lux thought. Meanwhile, she soaked her voice in polite innocence and asked,“What’s your name?”
“Why?” Palms pressed to his eyes. He didn’t look up.
“I’m Lux Thorn.”
Lucenaaa.
