The hairs on the back of my neck settle; the air goes hot and sticky.
Breathing hard, I risk a glance behind. Seeing nothing but an empty alleyway, I fall in a heap within a shadow against a wall and whip off my cap, wiping the sweat from my face. I shiver, despite the heat and my fervid skin, reliving the feel of that stare carving over me ...
Intome.
My heart leaps.
“Fuck,” I mutter, tucking damp tendrils behind my ears, spiked with a wild restlessness I can’t shake—that makes me feel more alive than I did sitting on the balustrade, or free-climbing down that wall.
My breath shudders as I try to ignore the shameful, incinerating ache between my legs.
Just my imagination. He’s not here.
I replace my cap, close my eyes, then tip my head against the stone. City sounds battle around me while I devour thick, exotic smells: spices, fried fish, the pinched musk of wine. A fiddle carves out soft, lilting notes, brought to me on a remedial breeze.
Leaning forward, I peer down the alley to the opening at the far end.
It’s busy. Alive.
I push up, weaving around a puddle toward the merriment ahead, though my heart leaps into my throat when the smell of smoke coasts past me.
Madame Strings.
Lured further down the alley, I see a cramped courtyard off to the side, stuffed full of people surrounding a blazing firepit. I backstep behind the corner and watch—gaze bouncing from person to person, all boasting golden hair and bronze skin.
One of them laughs so hard he falls off the square stone he’s using as a seat. Another stands, throws her hands in the air, and twirls until there’s an amber shower flying from the mug she’s wielding.
“Excuse me,” I croak, stepping into the smoky orange atmosphere.
One of the boys twists in place, squinting. “You lost?”
Probably.
“Do you know where I might find Madame Strings?”
He laughs, eyes glittering with a sprinkle of mania. “If only I knew. Come see me if you find her. I’m almost out of candy, and her shit’s the best.”
Candy?
I’m about to ask what the hell he’s talking about, but he drums up conversation with a girl who drapes herself across his lap, effectively dismissing me.
Right.
“Thanks,” I mutter, continuing down the alley, toward the fiddle player and the source of the rich smells that make my empty stomach gurgle. The alley spills out into a large, crowded courtyard—what I suppose is a town square alive with some sort of night market.
I stare in wide-eyed wonder at the huge, ancient tree that spawns from the center of it all. Riddled with small, open-mouthed hollows, its wide-reaching branches are dotted with lanterns and sitting sprites kicking their legs back and forth.
Mail tree.
It’s so much bigger than the one at Castle Noir, circled by a stone fence that’s a backdrop for a loop of carts selling drinks, wares, and tasty-looking treats that make my mouth water. Even the shops on the outer rim of the square are open, unlike the others I came across during my mad dash through the streets.
People are milling around, some wobbly on their feet with their heads tipped back in laughter. Some with children on their shoulders or big baskets hanging from their crooked arms, heaped with food and trinkets.
I step out amongst it all, keeping my hat pulled down to hide my face, the cold cobbles nursing the tender soles of my feet.
“Found you.”
I gasp, whipping around—
