“I know he will,” I reply, glancing back at the tent. “But be careful, all right? That guy gives me the creeps.”
Ingold isn’t like Martha or Tivolt. They take apart the things we bring them, melt or grind them down, and reuse them. It’s all about making thebeer you brew that much tastier, your jewelry that little bit shinier, or your medicine that bit more effective.
But there’s repurposing items scavenged from the plains, and then there’s harnessing their power for something entirely new, carving your own runes, and chanting spells in the demon language Cyrax. Black magic. People don’t like to talk about such things, but I’ve heard vague rumors about shadowy folk who like to dabble in the occult for fun. Rumoralsohas it, it’s those kinds of people Ingold sells to. It’s why he can pay the prices he does. But I don’t like him. He has this hungry way of looking at me, likeI’msomething to be scavenged, which means I avoid him whenever I can.
So I’m relieved when Hodges exits the tent just a few minutes later and we can get going.
As usual, I stop by Hodges’s to dump my scavenging gear and change clothes. When it comes to our partnership, this is one of the advantages I value most. It’s good to have someone to watch my back, but what I really need is a base to hide this part of my life away in. I was more than glad to offer Hodges a cut of my earnings in return, even if he feels bad about taking money from me.
The day is slipping away by the time I cross over the river, passing the imposing structure of the Assembly. The afternoon sunlight glints off the windows of the grand government building. Built with heavy bricks of sand-colored stone, it sits on the south side of the river, with stained-glass windows in the towers located at either end. One window is decorated with a white circle, the other a black triangle. Back when he took an interest in my education, my father explained that they’re meant to depict the collateral, the sacred objects given to Strata by Infernum and Aradis when the Concords were signed—the leverage that forces them to keep their word and leave our cities and citizens alone.
Truth be told, the icons have always just looked like shapes to me.
My steps grow a little heavier each minute I get closer to my destination. I know I’m taking too long to walk the route. I’m only putting off the inevitable, but I can’t help it. Slowly, the houses get bigger and a little grander as I pass servants hanging out laundry and washing windows.
I reach the back gate to my father’s house and let myself in, making sure to close it carefully so the metal latch doesn’t clang. Then I quickly upturn an empty flowerpot hidden beneath a row of pansies, stuffing most of my scavenging money into the trinket box housed inside.
When I straighten up, I have to stop to process an attack of sneezes. The pollen of the gaudy blooms that fill the flower beds has stuffed up my nose instantly.Damn it. I should’ve taken the medicine before heading back, but my mind was elsewhere. Now I glare at the flowers in a way that’s probably unfair to them, but every time I pass through this place, I’m reminded of what it used to look like.
This was my mother’s garden once, and instead of flowers, she filled it with all kinds of wonderful plants—creeping purple vines and strange spiky bushes. I don’t have many memories of her, but lots of the ones I do have involve us walking through here as she rattled off their long, fascinating names.
When Ada married my father, one of the first things she did was pull up every single one and replace them with these flowers. Flowers sheknewset off my allergies. She always relishes every little way she can make my life harder.
A sudden surge of anger lashes through me, and my hand darts out toward one of the nearest blooms, ripping off its head and crushing it in my fingers.
“And where have you been?” Ada’s voice cuts through the garden like a scythe.
I snatch my hand behind my back, discreetly dropping the flower head on the ground as I move forward to meet Ada where she stands imperiously on the back step.
“I finally managed to get some more work with that seamstress,” I say, my eyes watering as a wave of Ada’s sickly-sweet perfume hits me. I would’ve smelled her coming if my nose wasn’t already stuffed up—the overpowering scent she wears turns my stomach as much as it clogs my sinuses. It would be funny, the thought that I’m literally allergic to her, if it weren’t for the way my nose burns in her presence.
“The seamstress?” she repeats. “But it’s been weeks since they last needed you there.”
“I asked about that,” the lie trips easily off my tongue. “She said they’ve just been quiet recently, but they wanted an extra pair of hands today. The new season’s approaching, after all, and the ladies need their gowns.”
Ada eyes me. She suspects there’ssomethingI’m not being entirely honest about, but she can never decide how to call me out on it, or whether she even cares enough to try. She settles for an insult instead.
“Odd. I assumed you must’ve done such an awful job last time they wouldn’t ask you back again.”
“I guess not,” I say evenly, holding her gaze.
She pushes out her palm. “Well, hand it over then.”
I let a scowl spread across my face as I pull out a handful of coins—three strats, a fraction of what I actually made scavenging—and place them in her hand. This daylight robbery is the only reason she puts up with my absences from home to work part-time at the “seamstress’s.”
“Is that all?” she demands.
I shrug. “It’s a normal day’s wage for a skivvy like me.”
She narrows her gaze but doesn’t push the issue. She must be in a good mood. It makes me instantly uneasy. Anything that makes her happy can’t be good for me.
“Don’t shrug,” she orders instead, turning on her heel. “It looks common.”
I bite my tongue and follow her into the house, debating whether to deliberately step on the poofy trail of her ridiculous lavender gown. At least she doesn’t force me to wear those monstrosities anymore, not since she downgraded me from stepdaughter to servant.
“Next time, warn me before you go out,” Ada says, sweeping through the kitchen. “The chamber pots need scrubbing, and there’s been no one to attend to this pigsty.Youmight feel at home in squalor, but I expect it dealt with this instant.”
I get started on the pile of pans in the sink once she’s left, but not before I take a swig of my allergy medicine and enjoy some sweet relief from mywatering eyes and itching leg. After I’ve washed the dishes, I turn my attention to the vegetables waiting to be chopped for dinner.
