Page 22 of The Only Way Out Is Up

[Denial: my decision-making is not clouded by your human emotions.]

Mmmhmm.

[Regardless: it follows that whatever body shape is most useful to you is the one I should prefer. Accordingly, I defer to your decisions.]

Very practical, I tell him. But if you ever want something decorative, let me know. You could have some flower engravings, or a little party hat.

[Emphatic rejection.]

I laugh out loud.

Once the bakery has closed for the day, I go down to Somi’s room.

It used to be Fara’s room, though she’d spent little enough time in it. The three of us hadn’t quite known what to do with it after she died, but eventually Somi’s incessant snoring had won out over residual discomfort and he’d moved in. Since then, he’s made a start on making it his own—the big bed and the sewing table are the same, but we’d sold Fara’s face-paints and jewelry and used the space for a little writing desk. Somi’s precious collection of books lines the back of it, a half dozen volumes he’s read so often he’s had to replace the spines more than once.

Little Forest Stories lies open now, the book of fairy tales Fara used to read to get us to sleep. Somi’s copying out the one about the clever fox and the foolish bear onto gray rag-paper.

He looks up at the sound of my footsteps. I raise an eyebrow.

“Ema says one of the older kids in her kip reads to the others,” he says. “I thought I’d give her a couple of these to take to him.”

“Very kind of you.” I try not to sound skeptical. Somi is a big believer in the power of stories, but I suspect the kids would trade all the fairy tales in the world for an extra loaf.

He sets the pen down, carefully, and turns in his chair. “Where were you last night, Taj?”

“I got you a present,” I tell him, rummaging in my bag. “Here.”

It’s a book, a thick one with a rich purple binding. The Noble Art of Lacemaking, the cover says. How it ended up here I have no idea, but the stains and scuffs indicate a long and pungent story. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, truthfully, but it was the only one in Ekkeban’s shop.

“Taj…” Somi takes it, flips a few cracked pages. “How did you—”

“Oh, and this,” I add, trying for casual and not quite making it as I toss a little bag on the desk. It gives the metallic clink of bits. “For the jar.”

Somi sets the book down and stares at the purse as though it were a poisonous spider.

“Taj,” he says eventually. “Where were you?”

“Who cares?” I say. “We need the money.”

“I care. We do need the money, but…”

“But nothing. There it is.”

“A sack of bits isn’t worth losing my brother.”

“Nobody’s lost anybody. I’m right here.”

“This time.”

Anger tightens my guts. “I can’t believe you.”

“That I care about you? That I worry you’re risking too much?”

“I’m taking risks so you can go on giving food away to every little beggar who finds our door! Is it too much to ask for a little gratitude?”

“I didn’t ask you to—”

I grit my teeth. “And I don’t have to ask for your permission! You’re not Fara.”