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The walk from the waterfront to Ockull’s Bellenau Square was only about ten minutes, but I could have sworn we passed half of Eserene’s residents on the streets mingling with sailors from other cities. I had never seen anything like it — the merriment, the alcohol, the chaos.
???
Turning the corner of Ivy Avenue into Bellenau Square, more sights and sounds and smells descended on my senses than had ever before. A grand arch had been erected over the entrance to the square, covered in flowers the likes I had never seen before. Violet and yellow petals glowed in the sunlight, welcoming Eserenian residents to wonders they’d only ever experience once.
The square was lined with stalls serving food from across the world — food I had never even heard of. Spun sugar from Azmar. Fried dandelion roots from Anicole. A jumble of noodles and what looked like some sort of shellfish from Myrefall. I knew that Larka’s stomach was just as empty as mine was, but we seemed to have an unspoken agreement that we would not be spending our precious silver pieces on food.
Vendors peddling wares were interspersed between the food stalls. Larka and I leisurely smelled exotic spices and teas until the stall owners chased us away for loitering. We ran our hands over the only silk we’d ever touched. We picked through buckets of glass beads in hues that matched the sails in the harbor. Handwoven bags, braided shawls, ceramic bowls, and windchimes made of shells along with intricate jewelry were a vibrant spectacle that lulled me into a trance.
“I wish Ma and Da hadn’t raised us so honest,” Larka scoffed, inspecting a blown glass vase the same color as her eyes. “It would be so easy for me to pocket stuff here.”
“How would you pocket avase?”
“Well, not the vase. But I could tuck ten scarves under my cloak and no one would notice.” She said it far too loudly, and I lowered my eyes in embarrassment, in case anyone had heard. “I’m not saying Iwould,just that Icould.”
Our parents had instilled in us that everything we had must be earned. So many people made their money in Inkwell by selling stolen goods, but no matter how empty our bellies were, no matter how cold our hearth was, they made it clear that we were never to resort to thievery.
“Come on,” Larka said, growing bored of the blown glass. “This coin is burning a hole in my pocket. Ignore the hole that’s already there.”
I laughed as she pulled me away from the stall, down another row of tents.
This was the best day of my life.
???
“How about the ring toss?” I suggested.
“Thering toss?We are not wasting our money on something so pathetic,” Larka declared in her usual snarky tone. “Comeon.” She grabbed my arm, leading us deeper and deeper into the carnival crowd.
The crowd swirled busily around us in the midmorning sun as Larka and I surveyed the stalls. “Oh!” shouted Larka. “A soothsayer!”
She pointed to a small tent toward the end of the row. A sign hung from the awning, the words scrawled in shaky script.Lady Ingra of Skystead: Soothsayer and Prophet of the Saints, Benevolent and Blood.
“You’re fucking joking, Larka,” I said with a scowl.
“I’m fucking not,Petra.”she retorted. “Come on! I’ve always wanted to see a soothsayer.”
“It’smybirthday.”
“Well it’s alsomyCindregala.”
I pulled the silver piece from my pocket, flipping it over in my hand. Genuine excitement lined Larka’s face. “Really? This is what you want?” I asked.
“Really,” she said firmly. Determined. “You can’t tell me you don’t want it too.”
I sighed, then gave a slight nod of my head. Larka squealed, grabbing my arm and dragging me toward the tent. Parting the heavy aubergine curtains, the thick smell of incense wafted outside. The feel of the smoke around my head was suffocating.
“Enter,” a small, raspy voice uttered. Larka walked through first, dramatically waving her hand in front of her face, stirring tendrils of smoke. I followed behind her, now completely overcome with the aroma of incense. It coated my throat. It was dark except for a taper in each corner of the tent and the tiny glow of the burning incense. We could just make out the outline of a woman’s face sitting in the corner, a low table with two cushions before her. “Sit, please,” she rasped.
Larka plopped down on a flat cushion without hesitation, quiet excitement rippling off of her. I took my time lowering myself to the floor, a distant sense of discomfort settling over my chest. Anxious, as always.
“You wish to know what the Saints have planned for your future?” the old woman said, her face coming into focus now that I was closer. Her face matched her voice — withered and wrinkled, deep brown, the hood of her cloak resting atop a head of wispy gray hair.
“We do,” Larka said excitedly, quickly turning her face to me. She placed her silver piece on the table. My silver piece had grown warm in my hand, the weight of it burning through my skin. “Come on, Petra,” Larka urged.
“The girl is unsure,” the soothsayer said, barely above a whisper.
I swallowed hard, still feeling Larka’s excitement. I placed my silver piece on the table. “I’m not unsure. Here you go.”
