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CHAPTERONE
ONE GHOST AFTER THE NEXT
Committing a murder at a funeralmight be uncouth—doubly so, given the fact that the woman I'd love to stab is the corpse's own daughter.
"I can't believe she's here," Alva mutters between her teeth, affronted on my behalf.
I remain silent, eyes forward, ignoring the familiar red flash of hot anger rising to the surface.
NeledaStovrj-Rhodes is as beautiful as ever, clad in refined garments suitable for her new title. The duchess is the picture of elegance and sophistication. She sticks out like a sore thumb in the muck. To look at her blonde mane, falling in gentle waves out of her feathered headdress, and her black velvet cloak sparkling with diamonds, I'd never guess she was born right here in the undercity. I'd never guess she gave birth to a child and promptly forgot she ever existed.
I'm not being fair. She’s visited three times in nineteen years, bringing presents I soon pawned and promises she never kept.
I don't purposely keep an ear out for anything about her, but the undercity's rumor mill runs fast and my crew likes to babble. I heard about Neleda's marriage on the day the banns were read six months ago. It was only a week later that the guards started to storm my territory, looking for Helyn Stovrj, the duchess's “lost” little girl. Like I'd been misplaced, not left to rot. I wonder what lies she spun for her new husband. Did she tell him I ran away?
I don't care much. I might have occasionally thought I needed her as a child, but I survived just fine without her. Grandma Lyn did her best, and when her best wasn't enough, I stole, I cheated, and I lied to feed both of us. Now, I lead one of the best crew of misfits in the undercity, despite my young age. I'm doing just fine. There's nothing she could offer that might tempt me to let her into my life.
I don't even blame her, not truly. Everyone wishes they could crawl out of the poverty-ridden undercity, too hot in the summer, freezing cold during the long winter nights, and stinky year-round. Legitimate jobs arescarce, and none pay even half the bills. Women pop out dozens of kids just to have some help around the house. None can stay in school much past age twelve, because they need to get jobs and contribute to the household. No one truly gets out. Neleda is one in a million, the tale every little girl tells herself at night. The undercity rat who became a duchess of Ravelyn. I can admire her for it. I can even admit that in her shoes, I might have made the same choice, no matter how much I despise her.
She had the gall to come to the funeral. I should have expected it. For months, she's looked for me in vain. I am a shadow in these sinuous streets, only seen when I wish to be, and never caught. She knew I'd be here today though, to say goodbye to the only mother I ever knew.
The master of ceremonies invites me to speak, and applause thunders across the neighborhood square as I jump down from the roof of the Pillar church, carefully calculating every step: the gutter first, then a window, and I perch atop a gargoyle before the last leap. I land in a low crouch and the crowd yells in delight.
I enjoy my mother's horrified gasp, on the front line.Yes, Neleda. You birthed a true street urchin.
I'm not one for heedless displays, much preferring to operate in the dark and the quiet,but if I have to be seen, I'll do it right.
Alva and Khel follow my descent and a few steps stand behind me, keeping their hoods low on their eyes. I remove mine, my tangled hair braided out of my face. I'm told I owe the copper hue to Grandma Lyn, though she had thin silver-white hair for as long as I've known her, which is all my life.
The assembly screams the only name I answer to these days.
"Hel! Hel! Hel!"
I lift a hand and they fall silent.
I get it. As a child, I worshipped the crews, too. I would have been right here, screaming, if one of their leaders appeared in broad daylight. But today isn't about me, or about the Glitter Lane. It's about the only woman who ever loved me.
"Grandma Lyn," I call, my voice traveling across the square, "had a long life and died in her bed after too much ale at the pub, as befits a true Stovrj." Those who knew her best laugh, and the others cheer. "Today is a celebration of seventy-eight winters well lived. In this fatal game called life, Lyn won without screwing anyone else in the process." More applause and nods of agreement. "She wedded one husband, buried him after a foolish street war, and reared two girls still alive." My eyes settle on my mother for only one moment. "How many can boast such achievements?"
"Hail Lyn!"
"LynStovrj, queen of the lane!"
It kills me that I have to share this moment, a moment that belongs to the undercity, to the streets Lyn so loved, with her treacherous daughter, but I'm not about to cut her farewell short because of Neleda. So I do what I must. I start to sing, at first into the silence, then to the sound of slow, rhythmic claps, and finally, with the entire square screaming along with me.
We give Lyn the goodbye she deserves.
I watch my mother shed a single tear and I want to slap it off her smooth skin. She doesn't deserve to grieve for a woman she didn't know. Lyn Stovrj is mine, not hers.
I daydream of spitting in her face, of punching her repeatedly.
That's the redhead in me—at least, so Grandma Lyn used to say. It serves me well, for the most part.
I would have retreated to the roofs at the end of the song, if it wouldn't have made me look a coward. Damn my pride, but I have to stand my ground as the duchess approaches me.
"I thought you might be dead," she sniffles, "when no news came from my search."
I chuckle, highly amused. "What I am is worthy of loyalty, Mother. Don't come into my domain and ask my people to betray me to the likes of you."
