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CHAPTER THREE
Tessa
On a good day, Weston and I can make over a hundred deliveries of the elixir. I once thought we’d be better off making our rounds separately, because we could hit twice as many families, but Wes insists that one of us should always stand as lookout—and honestly, the stoppered vials get so heavy that I doubt I could carry enough for one hundred homes by myself.
Some days it feels impossible. Thousands are suffering. Possibly tens of thousands. We hardly make a dent—and sometimes we’re too late, or we can’t steal enough, or someone falls ill so quickly that the medicine refuses to work.
Those are the worst, when someone goes from mild body aches to dead between one visit and the next.
Today, we’re able to get started on our rounds quickly, because we built up a good stash of crushed petals yesterday, so we don’t need to waste time thieving. I won’t admit this to Wes, but I’m still a little shaky over the few moments he was late. He’d never let me hear the end of it. As it is, we’re walking through the woods while he whistles under his breath. He probably thinks I don’t know the melody, a bawdy tavern song about a sailor wooing a maiden, but my father used to sing them all the time when he was busy crushing roots and measuring medicines, just because they would make my mother blush and giggle.
Thoughts of my parents still have the power to make my throat tight, so I shove them away and kick at pebbles in the path.
“You shouldn’t whistle that song,” I say. “It’s vulgar.”
He glances over and knocks the brim of my hat down a few inches. “Love is never vulgar, Tessa.”
“Oh, you think it’s a song about love, do you?”
“Well, I’m certain the maiden feels something for the sailor. Why else would she be removing her underthings?”
Now my cheeks are heated, and I’m glad for the darkness and the mask. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of hearing me giggle. “You’re incorrigible.”
“On the contrary. I am highly corrigible.” He fishes an apple from his pack and offers it to me. “Breakfast?”
I blink at him. We didn’t have time to go into the Royal Sector this morning. I don’t like the thought of Wes going without my knowledge. Some days I wonder what I would do if he simply . . . ? vanished.
I shouldn’t be so attached. I know I shouldn’t. But since my parents were executed, the only constant in my life has been Wes. The thought of fate yanking him away, too . . . ?I almost can’t bear it.
He must be able to read my expression in the forest shadows, because he says, “I saved one from yesterday.”
“Oh.” I hesitate. My stomach is still empty, but men who work in the forges don’t get a lot of opportunities to eat, and I’m sure Wes is no different. “No—you have it.”
He doesn’t argue, and he bites into it, his crunching loud in the early morning air. “You sure?” he says, holding it out. “The honey’s gone cold, but it’s still sweet.”
When I hesitate again, he picks up my hand and presses the fruit into it. “Lord, Tessa. Just share the apple.”
His fingers are warm against mine, and I try not to think about the fact that his lips were just against this piece of fruit. I twist it to bite at a different spot.
He starts whistling that stupid drinking song again. I roll my eyes and take a second bite.
Many of the sectors in Kandala have open borders, with the exception of three: the Royal Sector, where the king and his brother and all of the elites live, plus Moonlight Plains and Emberridge, where the Moonflower grows. Those sectors are heavily guarded and walled off, and also boast the healthiest—and wealthiest—populations. The Royal Sector sits in the center of Kandala, though, bordered by five others. Mosswell sits to the north, which is mostly livestock and produce. Artis is east, known for its massive lumber trade because of the proximity to the Queen’s River. The Sorrowlands is a vast sector to the west, composed mostly of desert.
South of the Royal Sector are Steel City, home to metalworkers and machinists thanks to its proximity to the iron mines, and Trader’s Landing, which has a bustling market that runs parallel to the Flaming River for miles. It’s sometimes called Traitor’s Landing, ever since their chief consul killed the king and queen.
The lands immediately surrounding the Royal Sector are heavily wooded and difficult to travel, dense with underbrush and brambles and thorns—the best place for our workshop, especially since it’s far from the main gates, and our little wood fire never makes much smoke.
Beyond the woods are the lands where most of the sectors come together to surround the Royal Sector like spokes on a wheel. The area is densely populated because of the closeness to the Royal Sector—and it’s also dense with poverty, illness, and armed guards watching for smugglers and troublemakers. My father used to say that the royal elites would sneer and call these lands the Wilds, a slur against the people forced to live and work there. But the people claimed the name for their own, and now living in the Wilds is almost seen as a point of pride, where sector borders are blurred and the people all feel united by desperation.
We always start in the Steel City part of the Wilds, because it’s closest to our workshop, and I think Wes is less worried about getting caught by anyone he might know. We trade lookout at each house, because we can’t just leave the vials and vanish into the night. We wake each person, make sure they drink every drop, then take our vials and leave. Leave no evidence, Wes always says. No proof.
The streets are empty and quiet in the early morning darkness, but Wes isn’t whistling now. We slip from house to house in the shadows.
At the fifth house, I step up onto the porch just as a low moan sounds from inside. I hesitate with my hand an inch from the wood.
Weston is instantly at my side, appearing out of the darkness. “Tessa. What’s wrong?”
The moan sounds again, and he freezes.
