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It’s almost impossible. No one here knows me. No one here cares about me. If I can’t catch my breath, I’ll die in the middle of the Wilds and they’ll throw my body on the pyre with everyone else.
Lord. I was sofoolish. I should run out of here, back to where I came from.
Then again,runningwould probably kill me quicker. I cough again, and my eyes water.
“Here.” Maxon touches my arm. His eyes are full of concern now, and I realize he’s pushing a cup of tea across the counter at me. “Here, drink this.”
I don’t know what it is, but right now I don’t care. I lift the cup to my lips.
The water isn’t very warm, and the tea is bitter. I almost choke onthat. But then I get a swallow down, followed by another, and breathing suddenly isn’tquiteso difficult.
I take a final swallow, then realize why the tea is bitter, and I look at Maxon in surprise. “You gave me Moonflower.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I had some for tonight.” He pauses. “And you clearly needed it.”
I glance down at the empty cup, then back at him. “Butyouneed it.”
“I don’t have a cough right now,” he says. “I can skip a day or two.” His eyes search mine, and he shrugs. “It’s all right. You’d do the same, I’m sure.”
I’m not sure about anything at all right now. I can’t think of anyone I know personally who would offer their own dose to me without expectation of something in return—and this man handed me the cup as a matter of course. It’s a casual generosity that’s so unfamiliar that it’s more shocking than the flirtation.
That smile finds Maxon’s face again, but this time it’s a bit more hesitant. “Maybe I’ve earned your name now?”
I look back at him. He gave me his dose of medicine. Possibly hisonlydose of medicine. There’s a part of me that wants to give him my real name, in addition to every coin in my pocket.
But of course Ican’t.
Something about his kindness reminds me of young Violet in the woods, the way she was so clever in helping me hide from the night patrol.
I finally return Maxon’s smile. “Fox,” I say.
He grins. “Fox? That’s it?”
“That’s it.” I take the wrapped bread and cheese, then pull a handful of coins from my pocket. I give him a nod. “You have my deepest gratitude, Maxon.”
“So formal again, Fox,” he teases—then breaks off as the coins rattle into his palm. “Wait! This is—this is toomuch.” His fingers close around the money, and he’s trying to pass the coins back to me.
I turn away without taking them. “Surely you’d do the same, right?”
Then I unwrap an end of the bread, take a bite of honeyed cheese, and lose myself among the crowd.
More people gather than I expect. I don’t carry a pocket watch into the Wilds, but when I was a boy, we had an astronomer who taught me to tell time by the placement of the moon, and it’s nearing midnight now. I’m tired, yet anxious. Unsettled. I thought this was supposed to be a casual gathering, but there are hundreds ofpeople here. More musicians have joined the first, and some people are dancing, keeping the mood lively and festive. The endless steins of ale don’t hurt. But I keep to myself and wait, though I’ve been considering giving up for the better part of an hour. A mob once attacked “Weston Lark” when they discovered he was the King’s Justice. I don’t want the same to happen to me.
The music finally goes silent, and the dancers fall still, and the bonfire has begun to dwindle. Many people take a seat on the stumps and logs—though others stand, whether against trees or leaning against each other. I pull a little more deeply into the shadows and press my back against a tree. The food stalls have long since stopped selling food, but the smell of roasted meat and sweet breads carries through the clearing. My square of nut bread is long gone. A hush falls over the crowd, and I spot movement among the trees. Someone important is coming.
“I’m surprised you’re still here.”
I jump a mile, but it’s Maxon. I clear my throat and try to tell my heart to stop hammering. “I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.”
“I heard some of the washerwomen talking. Apparently one of the consuls is coming.”
I whip my head around. “What?”
He misunderstands my surprise, because he nods. “I know. It’s not Beeching, though.”
He’s talking about Jonas Beeching, the consul of Artis. I wouldn’t expect him to be at a gathering in the Wilds. He’s hardly been seen in the Royal Sector at all since the rebels killed his lover during their siege on the palace.
Honestly, I wouldn’t expect any of the others either.
