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“Oh, we’ve been visited by the Hand of Kosmel!” She snatches up the coins. “They couldn’t have come at a better time.”
A twinge that’s both uneasy and exhilarating passes through my gut. I’ve never encouraged the title many of the outer-warders have given to the mysterious figure who leaves donations of questionable origin by their windows. I’m not sure I like being referred to as a mere appendage of a divine figure I’d prefer never noticed me, even if the godlen of trickery might not be quite as disapproving as his siblings.
But the fact that they’ve given me a name at all makes me feel a little more present in their lives.
When Ewalin and Frida have shut the door behind them, I slip down from the oak. With a mind to the upcoming execution, I hop over the fence and set off for the center of the city.
Hitching a surreptitious ride on the back of a carriage just returning to the city shaves a lot of time off the trek. I hop off just before we reach the inner wards.
After skirting the back of several buildings and slinking down a few alleys, I emerge onto Florian’s busiest commercial street.
In my first glimpse of this place, the blare of sound and color is always a shock to the senses. The glow of a multitude of lanterns, some fueled by oil or wax and others by magic, glances off the stone faces of the tall buildings lining the wide street, all of which are painted in varying pastel hues.
Conjured images posture and swirl over many of the doorways, enticing customers with visions of what awaits them inside each shop and eatery. A translucent gown swishes its skirts here; wine bubbles in a row of illusionary glasses there.
And plenty of customers churn along the cobblestone road, peering through windows and chattering with their companions. To my left, a minstrel lends his voice and lute to the clamor; farther to my right, I spot another gliding her fingers over a harp.
A flood of scents assaults my nose alongside the sights and sounds. The stink that permeates Florian’s fringes creeps through the air even here, but it’s mostly drowned out by wafts of savory cooking and sugary pastries alongside musky and floral perfumes.
I’ve ventured into the gilded core plenty of times. The impact is intense but not surprising.
So it shouldn’t send me into another dizzy spell, my feet abruptly tipping on the smooth cobblestones beneath my boots.
I stumble and slap my hand against the building next to me to hold myself steady. A lurch of queasiness passes through my gut.
As I rub my forehead, the dizziness passes like it did before. But this time it leaves a knot in my stomach.
What’s wrong with me? Am I coming down with some illness?
I swallow down the chill of fear that sparks at that thought and look at the facts. I haven’t eaten since the morning. Anyone would be lightheaded.
It’s nothing more than that.
I’m carrying a few coins I reserved for myself. I’ll buy myself a quick dinner, as little as I want to eat when thinking about what’s happening next, and my body will sort itself out just fine.
The execution can’t be starting just yet. The street is too crowded—with an unusual mix of polished inner-warders and scruffier figures who, like Ewalin’s husband, have ventured from the fringes just for tonight.
They’re passing the time while they wait for the main event.
I pick out a small bakery with stuffed dumplings on display in the window and a pale illusion of steaming rolls wavering over the door. As I weave toward it, I notice two kids peering in through the front window: a girl with her hand on the younger boy’s shoulder.
From their shabby clothes and smudged faces, they don’t live in these parts. They must have come for the spectacle and drifted to the bakery at the pang of their stomachs.
The boy presses his hand to the glass, and a woman with wiry gray curls and a flour-dusted apron storms out of the building.
“Get out of here,” she snaps at the kids, giving the girl a shove and managing to backhand the little boy in the same motion.
The kids scurry off with their heads ducked low, and my teeth set on edge.
Iwasgoing to pay for this meal like the upstanding citizen I can pretend to be. But why should I give any of my hard-won silver to a shrew like that?
There are other ways to get what I want. I’ll just have to play an even more upstanding citizen than I already intended to.
I flick back my linen hood and whip out the gauzy maroon shawl I keep folded at the small of my back, covering my hair with more role-appropriate finery. It’s only a cheap imitation of silk, but it passes just fine in this kind of lighting.
A pinch of my cheeks should bring a little healthy color into my sallow skin. On an impulse, I slip the gold bracelet I didn’t mean to steal around my wrist as well, willing away the twinge of guilt.
With my chin lifted at a haughty angle, I march into the bakery on the heels of the baker.
