Later, after our wounds are dressed and we’ve picked apart a meal of cold rice and hot tea, I lie awake on a pallet in Cheeky’s ramshackle room, listening to her soft snoring. She’s sharing a blanket on the floor with Tia; the girls insisted on giving my parents their own room, and me, a bed. Their generosity is overwhelming—I haven’t laid in a proper bed since the start of this year’s touring season, when we left Lak Na for the last time. Too bad I can’t enjoy it.
How can anyone sleep after a day like this? I toss and turn, my mind racing in circles, spiraling gently down, like the flyers, fluttering in the golden light, snatched away by the blast. The gunshots, the fire. The soldiers giving chase, the rebels clinging to the side of the roulotte. Help me, the boy says again and again, but he has my brother’s face.
I bury my head in the thin pillow. Behind my eyelids, Akra’s easy smile dissolves into a skull’s rictus. My brother went off to fight the rebels—he was likely killed by one. So why do this boy’s screams still echo in my head? Guilt for watching him die? Or is it a hallucination brought on by my malheur?
They crop up from time to time, when times are bad, but I haven’t had one of Akra in a while. The old ones were better—the ones just after he joined up. I would hear his voice in the fields, singing one of the story songs, the one about the three brothers and the King of Death. It was always the same part too: the middle brother asking death to spare him. But the sound was so real—so rich—that the first few times it happened, I would walk through the dusty paddies to look for him. Of course he was never there. And by the time his first letter arrived, along with a fistful of sols, the sound of his singing had faded away. It never came back—not even while we waited for his seventh letter, and the weeks stretched to months before, one by one, Maman, Papa, and I admitted in the silence of our hearts that he wasn’t coming back.
I’d give all the money he sent and more to hear his voice again, even if it is only in my head.
I’d give almost as much to stop the screaming.
But perhaps this is to be expected. What is a normal reaction to an explosion—to a boy shot like a dog? Help me.
Tossing aside the pillow, I slip out of bed on bandaged feet. I shouldn’t have finished that drink. Or maybe I should have asked for another. My mind flits to the bar down the hall—the rhum in the old kerosene jars—but though my mouth is watering, I will not stoop to theft. I need something else to do, something to settle my nerves, to take my mind off the dead, off dying. Usually, when I can’t sleep, I work on my fantouches. I could do so now, if the soldiers are gone.
The room is lit dimly by a few hopeful souls, but I bat them out of my way as I creep to the door. Spirits are such strange things, or perhaps I’m still unused to their presence. It was only after the fire I started seeing them—I thought they were hallucinations too, at first. Shifting patterns of red, orange, gold—the memory of flame. But they persisted long after I could breathe again, after my blisters healed, after I could leave my bed. And over time, I noticed their movements—similar in death as in life—and I began to recognize them for what they were. The tiny vana of moths, drawn to candlelight; the arvana of songbirds, flitting through trees. And the akela of dead men, like tongues of flame, wandering the fields where they worked, or standing in empty doorways, remembering.
No, the spirit sight is not the same as my malheur. The ups and downs, the sudden passions or the deep melancholy—those are things that grew as I did, like my limbs, my hips, my hair. But the spirits only appeared after my brush with death. It’s like the old comedies about the Fool Who Could Not Die, though I only faced fire, and not the other two calamities that befell the hapless monk in the stories. And the spirits don’t share gossip or try to trick me like they do him—they don’t say anything at all. They only follow, eager for another chance at life, as though they know I have come close enough to death that I could lead the way there and back. And I’m happy enough to give them what they want.
Maman, less so.
I didn’t tell my parents about the souls until after I was almost certain they weren’t symptoms. But Maman’s reaction made me wish they were. Never show, never tell. The fear in her face was shocking. Of course I’d known the old ways were forbidden, but the capital and its laws are very far away from where we lived in Lak Na. Even though the old temple at the back of our valley was reduced to rubble and jungle like all the rest, everyone I knew left a bit of rice in their bowls for the ancestors, or burned incense for the King and the Maiden and the Keeper of Knowledge.
But Maman’s fear left no room for argument—at least, not from me. Papa has always been the only person who could ever change her mind. It was his idea to try to harness the souls—to use them to bring the fantouches to life—but it was hers to parlay our growing fame into a ticket out of Chakrana.
How did she learn what she taught me? Whenever I ask, her lips thin and her eyes go flat. Still, she was the first one to prick my finger, to guide my hand to draw the symbol. Even though Maman hates to talk about the old ways now, she lived half her life before La Victoire—before the new laws. And she has never failed to leave a bit of rice out for the spirits.
But hadn’t I meant to stop thinking about the dead?
Carefully I ease open the door, stepping lightly; my feet are swathed in linen, but the floor still creaks. The air in the hall is cool, raising chicken skin along my arms. The little bedrooms line the hall from the entry; the distance seems shorter now. Before long, the crooked red door looms in front of me, and suddenly my heart is pounding again. I wait for the sound of gunshots, but they do not come, so I gather my courage to peer outside.
The pale moon silvers the stones and blackens the pool of blood. The soldiers and the rebels are gone, but our roulotte is still there. Dust and night dull the bright paint, making the white scar of a bullet hole that much brighter, but at least in the shadows, the broken axle is invisible. And Lani looks unhurt, even though she’s been in the harness all night and hasn’t eaten. Guilt pushes me through the door, but I hesitate just past the threshold. There is someone sitting on the back step of the wagon, long legs crossed on the stair.
A soldier? No—it’s Leo, tucked into the cove of the rear step. His collar is loose and his eyes are closed; the moonlight pales his skin but darkens his hair as it curls loosely over his brow. Asleep, he looks much younger—perhaps my age. How does he run a theater by himself? Is that why he’s so tense, so defensive? Or is it only that he’s had to be, to survive?
I’ve never met a . . . a person with his heritage before—though I’ve seen them on the fringes with the beggars, the thieves, the fallen monks. Marriage between Aquitans and Chakrans isn’t quite forbidden, but it isn’t quite proper, either—just one more reason the king’s engagement made waves. Then again, considering the sort of entertainment La Perl offers, perhaps Leo’s parents were never married. Who were they? Where are his ancestors? Can they see him from across the sea?
And will mine be able to see me once we’re gone?
“What are you doing here?” Leo says then, and I jump. His eyes are barely open—has he seen me staring?
“This is my roulotte,” I say quickly. “What’s your excuse?”
He sits up straighter, uncrossing his arms, and just like that, the softness about him is gone. His mouth slides into a grin, and I can’t help but notice he’s holding a dark glass bottle by the neck. “I’m keeping watch, as promised. Wouldn’t want anyone making off with all this good meat.” Leo gestures at Lani with the bottle; then he notices me staring. “Want a drink?”
“No, thank you,” I lie. I know it’s not wise to drink with a strange man in a dark alley—or even to drink much at all. But want wrestles with wisdom in my heart—the danger is what makes it so tempting. “Wait . . . yes.”
Leo offers me the bottle. It’s heavier than I expected, nearly full; I realize why when I take a sip and splutter. It’s the same thing I had earlier. Tears spring to my eyes. I take another pull.
“Easy,” he says. “Didn’t you already have a glass?”
“Hours ago.” I lift my chin—a challenge. “And you have a whole bottle.”
“Fair enough,” he says with a small smile. “I hoped it would help me sleep.”
“Me too,” I say, taking one more pull. His smile fades. He takes the bottle back then, and pushes the cork into the top.
My cheeks grow hot—is that the alcohol already, or is it shame at his look? But why do I care about this boy’s opinion? I pretend to study the damage to the roulotte. “That’s only Cheeky’s costume box,” Leo says quickly.
“What is?” I follow his gesture to the rear wheel. A battered wooden traveler’s trunk is tucked right beside it, propping up the corner of the roulotte. I hadn’t even noticed it in the dark. “Oh.”
“The wheel was at an angle and Eduard was worried the wagon would topple over with him inside,” he says. “She lent it to him on the promise he wouldn’t paw through her underthings.”
I bite my lip; inside, my heart races. Did Leo notice anything odd about the roulotte when he tucked the trunk underneath? Did Eduard wonder how the wagon had run so smoothly with a broken wheel? But the shadows are deep, and the questioneur was drunk—or so I tell myself. “Wait . . . he searched the wagon?”
“He took a quick look.” He cocks his head. “Why do you ask? Were you carrying contraband?”
Fear opens a pit in my stomach. “Move,” I tell him, and his expression turns serious as he slides off the steps. I open the door and scramble inside. But the fantouches are still bound in their burlap sacks—everything looks untouched. Still, I don’t breathe until I slide my hand beneath Maman’s pillow and feel the hard edge of the red money box.
It’s not that I don’t trust the armée, but this is our entire savings—over two hundred sols. Thankfully, it’s still safely hidden. Relief floods me as I sit back on my heels.
Outside, Lani lows plaintively, as if to remind me of my guilt. In the far corner of the wagon there are some old rice bags stuffed with grass that I gathered this morning—or is it yesterday by now? She must be starving. I toss a bag through the open door. It bounces on the cobbles by Leo’s feet, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He’s holding a piece of paper—one of our flyers. Realization sweeps like light across his face. “The Ros Nai?”
Pleasure creeps in at the awe in his voice, the shine our growing fame brings, even here—even now. “You’ve heard of us.”
“Hasn’t everyone?” he murmurs, but my laugh is short and bitter.
“They were supposed to,” I say, stooping to grab the bag. “Tonight.”
“At La Fête?” Leo puts the flyer down on the pile and follows me to the front of the wagon, where Lani is stamping her feet. “I’m sorry.”
I rub Lani’s neck and dump the contents of the bag out under her nose. She dips her head to eat. “It’s not your fault,” I say to Leo, but he flashes a grin.
“I mean I’m sorry I didn’t get to see the show. When’s the next one?”
“I’m not sure,” I say. “How long does it take to get to Aquitan?”
“Aquitan?” Leo frowns. “Are you traveling by hope or by dream?”
“By boat. I had hoped the general would sponsor us, but if that doesn’t work, Eve says they sell passage at the docks.”
Now it’s Leo’s turn to laugh. “Not unless you’re a crate of sugar loaves! The river gods sell passage down the Riv Syr to the capital. From there, you’ll have to find a bigger ship.”
“So will you, then,” I say. “If you want to see us perform.”
The humor fades. “You shouldn’t take a boat downriver.”
“Why not?”
“You have a wagon.” He pats Lani’s neck. “Take the roads.”
“With the Tiger prowling around? The roads will be dangerous.”
“You haven’t seen the boats, I’m guessing?” My silence is his answer. Leo shakes his head.
“Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with them?”
“Nothing, if you’re rich.” Leo curls his lip, and my own heart sinks—rich means different things in the city than it does in the village. “This wasn’t the only attack, you know. The rebels struck at sunset last night, all along Le Verdu.”
I frown. “Who told you that?”
“Tia. The girl at the telegraph office has a crush on her. Came by to check and see if she was safe.” He only shrugs, but my mouth is suddenly dry, and the tips of my fingers are tingling.
For years, there have been rumors that the Tiger would come south to drive the Aquitans from the country, from the capital, from the Boy King’s circle of advisers. Some even said he would free Le Trépas to steal the foreigners’ souls. I don’t believe that—not truly. But where the Tiger goes, blood runs. And if the Aquitans decide to flee, how much room would be left on the boats?
“The point is,” Leo adds, “every new attack means a higher price. And even if you are rich, you’ll need every étoile once you get to Nokhor Khat. Passage across the sea doesn’t come cheap. Besides, if you are carrying contraband, the river gods turn into river rats at the checkpoints, unless you give them a generous cut. What’s wrong with your wagon?”
“You said it yourself,” I tell him. “The wheel is loose. We cracked the axle running from the explosions. I was going to ask the general for help with a new one.”
“The general?” He makes a face. “Why do you think he’d help you?”
Because we’re the Ros Nai, I want to say, but I swallow the retort. What had Papa said? “Because the Boy King is still getting married, and Le Roi Fou still needs his shadow plays.”
But Leo raises a mocking eyebrow. “Can’t you fix a wagon, cher?”
“Iron is rationed, cher,” I tell him tartly.
“So is rhum,” he says with a wink, sloshing the liquid in the bottle. “But that’s never stopped me.”
“I’m not so well connected.”
“You could be.” Leo gives me a cocky smile. “Perhaps we can make a deal.”
“A deal?” His look is offensively certain. The flush in my cheeks spreads and prickles the skin of my throat. Not just the alcohol now. But what did I expect from a man like him? “How dare you?” Spinning on my heel, I storm away, but he catches up with me beneath the painted sign: GIRLS GIRLS GIRLS.
“How dare I what?” he says, his eyes as hard as onyx. “Open my doors to your family when there is blood in the street? Or consider fixing your wagon in exchange for a ride to Nokhor Khat? How dare you, mamselle?” he adds. Then he presses his lips together in a grimace, as though trying to stop himself from saying more.
“That’s what you want? A ride to the capital?” I stare at him, flustered, shame creeping in, but I’m not going to admit to it. “We’ll be traveling with the general,” I say at last, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “But thank you anyway.”
“As you say.” Leo waves a hand, dismissive, and starts back toward the theater. “But you better hurry if you want to catch up with him.”
“Catch up?” I frown. “He’s gone?”
“If not yet, soon.” He tosses the answer over his shoulder. “He’d rather go to his daughter’s wedding than grapple with the Tiger.”
His words carry to me, but distantly; I’m already racing down the alleyway into the broad street. Sure enough, past the dock, where the road meets the fields, the armée is already on the move by torchlight, striking tents, saddling horses. Legarde is leaving . . . but he can’t. Not without seeing us first.
What could make him stop and pay attention?
Whirling, I return to the roulotte, yanking open the back door and then grabbing the first fantouche I lay my hands on. Quickly I unwind the rope from the burlap, unwrapping a hulking heap of knotted black leather. The King of Death—a good omen. His stories have always been my favorites.
Leo has turned, watching me with a quizzical expression. “What are you doing?”
“Do you want to see a show?” I heave the puppet over my shoulder and march up to him, grabbing the bottle for one last pull—for luck. Then I hand it back and turn to run down the road. “Follow me!”