I help Luca to his feet, but he’s so weak that he needs to lean on me for support. Not that I have much to give him. I’m so shaky from crying that I can barely stand myself. Like mine, his hair is stringy with sweat, and his whole body feels hot to the touch. “Are you sure you’re all right?” I ask him.
He winces. “I’m fine.”
“What do we do with him?” I ask, nodding toward Villiam’s body, which I refuse to look at. Several hours ago, he was my father. Now he’s a killer. It’s going to take me more than a few minutes to be able to process that. For now, I can only feel as though I’ve lost someone else I loved. Someone who betrayed me.
How much of my love was genuine and not the result of his manipulation?
How much was his?
“Move him to his caravan,” Crown snarls. “Then leave him for someone else to find.”
I startle at Crown’s tone. He so rarely says anything hurtful; his words are almost always full of kindness and encouragement. The harsh look on his face, the blood on his arm—this is a Crown I don’t recognize.
The Crown after Blister’s death.
“We’ll walk back to Kahina’s caravan,” I say. “She’s probably worried sick.” And I have no desire to stay here, with my father dead on our floor.
“You can summon Nicoleta,” Crown says, “if you don’t want to move him yourself.”
I examine my father’s body. “No. I should do it.” I can’t keep allowing Nicoleta to deal with all of my problems for me. And he was my father, not hers.
While Luca rests against the table, Crown and I pick Villiam up. I grab him under the arms, and Crown grabs his feet. I cringe. I have no desire to touch him or to be within five hundred feet of him. But we can’t leave him here. So I cast my moth illusion, and we carry him arduously to his caravan. We lay him on the floor by his bookcase.
Afterward, I dunk my hands in the water basin in our tent to wash away the smell of his cologne. I wipe the snot and sweat from my face, and Crown comfortingly rubs my back.
“It’s okay,” he says.
“I can’t believe it,” I say. “I can’t believe he did this to me. To us.”
Crown, Luca and I walk down the path to Kahina’s caravan, and I continue to cloak us in the illusion of moths. This is a strictly residential neighborhood, made up primarily of schools, homes and orphan tents. I picture Zhihao, Jiafu’s younger brother, and how he will cope with the news of Jiafu’s death.
Those who aren’t fighting by Skull Gate are packing and hiding in their caravans, as if prepared to leave at any moment. Several caravans are missing from their usual spots—perhaps they’ve already left. The usual smells of kettle corn and bonfires are gone. Everything smells of the smoke still smoldering over Skull Gate.
I bang on Kahina’s door until my fist hurts. She opens it and pulls me into a hug. “Sweetbug, sweetbug,” she says. “I was so worried. What’s happened to you?” She eyes the blood on Crown’s arm.
Kahina helps us inside the caravan, and I immediately collapse on her cushions. The other Trunks in my mind fly open, unable to be contained a second longer, and suddenly Kahina’s caravan is quite full with her, me, Luca, Crown, Nicoleta, Hawk, Tree and Unu and Du...as well as Kahina’s many potted plants.
“What happened?” Nicoleta asks. “Crown, your arm, are you hurt?”
“No, no, I’m fine,” he says softly.
All eyes turn to me to tell the story. I take a deep breath, slide my hand into Luca’s for support and begin.
I have to stop several times to cry, or to hear the way my words hang in the air—to hear the truth in them. Villiam, my father, killed the illusions, and he’s been planning to since the moment that I created them. The entire time I’d been paranoid about the killer watching us, I’d been right. He had been watching us. For much longer than I imagined.
And the worst part is to remember him at Blister’s and Venera’s funerals, helping us dig the graves. And how he comforted me after every single death. I was so naïve. And he...he’d been so cruel tonight. I’d never heard such harsh words escape him. I trusted him. I considered him my family. And that’s how he thought of me all this time. Not as a daughter but merely a tool.
But, still, I’m not sure about that. I don’t think I ever will be.
“All that matters is that we’re safe now,” I say.
“You killed him?” Unu asks Crown. “You killed the proprietor?”
“What was it like?” Du asks.
Nicoleta hushes them as Crown pales. “It’s rude to bring up things like that.”
“That man got what he deserved,” Crown says. “That’s all I have to say about it.”
And yet, I grieve for him. I grieve for the man I always thought of as my father.
“And, Luca,” Kahina says, “are you sure you’re all right?”
“I’m fine,” he says. “A bit nauseous. Agni used charms to make me pass out. And my head hurts, of course, but that will pass.”
“Is there anything I can get for you?” she asks.
“Do you have any gin?”
She clicks her tongue. “Afraid not.”
“But there’s something that still doesn’t make sense to me,” Nicoleta says. “If each of us are tied to some...person, why not simply kill us anywhere? Why bring us all the way north, into the middle of a war? Villiam could’ve carried out his plans in the Down-Mountains, anywhere.”
“Because Sorina is a charm-worker, obviously,” Luca says. We wait for him to continue, but he doesn’t, as if that explanation is sufficient.
“I’m still not sure I understand you,” Nicoleta says with a hint of annoyance.
“Charms only work in close proximity. I had protective charms, but they only worked if I wore them. If one of you—us—are killed, it doesn’t mean anything unless we’re close enough to the person to whom we’re tied.”
You. Us. I’m reminded once more that Luca is one of the illusions, another person I made up. Which means that everything he remembers about his life before Gomorrah is a lie. He never had a life before Gomorrah.
I squeeze his hand. He doesn’t squeeze back.
“So are we going to leave now?” Hawk asks. “Gomorrah will go back south?”
“Who’s going to be proprietor now?” Unu asks.
“Luca could do it,” Du says. “Luca’s a genius, aren’t you, Luca?”
I am almost hurt that Du didn’t say anything about me. I was Villiam’s protégée. I’ve been training to become the proprietor for a long time, but no one had expected it to happen so soon.
But I cannot imagine myself succeeding Villiam. Not after everything he’s done. I don’t want anything to do with him or the Gomorrah family.
I wouldn’t make a good proprietor, anyway.
The corner of Luca’s lips twitch into a smile. “As if Gomorrah would want an Up-Mountainer to be their proprietor.”
“Then what about Nicoleta?” Hawk says. She tugs on Nicoleta’s sleeve. Though Nicoleta also resembles Luca’s people, she is hardly the only one in Gomorrah to do so, and she is from the Festival. People know her. People respect her. “You could be the proprietor. You’d keep everything very...organized.”
She laughs. “I could hardly—”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “I think that’s perfect.”
Nicoleta watches me with apprehension, and I can almost see the questions floating around in her mind. Would Gomorrah take to a proprietor who isn’t a real person? But then a determined glint shines in her eyes, and she smiles.
* * *
I sit at Villiam’s table, holding an insect vial that Villiam must’ve intended to give me. It’s an oyster spider—not technically an insect but interesting nonetheless. Its eggs look like pearls, and it buries them in the sand near areas of salt water. I’m alone inside the caravan, debating about whether to keep the exotic gift from such a hateful man.
Outside, Gomorrah is burying Villiam’s body. Rumor has it that an Up-Mountain official murdered him.
They want war.
I shouldn’t feel guilty for missing my father’s funeral after what he did, yet there’s a part of me that does. But I can’t bear to go. I’ve attended three funerals in the past five weeks because of him. I will not attend his. I won’t stand there as Gomorrah buries him like a hero.
People will talk about the proprietor’s daughter not showing up. Let them. Nicoleta will become proprietor and soon, they’ll forget about me. They never wanted a freak as a proprietor anyway.
Worse than that is the guilty feeling that everything that has happened is my fault. Even if Villiam orchestrated all of this, I was willingly ignorant. Had I only asked questions, had I only taken a moment to think, none of this might have happened.
Someone knocks on the door.
I open it, and it’s Luca, dressed in a fresh set of clothes without any stains of blood or dirt. He peers up at me through the rain. His blond hair is soaked and dripping down his neck. “May I come in?”
I nod, holding my breath and bracing myself for the conversation that will inevitably follow. Our relationship, which had already begun with complications, has now developed into something impossible. I created him, whether or not I remember it. All of his memories—everything he is—came from Villiam, the man who intended to murder him.
And I almost let it happen. I’m shocked he can even look at me.
He climbs into the caravan and stands at Villiam’s desk. He removes his hat and soaked coat and looks up at the ceiling. “The warrior constellation,” he says.
“I forgot you knew about stars,” I say.
“My father and I used to examine them from the clock tower...” He taps his cane on the toe of his shoe. “But I suppose that never truly happened. The City of Raske and the clock tower are very real places. I’m simply not a part of them.”
My heart aches when I look at his face. At his dark eyes. At the way he bites his lip. This is the boy I’ve come to love, the only person I suspect in the world who could ever also love me.
Because I made him up.
But he feels so real. The smell of his sandalwood soap. The groans of the caravan shifting from his weight as he paces around the room. The burning in my chest. All of it is so real that I could burst from the pain of it all.
“I’m very sorry about Villiam,” he says, still standing. He doesn’t touch me the way he usually does. Five feet span between us. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
He was the one who almost died.
“I’m sorry, too,” I say bitterly. “I don’t know if I can ever say it enough. I didn’t trust you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, but, by his tone, it does.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. My headache is gone. Doesn’t seem like any lasting harm was done, though I can’t seem to stop my right hand from trembling.” He lifts it off his cane to show me the tremor. “But I didn’t come to you for small talk. Gomorrah is leaving Leonita.”
“I know that,” I say. “Everyone is packing up now.”
“Despite the fact that you and I disagree with Villiam’s motives, the Alliance is real. With the other Up-Mountain city-states in turmoil, Exander will act. What are you going to do about it?” He leans on his walking stick. “Nicoleta isn’t proprietor yet.”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“I was hardly suggesting that,” he says.
In truth, I’d rather abandon the proprietorship entirely. The Festival isn’t my responsibility, and I want nothing to do with the Gomorrah family.
“What would you have me do?”
“You can do nothing. You can take Gomorrah away from here and let history play out. But that isn’t the purpose of Gomorrah,” he says. “You should give Exander something to remember. Something that will make him think twice about taking on the Down-Mountains, when the Ninth Trade War does begin.”
He wants me to create an illusion.
“I don’t want to be part of a war.”
“It’s inevitable. Just as it is inevitable that Gomorrah will be caught in the middle of it. That’s the nature of these things.” He stares out the open window. “What will you do to protect the Festival?”
It isn’t fair for him to ask this of me. I’ve already gone to extraordinary lengths to protect my family and, by extension, this Festival. I am not the proprietor. I’m merely his daughter. This isn’t my city.
My crusade is over.
“Why do you want me to do this?” I ask. “What is it to you?”
He grimaces. “You’re right. I’m an Up-Mountainer. Why would I possibly care about world events? Why would I not dwell, even a little, on the fact that I only exist because Exander exists? I have been fashioned in the image of prejudice and terror. Everything I remember about my life was invented by your father. Why would I possibly care that you are sitting in your dead father’s chair, mourning him and the future he promised you?”
I wince. “Do you hate me now?”
“No. No, I don’t hate you. Even in the Menagerie, trapped and feeling very much betrayed, I did not hate you.” He sighs, and I’m too overcome by guilt to speak. “But I know you. You aren’t going to do nothing. While Gomorrah remains in Leonita, you’re the proprietor. So...what are you going to do?”
He holds out his hand.
His eyes are questioning, but he already knows my answer.
I take it.
The walk to the outside of Gomorrah takes over forty minutes, from Villiam’s caravan to the obelisks at the edge of the Downhill. The Festival moves behind us, a roar of wheels turning and wood creaking. Neither of us speak.
I am not certain who I am doing this for. For my family? To help finish Villiam’s goals feels like a terrible insult to their memory. But Luca is right: the Alliance is a real danger. They always have been.
Am I doing this for myself? I was once a slave, according to Villiam’s stories. Even if he lied about so many other things, I don’t really think he lied about that. But I was so young. I cannot even imagine my life then. The evils of the Up-Mountains’ empires have harmed thousands, and I feel almost guilty for not remembering my past. It’s my story, yet it doesn’t feel like mine to tell. Maybe Villiam stole that from me. Maybe the Up-Mountains did.
I shouldn’t merely do this for Luca, simply because he wishes more of me. Everyone thinks I am a warrior, but I don’t believe there’s any fight left in me.
We stop in the field, its grass trampled and brown from accommodating Gomorrah. It looks as if we’ve left a wasteland behind us. Even in the sky, we have stained the clouds black.
“Leonita’s officials even reached the Downhill,” Luca says. “Look. One of the obelisks is broken.”
The one to our left is missing its point. They are no longer twins.
“What are you going to do?” he asks.
“I usually make my illusions up on the spot.”
“But this isn’t the Freak Show.”
“Isn’t it?”
“You sound like you don’t care.”
“What makes you think that?” I ask. Really, I don’t have enough in me to feel anything at all.
“Your voice is flat. You’re...” His face darkens as he searches for a word. Broken would be the best choice. He touches my mask. Matte, black, plain. “Where are the feathers? The sequins?”
“My father just died.”
“And the rest of your family is safe.”
“Are they?” I ask. “Safe from Villiam and Agni, I suppose. Agni probably forced Dalimil to lie about the spy. But Gomorrah is currently fleeing from a possible war. A Ninth Trade War, everyone is saying. This battle might be over, but there are more to come. Gomorrah has asked my family to defend it before; who is to say they won’t do it again?”
“You are. Right now.” His voice rises, and the wind carries it. We are alone in this field—the iron gates of Leonita ahead of us, the fraternal obelisks of Gomorrah behind us. “The Wandering City will always wander into trouble. You must convince Exander not to follow us there.” He points his walking stick toward the castle jutting out over the Leonitian skyline. “He should be in his castle.”
“I don’t think I can single him out from such a distance,” I say.
“Then show the whole city your illusion.”
I wither. That must be thousands of people. I don’t normally perform illusions for such a large crowd. I perform in small details: in the scurries of insects, in the glittering of stars.
“I don’t know if I can do this.”
He rests his hand on my shoulder. I’m so startled, I nearly flinch away at his touch. “I’m connected to Exander, aren’t I? Use me to find him.”
I hesitate.
“Sorina. You can do this.”
I’m not a warrior.
“You’re Gomorrah’s proprietor.”
I don’t desire any battles.
“Make him remember.”
But maybe...I can stop them before they begin.
I lift my arms toward the Leonitian skyline, all iron and angles on its hilltop. I picture Gomorrah’s smoke—the thickness of it in the air, in every mouthful we breathe. The towers of the castle twist into the spires of the Menagerie. The gates bend as if, bit by bit, someone is twisting them into a new shape: a skull. Its mouth gaping into a scream.
With everything I have, I push the illusion from my mind until I feel it seeping into reality. The dark clouds descend over the city as if falling from the heavens, cloaking its buildings, and its angles and contrasts disappear into shadow. The castle twists like a top spinning until the Menagerie tent spreads open wide and covers it completely, semitransparent.
I imagine Exander stepping to his window to look outside at the city below him, only to find Gomorrah. The churches of Ovren have vanished into the smoke. His people disappear entirely. I don’t grace him with the smells of licorice cherries and kettle corn—I bring the rot, the manure, the tobacco smoke.
There’s an obvious disturbance in Leonita. The gate falls shut. Horns blare out in the distance.
Luca squeezes my shoulder, and I focus on his touch. I don’t know anything about charm-work—Villiam stole that knowledge from me. But I sense a presence in the city that reminds me of Luca in a way I cannot describe. A presence in the tower.
I’m so far, so incredibly far, but I grasp hold of that presence and use it to propel me closer. Whether or not my vision is real, I picture him at his window. With the smoke surrounding the city, he cannot see Gomorrah retreating in the distance. He might not understand. I’ll have to show him who is responsible.
I allow the scene to continue for another thirty seconds before the next illusion comes to me. Beside that window on the tallest tower, I picture myself: maskless, in my performance robes. I hover in the smoke several feet from him, my hands stretched out menacingly like they are now. The image of me burns and flickers like the faint glow of fire within the city below.
I beckon to him, as if urging him to jump. I know he won’t.
But I inch toward him. The wind stirs, and I turn around for a moment to admire what Leonita has become. When I meet his gaze again, my skin cracks. White grains of salt fall from my hands, my cheeks, my lips. The lord of Leonita watches as my remains are scattered across his city.
All at once, the illusion vanishes. The castle returns, the gate, the dark stone, the angles. All the lord sees is the smoke of Gomorrah in the distance. But even as we leave, he still catches the faint smell of burning in the air. Our ghost remains.
I drop my arms and lean against Luca to steady myself, entirely exhausted. That was all I have.
“Marvelous,” he whispers.
He picks me up to carry me back to Gomorrah.
“I can walk,” I say.
He ignores me. “I think I felt his fear, when you focused on him. I trembled in my soul.”
“I have that effect on people.” This earns me a hint of a smile, and I allow myself to relax. Maybe he doesn’t hate me, after all. He can carry me if he likes. He isn’t that strong—he will only tire himself out—but I don’t mind the feeling of my cheek against his chest, and I’m tired. I won’t argue.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to be harsh earlier.”
“I deserved it.”
“No, you didn’t. I wish I’d seen through Villiam earlier. It was all there, right in front of me.”
“It wasn’t all in front of you,” I say. “The puzzle pieces, they were my puzzle pieces. The mystery was my mystery. The problems were—”
“All of those were mine, as well. We’ve both avoided asking the tough questions.”
We enter the edge of the Downhill. For a moment, we pass through a flicker of heat. It is only a moment, so quick it feels as though I imagine it, but it burns like Hellfire. I think back to the proprietor who supposedly stored the souls of Gomorrah in our gates so that we would forever burn, how the memory of heat still lingers at the edges of the city. The Festival’s proprietors have always had a fondness for theatrics.
“My memories have always been fuzzy,” Luca says. I don’t know if he even noticed the heat. “I assumed it was the change of scenery, from a place like that to a place like this. Turns out I have eighteen years’ worth of memories and only a year of them are real.”
“I’m sorry—”
“For what? Creating me?” he asks, his face painfully emotionless. “I’d rather you not apologize for that. I like being alive, you know.” He closes his eyes. “It’s just—my father, my mother, I still remember them. I remember losing them. I remember running away. And now that I know none of it was real, I can’t help but revisit it all again, in my memories. I can barely picture his face anymore...”
“Luca...”
“I’m not done,” he says. “I’ve rehearsed my little speech several times. At least let me perform it.” His voice cracks. Luca’s voice never cracks. “I considered leaving, going to Raske, visiting the place I never grew up in. But I’m not going to do that. I can’t leave Gomorrah. I can’t leave you.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, though the thought of him leaving makes my heart ache. “I understand if you need to go...find yourself...”
“I can’t leave because I love you, Sorina,” he says. His expression becomes pleading, one of such vulnerability that I’m taken aback. “I love you, even if doing so is mad. And why travel to a place I’ve never been when I can find myself with you?”
I let out the breath I’ve been holding. I don’t know what to say. I want to squirm out of his arms so I can avoid looking at him and the embarrassment on his face. His cheeks flush, and I am certain my chest will burst.
“But you’re an illusion,” I say. “I created you.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m not real.”
I wince, remembering Villiam’s harsh words about my illusions. “What I mean is, you don’t have to love me. Even if I created Hawk to be my sister and Crown to be my grandfather, you don’t need to be connected to me.”
“It’s not a need,” he snaps. “It’s a want. But if you don’t want me—”
“It’s not that at all! When Villiam accused you, I was distraught over Venera’s death. I let him confuse me, and I’ll forever hate that he so easily turned me against you.” I bite my lip, uncertain if I should go on, if I want to bring up the misery of those days, but Luca nods at me to continue.
I owe it to him to apologize properly. “I was distraught and devastated. I still struggled to wrap my head around the accusations because...I love you, and it was impossible to see beyond it. When I thought you were gone...it was terrible.” My voice has reduced to a whisper, and Luca’s expression has softened. “So it’s not that I don’t love you. I’m just scared because the only people in my life are figments of my own imagination.”
He sets me down. We have reached his caravan. It would feel better to stand, to pace, but Luca sits on the edge and leans against the door. He motions for me to join him. I sit close to him, my legs dangling several inches from the grass.
“I am not a toy,” he says. “And neither is the rest of your family. Your illusions, whatever you imagined them to be, don’t turn out the way you plan because you cannot control us. I’ve made my own decisions, and you’re one of them. Don’t diminish me to something less than a person. If I want to try to be with you, it’s because I choose you.”
His face is inches from mine, and I stare into his dark eyes. My heart, broken and exhausted from weeks of tragedy and betrayal, manages to flutter. He wants to be with me.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It doesn’t matter. I just need to know if...” He squeezes my hand, his eyes peering through me as if I’m not even wearing a mask. I brace myself for what he is about to ask. I’m prepared to give him anything, if only he will forgive me, if only he will keep loving me. “If you will let me apply for the vacant position in your show.”
I bark out a laugh. “What?”
“If Nicoleta is going to take over the duties as proprietor, you’ll need a new manager.” His eyes glint mischievously. “Were you expecting me to say something else?” He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me closer to him.
“The pay won’t be much,” I say.
“I’ll take a pay cut if it means not being slayed for sport.” He smiles, dimples and all, as he presses his forehead against mine.
I’m breathless.
“Unu and Du bicker incessantly.”
“I’m sure I can tolerate that.” His breath warms my cheeks.
“Crown’s food... It’s really terrible.” My voice grows quieter with each word.
“I don’t doubt it.”
Luca runs his hand through my hair, making me tingle all the way down my back.
I kiss him, and he kisses me back in a way that makes me dizzy. Not dizzy from his lips, or the taste of him, or the smell of his soap, but dizzy in my thoughts. I’m kissing Luca, the boy who loves me, who sees me as more than a freak. The boy who’d call himself a freak, too.
“Just say yes,” he whispers.
“Yes.”