Down-Mountainers wear white to funerals. I borrowed a dress from Kahina, which hangs down to my skinny ankles and is already staining with mud along the hem. Villiam stands on my left in elegant, almost priestly robes, with a starched collar and bare feet. On my right, Venera wears a simple white tunic, no makeup, no strands of beads, no flowers in her hair. She is almost unrecognizable.
All of us—my family, Villiam and Kahina—gather around the small hole that Tree dug this morning. Blister’s casket, not even three feet long, lies at the bottom, wrapped in the red quilt Kahina made him a year and a half ago. There are no patches on it for significant life moments. It’s blank.
I imagine the patches full. I imagine his first day of school. I imagine how dazzling his unique fire abilities could have been once he grew older. I imagine him lighting the fireworks of the show he loves so much.
Hawk sings a mourning song. Her voice sounds distinctly inhuman, more like a bird’s, shrill but beautiful. It’s strange to hear her sing without her fiddle’s accompaniment, or to sing something so slow and deep and sad.
I look everywhere but at the casket. At the overcast sky. At the anthill a few feet in front of me. At Crown, who cries the hardest but the most quietly. Everyone loved Blister, but Crown was the one who read Blister the same stories every night, who convinced Blister to take a bath by bribing him with treats, who rocked him to sleep when he cried.
My chest tightens, and it feels as if I’m not getting enough air. I’m standing still, but my heart is pounding. I glance over my shoulder around the field, half expecting someone else to be here with us, examining the results of their handiwork. Selecting another victim.
Crown digs his cane into the dirt; his dark knuckles whiten from squeezing so hard. Circles hang beneath his puffy, bloodshot eyes. He looks broken.
I never worried about Crown’s age before, but now that I know that my illusions can die, all I thought about last night was whether Crown would make it. Blister was Crown’s entire world.
I can’t lose another member of my family.
And I won’t. My hands curl into fists and I take a long, deep inhale. Because now we know that Gill’s death wasn’t just a random, crazed disciple of Ovren. Not when Gill and Blister were killed so close together, both never before believed real enough to kill.
Someone is targeting my family, and I’m going to find out who, how and why.
Kahina casts me a warning glance, as if she can tell what I’m thinking. I haven’t spoken to her alone since just after Gill died, but there’s no way she can tell me to focus on healing now. I’ll heal after we find justice.
At first, Nicoleta assumed Blister’s death must’ve been an accident. Blister was almost two—he naturally got himself into trouble when no one was watching. But Blister hated water. He hated baths. He hated rain. He wouldn’t go near the dunk tank, which is glass and obviously full of water. Not to mention tall and difficult for a small child to climb.
Someone drowned him on purpose.
He was only a baby. Our baby. I choke back a sob and wipe my face on my sleeve.
Hawk finishes her song, and Crown inches closer to the grave. He stares down at the hole blankly, as if it goes on for miles and miles. He says nothing for a few moments. The only sound is Gomorrah preparing to open for the evening a hundred meters behind us. This field outside of the Festival’s fence has soft earth and wildflowers. It seemed a good, quiet place for Blister to rest.
“Blister was a happy one,” Crown says, “and a star performer. He loved the attention of being on stage, especially with all of us. He clapped for all of us backstage, even when we told him to be quiet. I think we’re all going to miss his high fives after the shows are over.”
His voice catches, and he covers his mouth with his hand. Everyone gives him time to compose himself, and when he continues, his words quiver.
“Blister liked fireworks more than anything, so I brought one to light when this is over.” Crown pulls a small red flare out of his jacket pocket. “We watched the fireworks at Skull Gate every night, just me and him.”
Venera cries beside me quietly. She reaches out and intertwines her fingers with mine, and I know we’re picturing the same things. Blister returning every night in Crown’s arms, saying he saw the “booms.” The way he said our names: “Ree-ah” and “Vu-rah.” The hugs and kisses good-night.
“My sweet baby boy, you were too young,” Crown chokes out. “I wish more than anything that you were here with us right now. So I’ll tuck you in one last time, and maybe one morning, we’ll see each other again.”
Nicoleta passes me a shovel. Then all of us, except for Kahina and Crown, lay Blister to rest.
When we finish, my hands and shoulders ache, and my nose won’t stop running. All I want is to sleep undisturbed, where I don’t need to look at the grief on anyone else’s face and I can cry in private. But my heart races, and I look over my shoulder every few moments in case someone is watching. The someone who killed Blister. Who killed Gill.
None of us are safe.
Why? Why would someone want to kill any of us, especially a baby?
I’d give anything to turn back time. To have waited one more day to talk to Luca. To have stayed home and watched Blister so he couldn’t disappear. To notice the person lurking by our tent, waiting for someone to turn their back for a moment while Blister wandered outside.
“Does anyone have a match?” Crown asks. “I...forgot to bring some.”
We rarely needed matches. Blister lit our candles and charcoals for us.
“Here.” Villiam pulls a brass matchbox out of his pocket and hands it to Crown, who thanks him quietly and bends down to position the firework in the dirt.
It shoots off in a streak of gold. I wince at the sound of the explosion.
Boom, I hear the echo of Blister’s voice.
Tree gathers up the shovels and thuds back toward the Festival. Hawk spreads her wings and flies into the distance to be alone. The rest of us linger. And when we do begin to tread back to our tent, Crown lingers still.
I walk beside Villiam, the hot summer wind whipping my hair across my face and the grass against my ankles. “Why would anyone do this?” I ask.
He frowns. “Nicoleta told me that Blister’s death was an accident.”
“She’s in denial. First Gill and now Blister, barely a week apart? That’s too much of a coincidence. And Blister never would’ve gone near a dunk tank on his—”
“It’s not proper to speak of such things at funerals,” he says. “Let’s go—”
“Then when do you want to talk about it?” I snap. “Because all I could think about the whole time is that we’re out in the open, that the killer could be here watching us and we’d never notice. Who has to die next before you realize that these aren’t random—”
“Sorina.” He puts his hands on my shoulders, and I’m so rigid and anxious that I have to hold back the urge to shrug him off. I want space and air and for my heart to stop pounding.
“I... You’re right. Of course you’re right,” Villiam says. He leans down to kiss my forehead, but I pull away. I don’t want him or anyone else to touch me. “The timing of these two tragedies is unusual and terrible. I can’t imagine what you must be going through. I am looking into Blister’s death, as well. I’m doing...” His voice cracks. “I’m doing everything I can.”
“Are you? I don’t want you to just look into it. I want a full-scale investigation, and I want to help. I want to make sure my family is safe.”
“Sorina... I really don’t think this is a good time for you. You know that I like to involve you with my work, but this is a decision I’ve made as your father, not the proprietor. Trust me to do my job. I’m trying to protect you.”
“How can I trust you with this when you think Blister’s death was an accident?”
His expression looks wounded, as if I’ve insulted him. Maybe I have. Of course Villiam is doing everything he can. He has a hundred things on his plate at the moment, all dire. “I will begin the ‘full-scale investigation’ you want. I will question everyone in Gomorrah if that protects our family. Of course I will. I’d do anything for you. But you need to promise me something.”
Why is it that every time I ask someone to do something reasonable and necessary, they always ask for something in return? At what point do my requests stop being opportunities to teach me some kind of lesson? I’m not acting like a child. Whether or not I’m an adult, I’m allowed to be scared. I’m allowed to be worried. It isn’t some fault in my character that I demand the right to ensure my family’s safety. The childish thing to do would be to dismiss the facts in order to avoid a truth you don’t want to face. I’m facing the truth head-on. Even if it hurts.
“Promise you what?” I don’t mean for my voice to sound so harsh, but it does.
Villiam winces and then hesitates before he answers. I swallow my guilt in a dry lump.
“All right. If you want to be part of my investigation, you can.”
My mouth drops open in surprise. Villiam never changes his mind.
“But,” he says, “the investigation methods will not be as you think. Based on a few interviews with your neighbors and a lack of evidence to the contrary, I’m starting to suspect the perpetrators are trying to get to me through you.”
“Perpetrators? You think there’s more than one person behind this?”
Villiam glances at the others walking ahead of us with sad eyes. He lowers his voice. “Tomorrow evening. Come to my caravan like you normally would for your lessons. There is much to talk to you about.”
“Like what?”
He embraces me, and I am overcome by his familiar scent of cologne and white tea. With his breath close to my ear, he says, “I wanted to wait until you were older, eighteen, before formally beginning your training as proprietor. But the burden of our legacy has reached you earlier than I ever wanted.” When he pulls away, his eyes glisten. I don’t know what to say. I’ve never seen Villiam shed a tear.
“I’ll meet you tomorrow night,” I say, though I’m still not entirely certain what he means. Why would someone attack my illusions to get to Villiam? Who are his enemies? What legacy? But I’m too taken aback by his emotion to ask any more questions, especially out here in the open. “I love you,” I say.
“I love you, too.”
* * *
The rest of us silently return to our tent. There won’t be a show tonight.
Kahina cooks us couscous and lamb, and though she’s outside at the fire pit, we can all hear her hacking coughs, a symptom of her snaking sickness, from inside.
She could die next. Or Hawk. Or Unu and Du. Or Nicoleta. Any of us.
I lean my head on Venera’s shoulder and stare at one of Blister’s toy tops lying on the table. Each time I finished making one of my illusions, Villiam gave me a gift for them from him. A birthday gift, of sorts. This is what he gave to Blister, and it always was Blister’s favorite toy. I grab it and spin it. The purple-and-pink-painted swirl spins in a never-ending spiral. Until it stops.
Venera strokes my black hair and twists it around her finger. “Do you think Kahina will mind if I don’t eat anything? I’m not very hungry,” she says.
“She won’t care.” I spin the top again. “Are you going out tonight?”
“I think so. I need to escape for a bit.”
I press my finger on the top’s handle until it slows to a stop. “Be careful.”
“Always am.”
After Venera leaves, Unu and Du gather everyone around for a game of lucky coins to keep us distracted. We clear off the table to make room for our play. The game is mostly luck with a hint of strategy, but, by far, the surest means of victory is a hefty wallet to purchase the best coins. Unu and Du, who save their allowances specifically for this, own the strongest collections. The Beheaded Dame has a nearly indestructible defensive bonus. And the Iron Warrior has no attack penalties. The only one with a collection formidable enough to defeat either of them was Gill.
Halfway through our third game, only my weakest coins still defend my playing field, leaving me wide open to attack. Someone clears their throat outside.
We all pause. “Who is it?” Nicoleta calls.
A man’s silhouette appears by the entrance of our tent. He is a member of Gomorrah’s guard, wearing all black. Villiam must have assigned him to watch over us tonight.
“There’s a boy out here who wants to speak with Sorina,” the guard says. “He calls himself a poison-worker.”
Luca? What would he be doing here? I’m not sure if I am more confused or annoyed that he’d have the gall to pay me a visit.
“What’s a poison-worker?” Hawk asks.
“Just wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”
“But the game isn’t finished,” Unu yelps.
“I was going to lose anyway.”
I slip outside to find Luca waiting for me behind the tent. He wears a grim expression. After one look at his hideous, quilted vest and his uncombed blond hair, I am reminded of the details of our conversation last night, and how his words so easily manage to be even more offensive than his clothing. I’m already dreading whatever he has come here to say.
The guard leaves to give us privacy.
“What are you doing here?” I snap. “You made it quite clear yesterday that I wasn’t worth helping.”
“I was wrong,” he says. “I heard about Blister. I’m so sorry, Sorina.”
I cross my arms and turn away. Now he decides that my case is interesting to him? I shouldn’t have sought him out in the first place. Had I been home, maybe I would have noticed Blister wandering off. Instead, I’d been wasting my time.
“You should leave,” I say.
“Please. I want to help you. How are you doing?”
“Are you only being nice because you’re interested now?” Luca reddens. Last night he was all wit and calm and I-have-better-things-to-do, but now he fidgets and avoids my gaze. I’m making him uncomfortable. Oh, well. It’s not my job to keep him at ease.
“No. I’m being nice because you look like you need it,” he says. “I have thoughts about what happened. Just hear me out.”
I can tell he won’t leave until he’s had his say, so I let him speak.
“So it could still be a disciple of Ovren, I suppose,” he says, his gaze focused on the grass. “But whoever they are, they do seem to be targeting your...family.”
I shiver at the thought that someone out there, for whatever reason, wants more of my family dead. I’m not sure I can protect them.
“The big question is why,” Luca says. “You’re the proprietor’s daughter, which could be the reason. But how well does Villiam know your family?”
“Well enough.” That sort of thing is private. I’m not about to share our family business with him.
“They don’t seem close.”
I purse my lips in annoyance. “They do not spend as much time with Villiam as I do, but they are still family. Not that it’s your business.”
“So if the killer did this to get to Villiam, they’re not doing a very good job, are they? Villiam hardly seems affected. So the killer must have a different motivation.”
I squeeze my fists until my knuckles whiten. There are kinder ways to say something like that. My father isn’t as dismissive as Luca seems to believe. No, he doesn’t always invite my family to dinner, but he helps provide for them. He buys presents for all of their birthdays. He asks about them whenever he sees me. He’s devastated for me.
Luca looks over his shoulder in case anyone is eavesdropping, but it is still early enough in the afternoon for the paths to be quiet. Even the nosy fortune-worker who lives beside us is still asleep—the best gossip is witnessed late in the night, when drunk patrons stumble back to Skull Gate or when her friends flock to her door to share the latest news.
“And there is still the question of how the killer is doing this,” Luca says. “You’re convinced the illusions are simply illusions. And since you’re the only illusion-worker I’ve heard of in the past few centuries, I’m not inclined to question your judgment on the matter. I’m thinking the killer might have an unusual sort of jynx-work. The kind that might be able to kill someone who isn’t real.”
“You didn’t say anything like this yesterday,” I say.
“I was thinking it. But it seemed unlikely. I thought Gill was probably killed by an Up-Mountainer—however, most Up-Mountainers suppress their jynx-work, so the perpetrator is statistically less likely to be from there. But now we have a proper killer on our hands. Someone with jynx-work who does know how to use it. Where is there a large collection of jynx-workers nearby? Here, in the Festival. Which also makes sense, as it seems odd that someone outside the Festival would target you so specifically. You’re not that important.” He speaks so quickly I almost grow dizzy.
“You’re wrong,” I say.
He furrows his eyebrows as if he didn’t understand my words. “What?”
“I am important. I’m the proprietor’s daughter, destined to be the next proprietor.”
“Is that what Villiam thinks the killer’s motive might be?”
“Yes.”
“Is that what you think?”
I hesitate. Like Luca said, no, my illusions aren’t particularly close to Villiam. He grieves for them more because he grieves for my own pain. Plus, Luca repeated my thoughts earlier about the killer having an unusual form of jynx-work. Maybe the answer is not in my blueprints but in the killer’s abilities. At least someone is validating my opinions, even if he has less tact than a swarm of desert hornets.
“We can work together,” he says. “I’ll start profiling the type of jynx-work that might be able to kill an illusion. We could find them together in Gomorrah.”
“I’m already working on an investigation with my father.”
“Do you or do you not believe the killer is targeting Villiam through your illusions?” He digs his walking stick into the dirt.
“I... I suppose I can’t be certain,” I admit.
“Good. We’ll meet tomorrow night. At ten.”
“To what?”
“To begin,” he says. “You can continue your investigation with Villiam—” his tone seems to indicate that his own is more important “—but we can investigate everything you and Villiam aren’t. It will cover every aspect of what happened to Gill and Blister. Between all of us, we’ll find who did this to your family.”
“And you’re doing this why? Out of the kindness of your heart?” I don’t trust that he’d just show up here and change his mind. He’s an Up-Mountainer, not Gomorrah-born. He probably wants something. A favor from the proprietor’s daughter, perhaps.
“I was rude to you yesterday. I feel like I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me anything.”
“All right, then, yes, out of the kindness of my heart.” He watches me seriously with his brown eyes, and for a moment, he reminds me of Villiam. Like he can see right through me. He knows I’m going to say yes. If it’s an opportunity to protect my family, I’m going to take it. Even if it means swallowing my pride.
“Fine. Tomorrow. At ten.” I turn around and head back to my tent.
Neither of us bothers to say goodbye.