There shouldn’t be guards this far west in Lower Market, but I don’t doubt the warning whistle in the least. My pulse kicks up, pounding relentlessly against my ears, and I clench my fists to keep my hands steady. I refuse to be caught. Stopping beside the man who gave the warning, I turn and pretend to examine a sack of pearly-white onions while I sweep the area.
Men on their own or women with their Protectors continue to drift from stall to stall, but there’s a jerkiness to their movements now. A prey’s instinctive awareness of a predator.
My eyes scrape over canvas tents anchored to the ground with iron pegs, linger in the shadows between the rough-hewn stalls, and finally catch a diamond-bright shard of sunlight kissing the silver of a sword.
The guard is wedged in the narrow space between Madame Illiard’s display of silk Claiming dresses and the painted green stall of Parsington’s Herbal Remedies.
He isn’t alone—they never are—but his partners aren’t as easy to spot. It takes a minute before I see them. Cloaked. Carrying sacks and baskets. Trying to look like they’re just another group of citizens.
As if citizens ever spit-shine their boots and need enough space beneath their cloaks to accommodate a scabbard.
My heart is pounding so hard I worry the man beside me will hear it. I need a plan. One that keeps me out of the dungeon but still gets me to my destination in time.
The first guard raises his hand, and I spot the gleaming black oval Identidisc a split second before the green light flashes, sending a sonic pulse across a seventy-yard radius, scanning the unique wristmark every citizen has tattooed onto their left forearm at birth. My fingers want to creep to my wrist to worry the magnetic bracelet Logan insists I wear to block the disc’s ability to read my wristmark, but I clench my fist and remain still.
As soon as the guard drops his gaze to the Identidisc’s data, I move.
Sliding past the wagon, I duck into a tent half filled with sturdy cast-iron pots and watch for my opportunity. It doesn’t take long. The citizens know better than to stand around staring at the guards. Crowds begin sluggishly moving along the street again, though conversations are muted, and most look like they want nothing more than to leave the Market behind.
I couldn’t agree more. My heart is pounding like it wants out of my chest, and it’s a struggle to force myself to think clearly, but I must. I have to plan. To find a solution that doesn’t end with me trapped between two guards, trying to talk my way out of the kind of flogging that long ago cost Logan his mother.
Logan.
What would Logan do?
Logan wouldn’t be in this position in the first place because he’d already have everything mapped out with the kind of meticulous precision he applies to everything—a trait that usually irritates me, but now suddenly seems more attractive. Not that I’d ever admit it to him. Still, thinking like Logan gives me an idea, and I start searching for what I need.
Before long, I see my way out. A man—single, older, stoop-shouldered—walks slowly by my hiding place. I step out, match his pace, and lower my eyes as though I’ve been taught to respect my betters.
The man doesn’t seem to notice my presence, which saves me the trouble of trying to come up with a plausible explanation for pretending he’s my Protector. When he stops to browse for new boots, I seamlessly transfer to the next single man walking west.
This one casts a quick glance in my direction, frowns, and whispers, “What are you doing? Where is your Protector?”
I widen my eyes and do my best to look surprised. “I’m sorry. From the back, you look so similar. I thought …” I gesture, a tiny fluttering of my hands that conveys both helplessness and distress. “He said to wait while he went to Oliver’s, but there are guards, and I got scared.” My voice trembles just a bit.
His frown deepens, and he steps closer. “He should know better than to leave you alone at all.” He glances around the street. “There’s something going on today.”
I wring my hands together and consider producing a few tears. That seems to bring most men to their knees. Except for Logan, curse his stubborn soul. Not that I wanted Logan on his knees. Not anymore.
The man nods once, as if resolving some internal debate. “I’ll take you to Oliver’s. Stick close and keep your eyes down as is proper.”
I nearly bite my tongue in half to keep from telling him, in great detail, where he can put his ideas of what’s proper. Instead, I look carefully at my feet and follow my borrowed Protector as he slices through the rapidly dwindling crowds on his way to Oliver’s.
Two left turns later, we’re at the western edge of the Market. I sidestep a woman wrestling a plucked turkey into the woven basket strapped to her back, and approach Oliver’s stall. The yeasty aroma of braided raisin loaves pierced by the sharp sweetness of orange buns wraps around me, and my stomach reminds me I haven’t bothered to eat since early morning. Oliver stands alone amid wooden tables draped in crumb-coated white cotton and covered with trays holding the last of Oliver’s baked goods.
Turning to me, my escort asks, “Where is your Protector, young lady?”
Oliver shakes his head, sending his chins swinging, and plucks a sticky bun from the stash he always keeps for the children who visit. He knows they’re my favorite. “It’s a bad day for you to be at Market, Rachel-girl.”
“Rachel?” The man asks.
I shrug, and my hood slips a bit. The man catches a glimpse of my red hair and swears with admirable proficiency.
“Jared Adams’s daughter?”
I nod, and snatch the sticky bun Oliver tosses in my direction.
“You lied to me.” He doesn’t make it sound like a compliment.
I tear off a chunk of bread. “I’m sorry about that. I needed to reach Oliver’s without getting hassled by a guard.”
“Hassled by a guard? Hassled?” The man’s face turns red. “Didn’t you see their uniforms? Double gold bars on the left shoulder with a talon patch directly below.”
The warm, gooey sweetness of the sticky bun turns to sawdust in my mouth. Not just guards. Commander Chase’s personal Brute Squad. A flogging would’ve been the least of my worries if I’d been caught.
Which I wasn’t. Because I can think on my feet.
Turning away, I ignore Oliver’s quiet thanks to him as the man takes his leave. I don’t meet Oliver’s soft brown eyes as I slip my bracelet from my wristmark and lean forward to slide the mark across his scanner.
He grabs my arm, the rich mahogany of his skin a startling contrast against the paleness of mine, and says softly, “Not today, Rachel-girl.”
“How else can I pay you for the bun?”
“Put the bracelet on and leave it there. You’re practically my own granddaughter. The bun was a gift.”
I slide the bracelet back in place and lean into Oliver’s massive chest as he opens his arms to me. The warm scent of his baking clings to him and fills me with memories of happier times when I could crawl into his lap, listen to his deep voice tell me a fairy tale, and feel my world settle back into near-perfect lines again.
“Why did you come here today?”
I shrug and wrap my arms around him. I want one last moment with him before I face the dangers of the Wasteland alone.
He hugs me back and says, “Is this about you and Logan? I’m sure it must be an … adjustment.”
My laugh sounds more like a sob, and I choke it back. Two years ago, I would’ve jumped at the chance to have more time with Logan. My chest still burns whenever I let myself remember inviting him over for birthday cake, and then making sure I got him alone on the back porch so I could tell him I thought he was different. Special. A man like my father.
The kind of man I wanted to marry.
My humiliation at his exquisitely logical rejection is now coated with anger at his refusal to help me look for Dad, and every time I see him, I want to hurt him.
I give Oliver a tiny smile as I pull away. “It’s fine. I’m fine, but thank you.”
“If you’re fine, why take the risk of coming here?” His smile is gentle, but beneath it is the unyielding expectation that I will tell him the truth.
And because he’s the closest thing to family I have left, I give him as much of the truth as I can without making him an accomplice.
“I need to say good-bye.”
“To Jared?” He glances in the direction of the Wall, and I let him assume I’ve come to the edge of Baalboden to feel close to Dad one last time.
“Your dad wouldn’t want you taking such risks.” He raises a hand to my cheek, and love glows in his eyes, filling me with bittersweet warmth.
“My dad is the one who taught me how.” I stand on tiptoes and press a kiss against his weathered cheek. I already ache with missing him, but I ache with missing Dad more. Moving away from Oliver, I circle behind a table and head toward the back tent flap, fumbling with my cloak fastenings so I won’t have to look at him.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Oliver asks. There’s a bite of apprehension in his voice now.
“I’m going to the Wall.”
“I can’t allow this.” He starts toward me.
“I’m going.” I edge to the back of the tent.
“What am I supposed to tell Logan if I let you put yourself in danger?” Oliver asks, still moving toward me, though we both know he can’t catch up.
That I’m sorry? That I no longer meant any of the things I’d said two years ago? That he brought this on us both by not listening to me and helping me search for Dad? I square my shoulders, flick my hood over my hair again, and pat the sheath strapped to my waist.
“Tell him he’s too late,” I say, stepping out of Oliver’s tent and into the shadow of the Wall.