“And don’t complain,” Melily adds. “Or talk.”
The young woman falls into a red-faced silence. Two of the dogs cower behind her laced boots, but the third betrays her and climbs into my lap. I scratch its ears.
We soon arrive at some place called the Islet Dance Gallery. It’s similar in shape to Giron Noble’s factory, squat and rectangular, but otherwise much nicer to look at. Tall, colorful windows stretch across the front of the building, patchworks of glass arranged to look like women wearing dresses made of gleaming triangles and diamonds.
As we climb out of the automotor, releasing the woman and her dogs, Melily tells me the swingshow won’t start until dusk, so we eat at a nearby cookery house. Just like yesterday, I find it strange to walk into a building, sit down as if it were my own home, and wait for people to bring me food.
Melily doesn’t bother reading me the dining list like Shara did, instead she orders us both clam soup and a sugary dish she assures me is so delicious I’ll “want to die.”
“The only time I’ve ever seen a swingshow was when the Star Children performed in Lellev,” Melily tells me. Her eyes are still bloodshot and swollen from forcing Sir Mauricen to forget about the theft, but she seems to have recovered otherwise. “It was life-changing, I swear. You are going to wake up tomorrow morning and everything will be different.”
“Lord Osperacy will punish us, won’t he?” I prod the foamy concoction with a spoon, too anxious to eat. I should have run for Brindy. I know that now. I may have lost Melily, but she would have been fine. Then I could have told Lord Osperacy where to find her, and he’d only be angry with Melily, not me—or at least he wouldn’t be as angry with me.
“I guess he’ll punish us. But it’ll just be a slap on the hand.” Melily takes an ample scoop of her dessert. “Anyway, who cares? Seeing Cressit Scale sing in person is worth changing a few of Timsy’s nappers.”
But my punishment will surely be worse than hers. “If we return to the ship right now, we can tell Lord Osperacy we were hungry and lost track of time.”
Melily rearranges her double-looped necklace. “Don’t be such a tadpole. You’ll like this, I swear.”
I give the frothy pink stuff an angry stir. All I can do now is beg, though I suspect that won’t work either. “Melily, please. Your Father will only let me talk to my friend on the relayphone if I do my job well. I just want to know where Sande is and know that he’s safe.”
Melily listens attentively to me. It seems like a good sign.
“I miss him,” I add. “Please, can we return to the ship? I really don’t want to anger your father.”
“So you’re still calling that boy your friend, huh? Because that’s not really true, is it?” Melily smirks and blows a cloud of steam off her tea, making it clear I haven’t convinced her. And worse, there’s sourness in her smirk and a hint of cruelty. “Look, I’m doing you a favor. The sooner you forget about him the better.”
Melily doesn’t want to pay for our meal, but I manage to convince her to by reminding her that not paying might help Lord Osperacy or Douglen find us. Then we head back out into the bitter cold, although thankfully it’s no longer snowing. In fact, Beth looks even more beautiful. It’s dark out now and many electric city lights glitter across the ice and snow.
We walk along shoveled pathways to the Islet Dance Gallery, where it’s even brighter. Blue and green lights sweep across the front of the building, skipping over pillars and diving briefly into the dark sky to reveal patches of clouds. The images of women in the colorful glass windows burn red, orange, and violet, and garbled music thumps out through the open doors.
Melily grabs my arm and squeals, “I can’t believe this is happening!”
“Hey, does anyone need tickets?” shouts a man not dressed as nicely as the many other uppies crowding around the entrance. “The show might be sold out, but I’ll getcha in!”
“Give me two.” Melily thrusts out a hand.
The man passes her a pair of printed cards, looking both surprised and annoyed. “I want twelve shells for ‘em.”
“No, you don’t.” Melily waves the cards at me. “Let’s warm up!”
Rhythmic sound swallows us as we pass through the brightly lit entrance. I’ve never heard anything so loud, with the exception of the machines in Giron’s factory. Melily leaves her coat with a woman in a side room and tells me to do the same.
“Will we get them back?” I ask.
“Uh, of course,” Melily laughs. “Besides, it’s not as if we can dance with them on.” She straightens the lace band holding back her dark curls and then leads me into a not-quite-oval, not-quite-rectangular room that is as large as the museum’s main gallery. It’s mostly dark, but faint light glimmers through hundreds, or perhaps thousands, of sharp glass shapes hanging from the ceiling. Huge, purple-red murals of sleepy-looking, partially-dressed women cover the walls, while uppies sway like seagrass across the floor. I suck in a deep, amazed breath. Everyone here looks like royalty. The women wear richly-colored, sparkling dresses, along with pearl necklaces, feathered headdresses, and high-heeled shoes like Melily’s. The men wear patterned shirts rolled to their elbows, shiny vests, and scarves that mimic bunched up leaves.
Melily tugs me through all the luxurious fabric and elaborate hairdos, toward a large platform attached to the far wall. On it, a woman wearing a gold dress stands in a concentration of orange light, singing a song that seems to be about heartbreak and the tide. Behind her, two men play instruments that must be connected to sound enhancing devices like Giron’s. And their music is so alive and fresh compared to the cardpaper squares in Melily’s cabin. I feel it pressing into my chest, encouraging my heart to beat in time.
The closer we get to the platform, the more people are dancing around us. At first it’s just girls tapping fingers on their thighs and young men nodding with crumpled expressions as if they’re straining to lift something heavy. But soon we see uppies shaking their hips and shoulders, and a few even lift each other into the air. I’ve danced before in Saltpool, but those were ceremonial dances for feasts and parting moons, nothing like this.
“Get into it, Nerene! Dance!” Melily cries, twisting as if she’s a drenched rag that needs wringing out.
I’m not sure I like the music, it’s so noisy and unpredictable, but there is something exhilarating about how hazily it marches around me and, in a strange way, tempts me. I secretly wish I did know how to dance like these uppies because they certainly seem to be having fun. Instead I’m jostled by the crowd, and I struggle to stay close to Melily.
The woman in gold sings a few more songs and then her orange light dims and the music fades, leaving only a steady drumbeat. The uppies roar, happily I think, and surge forward. I feel trapped as I cling to Melily’s hand, but the dense crowd doesn’t seem to bother her. She grins at me and mouths, “Cressit!”
There’s a sudden swell of sound that I guess is music, and a young man twitches his way across the platform. Flashing lights make it difficult for me to see him at first, and all I can make out is his silhouette. The uppies whistle and scream, and I feel a rush of fear because everyone seems to be on the edge of losing control, much like the factory riot.
The flashing lights blend together until they become an intense, white glow shining up from beneath the platform, and now I can see Cressit properly. He’s skinny and tall, with a pointy face and a long swath of black hair swept over one eye. He also wears a blue suit that sparkles like a freshly caught fish as he struts up to the voice enhancer. Holding an instrument that looks like our Saltpool narrowstrings, except black and glossy, he launches into a fast-paced melody. Behind him, three men blow into gleaming horns, first pointing their brass instruments to one side, and then moving as a group and pointing them to the other. Another man pounds a collection of drums that gleam with silver and gold accents.
“C’mon!” Melily yanks me closer to the platform.
“No.” Now I’m the one digging in my heels
and refusing to move. This is already too close to the uncontrolled crowd surging around the musicians.
“Fine! I’ll find you after then!” she calls, twisting away.
“Give me your handbag!” I holler over the music. I should at least keep the arctic stones safe.
She tosses her beaded bag to me, and then she’s gone. I retreat to the nearest wall, hugging the purse to my heart, looking for a scrap of space where no one will stumble into me, and certain that I’m being a terrible balance. I spot a bench beneath one of the giant wall paintings and hurry toward it. I’m nearly there when a smiling young man slips an arm around my waist and tries to pull me back into the crowd, the moving lights, and the overwhelming noise.
“I don’t…” I shout, trying to escape. “I don’t want to dance.”
“You don’t what?” he yells, pointing to his ear.
“My village! We don’t dance like this!”
He shrugs, apparently still not hearing me, but he also, mercifully, saunters away.
When I reach the bench, another stranger hands me a drink that smells like something I’d cure hides with. I smile thank you and put it beside me, untouched.
Most of Cressit’s songs sound the same: lots of horns, lots of drums, and lots of cheerful-yet-aggressive wailing. I try and fail to spot Melily among the churning dancers. I hope it’s just because she’s short, for without her, I’m stranded in Beth’s high city. I have no idea how to reach the Osperacy’s boat on my own.
After twelve or so songs, Cressit ends his performance with a much quieter melody about tide pirates. It seems like a song I might actually like; there’s something gentle about it. I think the words tell a story, but the uppies are still cheering, whooping, whistling, and applauding so loudly, I can’t really hear it.
Thankfully as soon as Cressit leaves the platform, the lights brighten and the crowd thins. It takes me a few frightening minutes to find Melily, and as soon as I see her, I’m glad I took the arctic stones. Her hair sticks up like the Cressit drawing, and she’s missing her headband, along with one shoe. Her long pearl necklace is miraculously unbroken, but a torn, lacy shred hangs off her dress.
“That was amazing!” she cries. “Admit it, you’re glad I made you come.”
“Yes,” I say. There’s no point arguing now. The damage is surely done with Lord Osperacy. “Let’s find your shoe.”
It’s under a table, lying in a spilled drink. I expect Melily to complain about how wet and sticky it is, but instead she hastily buckles it around her ankle while chattering about the performance. “I just loooved ‘Adrift.’ The way Marto started it with that drum roll—he’s the drummer, you know—it was so… so… ! I never thought anything could be that fantastic. Which song was your favorite?”
“All of them,” I say vaguely. “Now let’s find someone who looks trustworthy, and you can wavurl them to take us back to the Trident.”
Melily stares at me like I’ve suggested she eat her stockings. “Are you serious? We’re not going back to the ship yet! I’m a siren! Don’t you know what that means?”
That because of her, I’ll lose Sande. “No,” I say softly.
Her eyes sparkle just as brightly as Cressit’s blue suit. “Our night’s just beginning.”
I feel helpless and frustrated as Melily grabs my arm and hauls me over to a man standing in front of the swingshow platform.
“We’re here to meet Cressit,” she says. “Find him for us.”
This man is twice as large as Carnos, something I never thought possible. He looks down over his swollen chest as if he’d like to refuse her, but of course he can’t. “The singer already left.”
Melily narrows her eyes and gracefully gathers up the torn shreds of her dress. “Tell me where he went.”
“His… housing tower, I think,” the big man rumbles, and then covers his mouth with several massive fingers as if that might stop more words from escaping.
“Take us there,” she says.
“I would but I don’t know the way,” he says, brow furrowed.
I exhale in relief. Now we’ll have to return to the Trident. But then with a grunt of pain, like something is being torn out of him, the giant man adds, “Tarrol, he knows.” And he points to a skinny uppy across the hall.
The uppy, Tarrol, wears a white foamsilk suit, and he’s busy showing a stack of picturegraphs to a pair of women in matching black furs and glittering dresses. I watch helplessly as Melily skips toward him. And only a few moments later, she and I have retrieved our coats, and we’ve joined Tarrol and the matching women in a shiny automotor as it cuts through snowdrifts. We’re on our way to Cressit’s housing unit.
And now I’m not just worried, I’m also sleepy. Melily, though, looks as if she could stay awake all night. She’s perched on the edge of her seat, ankles crossed and her gloved hands still dancing on her knees. “Beth’s so pretty when it snows, isn’t it?”
“Just like a sugar cake,” agrees one of the women.
Melily slides closer to me and, surprisingly, drops her head onto my shoulder. “You know, I really thought I’d hate having you as my balance, but now I wish Father’d found you sooner.”
It’s an odd comment, and I’m not even sure she’s being that nice, but maybe because the moonlight on the snow really is beautiful, I momentarily forgive her for all the trouble she’s causing.
Cressit’s housing unit or “spread”—for that’s what Melily tells me housing units are called in high cities—is at the very top of a building overlooking a steep cliff. We ride up to his home in a contraption called a lifter, which is essentially a small closet that mechanically travels up and down a hollow shaft. And although I’m glad we don’t have to climb flights and flights of stairs, I still feel as if I might suddenly drop to my death. I cling to a shiny brass bar attached to the lifter wall and squeeze my eyes shut until the box we’re in stops rising and the operator opens the doors.
I don’t know what to expect as we walk down a thickly carpeted hall lit by golden clam shell lights, but my mind cobbles together an image of Cressit preparing for bed, and I feel embarrassed that we’re about to impose. Yet that concern vanishes as we enter another dimly lit space, crowded again with uppies. For a moment I feel as if we’ve walked back into the Islet Dance Gallery, yet there aren’t as many people and they aren’t behaving as wildly. Most of the uppies here are talking, laughing, and sipping cohol drinks from elaborate glassware. A few couples dance to sluggish tunes crackling out of an uppy music machine, and on the far side of the room, several people blow clouds of smoke through thin metal tubes.
The room itself is long, with a high ceiling and a group of windows overlooking Beth’s sloping streets and the starry tide. Here and there, lights with decorative fabric shades cast glowing pools of red, and the air smells strange—almost like a burning patch of riverbank flowers.
“Ooo, there he is!” Melily squeezes my shoulder. In the few moments I’ve been looking around, she’s shed her coat and found a drink that’s in a blue-tinged glass as long as her forearm. Slim loops run down one side of the glass, and I think they’re meant to be handles.
“Just look at him,” she sighs. “Isn’t he absolutely perfect?”
I follow her gaze. Across the room, Cressit rides a current of giggling young women. Occasionally he flips his shiny, black hair to reveal both of his eyes and laughs in a lazy, slow way that makes it seem as if he needs to clear his throat. There is something interesting about him, though, and I don’t like that I notice.
“Go on, go talk to him,” I urge. As soon as Melily realizes that Cressit is just another uppy in far too fancy clothes, we can return to the Trident.
Melily gulps down a large mouthful of her drink, and her cheeks flush. “But what would I even say?”
“I don’t know. You could ask him to sing to you, or you could use your wavurl to tell him to sing to you.” I give her a nudge in the performer’s direction.
Melily looks at me as if she’s f
ighting to contain a scream. “I feel like I’m going to throw up. What if I throw up in front of him? What if I throw up on him? Let’s just walk around a little bit until I feel braver.”
“He won’t say no to you,” I remind her.
But she’s already wiggling away and off into the passage on my left. Not sure how else to encourage her, other than to let her drink more, I follow.
Cressit’s housing unit is massive. The corridor we’re in alone is far taller than it is wide, and it’s also lavishly decorated. The paintings on the wall are so skillfully done they look like picturegraphs, and the black floor is so polished it looks wet.
As Melily and I pass a pair of uppies deeply fascinated with each others’ mouths, I say, “If you don’t want to talk to Cressit today, why don’t you visit him the next time you’re in Beth? You know where he lives now.”
Melily snickers, and it’s a laugh that tells me I’ve misunderstood something she thinks is obvious. “Um, he’s in Beth today, yes, but he’s not always in Beth. He travels with the tide, performing all over the trade routes. He rents spreads wherever he goes. That’s what all the big swingshow stars do.”
We enter the cookery, which is sleek and black and so clean I wonder if anyone’s ever prepared a meal there. We find several young men refilling their goblets and talking loudly about something called paddlebat. They’re dressed a lot like Cressit, with sequined jackets and tight vests, except their hair is short and brushed back as if they’ve all been caught in a strong wind.
One of them, still talking about how much he hates “pole floaters,” reaches over to refill Melily’s now-empty glass. While another young man, one with a curly sweep of hair and round middle, leaves the paddlebat debate to offer me a drink.
“I’m fine, thank you,” I say, eyeing Melily and her second drink with concern. The glass is very big.
“So are you countertide or currentways?” Curly hair asks. Now that he’s standing close to me, I can tell he’s older than he’s trying to appear, maybe around thirty tides.
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