Ronan smiles. “You’ll see,” he says. “Wintersnight in Ruhia is . . . different from what we’re used to in Azeland.”
It’s a silly thing to notice, but I like the way he says “we.” Like Ronan and I have some kind of shared experience, being from Azeland, even though we didn’t actually experience any of it together. Somehow we’re united in being outsiders.
Ronan crosses to the fireplace, grabs both of our coats, and holds out mine. “We can still get a good spot if we hurry,” he says.
I’m not totally sure I want to brave the cold for some silly festival. But I don’t want to refuse Ronan either. I guess it might be nice to spend an evening doing something with my brother. Reluctantly I take my coat from him and button it up.
We make it downstairs and out of the building in record time and hurry through the darkened streets. We’re hardly the only ones. Everywhere I look, people are out, bundled in coats, all making their way in roughly the same direction. There are lots of young kids, running and laughing and shouting. Several people are waving Ruhian banners and flags.
So Ronan wasn’t wrong. There’s something going on.
A block from the apartment, the people congregate all along one street, lining it on both sides. Ronan reaches for my hand and holds on to me as we make our way through the crowd. I can see several parents doing the same for their kids as we pass, and something warm and heavy fills my chest.
We reach a spot at the front of the crowd. While everyone assembles on the sidewalk, several protectors walk down the street, clearing people out of the way. The flash of their red uniforms still makes my heart seize up for a second. I try to force it to calm down. I don’t have to be afraid; I’m allowed to be here. Just an ordinary citizen now, watching a parade with my brother. I don’t have anything to hide.
Except for the thief I’m hiding in an abandoned chapel up the street, that is.
I’m so distracted by the protectors—and the pounding of my own heart—that I miss whatever it is Ronan asks me, and he has to repeat the question. “Do you want one?”
I look where he’s pointing. A vendor is making his way down our side of the street, pushing a little cart full of steaming cups of something. I don’t answer, because I don’t know what it is, but Ronan doesn’t wait for my response; he tosses the seller a few jamars and grabs two cups from the cart as it passes.
“Spiced apple cider,” Ronan says, pressing one of the cups into my hands. “A Wintersnight tradition. Careful, it’s hot.”
I take a tentative sip, and my mouth is flooded with warm sugar and cinnamon and nutmeg. It’s so delicious that I take too big a second sip, nearly scalding my tongue.
“How long have you been coming to this?” I ask when my mouth has sufficiently recovered. “This is amazing!”
Ronan smiles. “The apothecary showed me when we first moved to Ruhia. He used to take all of his apprentices to Wintersnight. He said it was the best of the city’s festivals all year.”
I take another, more careful sip of cider. “Did you like him? The apothecary?”
“Very much. He was . . . he was the only family I had for a long time. Until now, of course.” He gives my shoulder an affectionate nudge.
I’m saved from having to figure out how to respond to that by the rumbling of drumbeats echoing up the street. I’m familiar with the rhythm—it’s something I’ve heard in Azelandian parades—but being so close to the drums, as opposed to listening through the orphanage’s garden gate, makes everything so much louder and more intense. The beat pulses in my bones.
The drummers make their way up the street, clad in matching blue uniforms. They’re followed by two figures in dark cloaks whose hands are raised. Above them, glowing spheres of magical blue light dance in the air, flickering in time to the drumbeat and illuminating the incoming parade below.
Ronan nudges my arm again and leans close to my ear to be heard over the noise. “This is where it really gets good.”
A few feet behind the magicians trots a small white horse, its mane decked in festive blue and silver ribbons. A young girl with raven-black hair and a sparkly blue gown sits astride it. From what I remember of the Sisters’ lessons at the orphanage, this must be a young Saint Zioni.
I can’t say that I paid much attention to any of the Sisters’ history lessons, but since Zioni is supposedly my patron, I did give slightly more consideration to her story. Zioni was a young Ruhian girl whose little sister was lost in a snowstorm. No one dared brave the blizzard to look for the missing girl, but Zioni charged into the woods on her horse, determined to find her sister. Everyone thought that both Zioni and her sister would surely be killed—but when sunrise came and the snow had stopped, Zioni emerged from the woods, carrying her sister, both of them alive and unharmed. When asked how she had survived, Zioni said that she’d prayed for protection from the cold, and God had kept them warm. This was the first miracle attributed to her and the reason she later became the patron saint of winter.
I always thought this was kind of a boring origin story, but there’s something fascinating about watching it play out in front of us now. The crowd is quiet, almost hushed, as pretend-Zioni draws her horse to a stop. The magical blue spheres dance overheard, illuminating the scene as the two magicians creep forward, waving their hands. Suddenly a blast of magical snowflakes flies into the air, swirling around pretend-Zioni and her horse.
The horse looks unimpressed with this display, but pretend-Zioni sticks to the script. She throws her head back, looking up to heaven, and begins to sing. The words are super old-fashioned and boring, like something out of a hymnbook, but her voice is pretty. The crowd watches silently, enchanted by the performance.
The girl stops singing, and silence hangs in the air. Then, just as suddenly, every magical snowflake surrounding her stops moving. They hover in place, shimmering and still. Zioni’s prayerful song has frozen the storm in its tracks.
Pretend-Zioni nudges her horse forward, and as it moves, the snowflakes in the air literally spin out of the way, surrounding but never touching her. She lets out a cry, so suddenly that I almost jump, and leaps down from the horse. Out of nowhere—or, rather, out from behind one of the magicians who was shielding her—a second girl appears, lying in the middle of the street on a blanket of white. This smaller girl wears a long white dress, and white ribbons are strung through her hair. Zioni’s sister, who is supposedly almost frozen in a snowbank.
But as pretend-Zioni approaches, the girl stirs to life. Zioni begins to sing again as she lifts her supposed sister into her arms, snowflakes still suspended in the air around her, and carries the girl down the street. I crane my neck to follow their progress as they walk farther and farther away from where Ronan and I are standing.
“Is that it?” I whisper to him. The magical snowflakes were kind of cool, sure, but I still don’t get what was worth rushing out here for.
Ronan laughs. “Just wait.”
As if on cue, the snowflakes hanging in the air suddenly whirl and multiply, moving faster and faster, bursting into a spinning storm. From the epicenter, a single figure emerges. A flute player, wearing a shimmering costume, performs the same melody Zioni sang a moment ago. From up the street, the next batch of performers emerges—a group of kids in glittery snowflake costumes, dancing to the music.
The song picks up tempo, going from soft and entreating to swift and celebratory. The swirl of snow bursts apart with a flash of blue light, and a flurry of silver and white confetti rains down as the crowd cheers. The drumbeats start up again, adding to the song, and more and more snowflake dancers fill the street.
Ronan taps my shoulder and points, as excited as the little kids surrounding us, as the snowflake dancers disappear up the street and another swirl of magic ushers in the next performer. A massive pair of thilastri, their blue feathers adorned in silver sparkles, comes into view. They’re pulling a huge tiered sleigh that’s festooned with ribbons and streamers and glitter. On top of the sleigh rests a t
hrone made of ice, and sitting upon it is the grown-up version of Zioni, a woman with the same dark hair and an even more magnificent blue ball gown.
The crowd roars and cheers and gasps as adult pretend-Zioni smiles and waves. The drumbeats crescendo, the tempo quickens again, and Zioni raises her hands above her head.
A streak of blue light soars into the air, rises above our heads, and explodes. Fireworks burst above us in a cascade of light.
Old Alli is tempted to point out all the silly things about this performance. Like, why exactly is adult Zioni sitting on an ice throne? She isn’t a queen. Also, I highly doubt that young Zioni went into the woods wearing an ornate sparkly ball gown during a blizzard.
But New Alli has to admit that this is, maybe, a little bit fun.
Ronan grins at me, plucking a piece of white confetti from his eyelash. “What do you think? Better than Wintersnight in Azeland?”
“Possibly,” I say, smiling back at him. “Although, the apple cider is clearly the best part.”
Ronan laughs. “I think I got too much confetti in mine,” he says, looking woefully into his cup.
“You mean you didn’t already drink it all before the confetti part? For shame.”
“You’re right. I should’ve finished.”
“I can see I’m going to have to teach you how to properly appreciate your beverages.”
He nods, still smiling. “I’m lost without your guidance.”
The crowd gradually disperses as the performers vanish, and vendors make their way through the confetti-strewn street, offering people more cider and candy and little pennants with the Ruhian flag on them.
Ronan quickly discards our old cider cups and purchases two more. I shouldn’t let him spend this much money, but I don’t feel quite guilty enough to refuse it. The drink keeps me warm as we trudge back in the direction of the apartment, waving glitter and confetti and magical snowflakes out of the air.
“Do you like it here better than Azeland?” I ask Ronan as we reach our building.
He pauses, giving my question way more consideration than it probably deserves. “There are some things that I like better about Ruhia, and some things that I miss about Azeland.”
“Like what?”
“Ruhia is much older, and I like how rich its history is. There are cathedrals here that have stood for centuries, for instance. And I love some of its traditions—like Wintersnight—that Azeland doesn’t have. But I miss how vibrant and energetic Azeland feels, how bright and busy its marketplaces are, how it always feels like something exciting is about to happen there.”
“I miss the colors,” I say. The marketplaces, the buildings . . . everything in Azeland is brighter.
He nods. “Me too.”
“And the warmth, obviously. That’s like the number one selling point.”
“What about the lack of snow?” Ronan teases.
“That too.”
We reach the apartment, and Ronan ushers me inside. I set down my empty cider cup and unbutton my coat. “Everything here is very . . . traditional,” Ronan says. “There are families that have been doing the same thing in the same way for generations. Take my law office—it’s always been Avinoch and Co., with new generations of Avinochs inheriting it. It makes it harder, for . . .”
“For people like us,” I finish for him.
He smiles wryly. “Right. I’ve been very lucky to have Avinoch take me on, but I don’t know what the future will hold. It’s hard to make a name for yourself here.”
“Have you ever thought about going back to Azeland?”
“I considered it once. But I think it would be just as hard for me there, since I no longer know anyone in the city. It would be starting from scratch.”
“Oh.” I’m glad he’s telling me this, but it also scares me. No wonder he wants to send me away when I turn thirteen. The last thing he needs is a troublemaking little sister to look after.
But I do want to stay with my brother. I wasn’t sure before; I hardly dared to hope that it might work out. But it’s getting harder to deny that I like Ronan, and I like spending time with him. I might have a few complaints, but let’s face it: Living with my brother is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.
Helping Beck is risky, in the short term. It’s going to get me into trouble, and might even jeopardize things with Ronan if he finds out what I’m doing. But if Beck is right about what that list means, if Ronan’s name really is on it . . .
Ronan smiles ruefully as he shakes a fleck of glitter off his shirt and takes another sip of cider. He’s so calm, so carefree. Which he wouldn’t be at all if he knew about the list. Should I tell him? Warn him somehow?
But I have no idea how that conversation would work. Hey, so, by the way, I think there are some dangerous thieves who want to kill you for no apparent reason, and I know this because another thief told me. . . . There’s no way I can say that. I can’t tell him where I got the information, or explain about the Guild and the Shadows.
Besides, I don’t even really know anything yet. Maybe the list doesn’t mean what we think it means. Maybe there are two different Ronan A. Roscos. Maybe he isn’t in danger at all.
Something in my gut tells me that isn’t true, but I don’t want to make a big deal out of this until I have more evidence, until I know who put his name on that list and why. There’s no point in freaking Ronan out and potentially getting Beck arrested when I don’t know anything for sure.
Beck and I will figure this out, somehow, and stop the Shadows if that’s what it takes. I’ll make sure Ronan is safe.
I don’t know the truth yet, but I’ll find it.
Chapter Eight
The next morning, I speed through breakfast as quickly as possible. Ronan, who must’ve stayed up all night judging by his bleary eyes, looks a little taken aback. “Big plans for today?” he asks. I don’t think I’m imaging the note of suspicion in his voice.
“Not really.” I shove another spoonful of oatmeal into my mouth.
“Why the rush?”
“No reason.”
He rubs his eyes tiredly. “Well, don’t choke on your food.”
“Okay.” But I eat faster. I’ve got to search for the coin in the marketplace today and spend time in the chapel with Beck before meeting Ronan at his office, and I want to get started right away.
I practically have to drag him out of the building, but finally Ronan leaves for work. A few minutes later, I’m bundled up in my coat and heading out the door. The second I step out onto the sidewalk, I’m met with a blast of ice-cold wind. I shove my hands into my pockets, wishing I’d worn the gloves Mari bought me.
I follow the main streets, which are still bustling at this hour as people make their way to work and apprenticeships and tutoring and whatever else it is that normal people do. The big marketplace is only a few blocks south.
I make it to my destination without incident. Marketplaces in Ruhia are much more structured than those in Azeland. There aren’t any shiny tents dyed with bright colors, no mobs of people clamoring for deals, no tangle of stalls and wares and bodies. Instead vendors have little wooden carts that are all lined up in rows, and people proceed from one cart to another in an orderly fashion. It’s boring.
And, as a quiet little voice in my head points out, it makes it much harder to steal here, without the chaos to hide you. But I quickly tell the little voice to shut up. I’m not here to steal. Not today, not ever again.
I do have to admit that the Ruhian system makes it much easier to locate what you’re looking for. I spot the right vendor immediately—a silk peddler’s cart painted dark red and gray, with a banner on the front declaring BEST SILK IN THE CITY. Just like how Beck described it. It’s a small cart, not much room to hide the King’s Coin or anything else on it. Okay, this should be easy. Just go over and take a look around. . . .
As I approach the cart, the vendor standing behind it brightens. He’s a young man, maybe Ronan’s age, with tidy brown hair and
a large crooked nose. “Good afternoon,” he says cheerfully. “How can I help you today?”
“Er, hi,” I say. “Could you . . .” I need to distract him somehow, get him away from the cart.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” He gestures toward the array of brightly colored silks and fabrics.
“Um, no. I actually just need directions,” I say, stalling for time. “I got a little turned around a few blocks back.”
“No problem,” he says, seeming not at all disappointed that I’m not a paying customer. “Where are you trying to go?”
“Um . . . Avinoch and Co.,” I blurt, because it’s the first thing that pops into my head. “The law office.”
His expression changes for a second, but then he smiles. “Ah, yes, I know the one. It’s about three blocks west, then two more south. If you see Grammercy Gardens, you’ve gone too far. Look for Thistle Street and you can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I say slowly, still stalling. How can I get him away from his cart?
He frowns, looking concerned. “Are you sure you should be wandering about by yourself? Is there anyone who can accompany you to Avinoch’s?”
“I’m thirteen,” I say indignantly, because it’s almost true. “And anyway, my brother works there. I’m going to meet him.”
That funny expression passes over his face again, so quickly that I may have imagined it. “All right, then,” he says with another big smile. “Have a nice day.”
I still need to get him away from his cart. And I need to get information about him somehow. Well, nothing like the direct approach. “Excuse me. What’s your name?”
His eyebrows wrinkle in confusion, but he’s still polite. “Garil Gannon.”
The name doesn’t mean anything to me, but I file it away to tell Beck later. “Right, well, thanks for the directions, Mr. Gannon.” At the last second, an idea pops into my head. “Actually, would you mind helping me with something?”
“Of course, of course,” he says.
“A friend of mine is actually here in the marketplace with me,” I say. “She’s just up the street. I was hoping to buy a birthday gift without her noticing, so I wandered up here, but then I got a little lost. . . . Anyway, would you mind keeping her distracted for me, just for a minute, while I pick out a gift?” If he stops to think about it for a second, he’ll realize this story doesn’t make any sense. I offer a quick prayer to Saint Ailara.
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