by Kerstin Hall
In all honesty, I didn’t take it too personally; it was common for people to resent the Order. I mostly just tried to stay out of his way.
I made my way along the timber wall to the stairs at the back of the room. The air was stuffy; people occupied every one of the trestle tables, and still more were arriving through the front door, yelling to their friends over other patrons’ heads. The mood was relaxed, good-natured. I felt prickly and out of place.
A stage filled a corner of the second floor; the sides of the platform stained deeper brown by years of smoke and spilt drinks. A few regulars swayed to the music. I leaned against the wall, out of the way of everyone else.
A wispy woman with black curls sang and beat a slow rhythm on her hand-drum. Finn sat in her shadow, picking at his eight-string with close concentration. His light hair had fallen forward over his eyes, but it didn’t matter—he played by touch. Up there on the stage, he never noticed much; not the lights or the clamour, not even other people.
Some of my anxiety eased, and the pressure inside my head faded.
After Sefin Vidar wheezed out his last, spiteful breath, his grandchildren had inherited both his house and bookkeeping business. Neither of them wanted the business; Millie had run away six years earlier, and Finn would probably have preferred to burn the offices to the ground. So instead they sold it and used the proceeds to pay for college tuition. Millie studied counselling, but Finn went into music and philosophy, subjects without obvious practical applications. Which I suppose was the point. We all knew it would have killed Sefin to see his grandson happy.
But the old house, Millie kept. Neither she nor Finn would set foot inside it, but they still tried to rent it out. I wasn’t sure if they were successful in finding tenants; when it came to matters related to their grandfather, I tried to ask as few questions as possible. Better not to re-open old wounds.
The song came to an end. The singer bowed, and the audience clapped, a few people cheering. Finn pushed back his hair at last and took a sip of water. The shifting play of the lights made him look gaunt and strange, but he was smiling, enjoying himself. He typically performed three or four times a week, more than that during the festival seasons. His gaze travelled across the room, and his face brightened when noticed me standing in the corner. I lifted the bean cakes in greeting.
It had been a while since I had watched him play. Work had kept me busy, especially as the drought dragged on. I headed back downstairs to wait for him while he packed up for the evening.
The Candle’s loud, drunken atmosphere was only getting louder and drunker; the ground floor teemed with people. Someone had shattered a glass over by the door, and Lucian was clearing up the broken pieces. As I tried to sidestep the mess, he looked up and saw me.
“Here to meet Finn again, huh?” he said, with a knowing smirk. “You two seem to spend a lot of time together.”
I kept my face neutral. “Hi, Lucian. Nice to see you.”
“I heard about the Haunt from the other day.” He straightened. “Makes you think, doesn’t it? Wonder where he caught it.”
“Have a good evening.” I stepped out the door. “Pass my regards to your father.”
I scored a point there; before I turned away, I saw rage flash across Lucian’s face. I smiled grimly. Good. Not that I should provoke him, but after the day I’d had, I allowed myself a small moment of satisfaction.
Milner Road felt pleasantly cool compared to the Candle. A row of magnolia trees grew on the other side of the street, their glossy leaves lit warm yellow in the lamplight. I crossed over and sat down on the old bench under the branches. The sounds of laughter and shouting were muted here; I stretched and leaned back, tracing the weaving flight of a moth above my head. People passed by—couples, lovers, groups of friends. I was half in the shadow, and most of them didn’t appear to notice me at all. Strange, how far away they seemed.
I breathed out slowly.
Millie could be right; I might just be under too much pressure. But the vision I had experienced today … I didn’t even want to put words to it. Sick. Something was very wrong with me. And maybe my paranoia was foolish, maybe I should just ask the Order for help. Maybe someone would actually be able to fix me. Yet, even now, a deep-rooted instinct held me back. I could not shake the conviction that if the Sisterhood found out, they would martyr me.
Finn emerged from the bar. I sat up straighter, but before I could call out, Daje appeared behind him.
“—question of loyalties,” he was saying. “It looks odd, that’s all. It’s not that they don’t trust you.”
“And Millie?” snapped Finn. His shoulders were raised; he seemed annoyed. “How is the situation any different for her? I know where my loyalties lie.”
Daje made an exasperated gesture. “As I said, I trust you. But you need to realise that appearances still matter. People don’t think you’re serious.”
“Which people? Because if we’re talking about Millie’s favourite bad choice again, I really couldn’t care less.”
“Just be there, all right?” Daje performed a small gesture, a practised swivel of his left wrist meeting his right fist. “And try to understand where they’re coming from.”
Finn scowled, but returned the gesture. “Fine.”
Careless, out in the open like that. Anyone could see you. I watched Daje turn and walk back into the Candle. Then I stood up.
“Finn?” I called.
He started and turned. Just like when I had surprised Millie earlier, Finn’s face went a little pale at the sight of me. Wondering what I might have witnessed, what I might have overheard. That’ll teach you to be more cautious. But he smiled, covering up his unease, and walked over to the bench.
“Why are you sitting in the dark?” he asked.
“Because it’s out of the path of the drunks.” I lifted the parcel of bean cakes. “These were probably better hot, but I thought you might be hungry.”
“Starving.” He gestured thanks and took one, his fingers brushing mine. “I didn’t know you’d be coming tonight.”
“Spur of the moment decision. That was a new song at the end, right?”
He nodded. “Did you like it?”
“Very much.” I took a bite of my own bean cake. Spicy but soggy. Definitely would have been better earlier. “What did Daje want?”
Finn winced.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“It’s nothing. Just people being stupid.” He took a bite. Chewed and swallowed. “I’m going with him to sort it out tonight.”
“So you’re saying that you’re too busy for me. You’ll just take my terrible food and leave?”
His expression was pitiful. I reached out and lightly punched his arm.
“I’m joking.”
“I know, but…”
“Finn, it’s fine. Stop looking so serious.” I held out the remainder of my bean cake. “Do you want the rest of this? Because I don’t.”
He wavered, then took it.
“I’ll make it up to you,” he said, glancing at me sidelong. The lamplight caught on his cheekbones. “I promise.”
It wasn’t as if I didn’t know what Finn was involved in. I wandered back up the road alone. For his sake, I pretended to be oblivious. Well, maybe it was also a little for my own sake. Being a Sister, what could I possibly say? It seemed kinder to feign ignorance, easier to act like it didn’t matter.
I sighed and crossed the bridge to the Wheren District, heading back toward the dormitories.
Eleven years ago, a group of civilians had formed an underground movement seeking to topple the Sisterhood. They were not very successful, creative, or organised, but they were loud. Subversive slogans appeared on the walls, department buildings were raided, unsubtle threats of violence hung in the air. It was nothing new; Aytrium had seen hundreds of similar protests. At the time, most Sisters regarded the latest iteration of the “Resistance” with something between exasperation and contempt. With one notable exception.
I remember feeling afraid when my mother broke rank. I’m still not sure how she won their trust, but she started attending a few of the civilians’ meetings in secret. Once she even took me with her. I sat in a dark hall, listening to strangers while they talked about justice and tyranny and righteousness, and knew that—while everyone was polite and friendly on the surface—my mother and I were the enemy. Not to be completely trusted, but to be tolerated. Perhaps used.
Then someone in the Resistance poisoned a Herald. And although the Sister survived, the Order’s patience finally ran out.
The night of the incident, the Resistance had met in a school hall in Major West. A lamp tipped over. What followed next was never made entirely clear; the Order only reported that flames caught, spread, and engulfed the room.
Not a single person made it out. In one night, Finn and Millie lost both of their parents.
Although it was never publicly acknowledged, my mother later told me that the doors to the hall had been locked from the outside.
CHAPTER TWELVE
AFTER WORK, I confronted Osan.
Walking to Food Management that morning, I had noticed someone trailing me. They were careful about it, always keeping at least twenty feet away, dissolving into the crowd whenever I glanced backwards. To be certain I wasn’t imagining things, I took a slightly more circuitous route to reach the offices. Sure enough, my shadow followed me on a pointless detour through Lokon.
Got you, I thought.
I bided my time. I pretended not to notice them during my lunch hour, or when my supervisor dispatched me to collect a report from the warehouse. When I left the office at seventeenth bell, I took Grove Street and then Lerish, acting like I was heading for the Gardens. Then, two streets away from the Lower-East entrance, I abruptly spun around.
Osan could not conceal himself in time.
“Oh, Just El,” he said. “What a nice sur—”
“Why are you following me?”
A quick calculation took place behind his dark eyes. I glared at him. He sighed and stuck his hands into the pockets of his trousers.
“You’re a little more observant than I anticipated,” he admitted.
“Does Rhyanon think I’ll double-cross her? How long have you been stalking me?”
“It’s not stalking.” He frowned, mildly offended. “I’m supposed to keep an eye on you, that’s all. For your own good.”
I could feel my blood pressure rising. “For my own good.”
“Yes.” He paused. “So I can make sure no one else is following you.”
“Go jump off the Edge, Osan.”
He lifted his hands in exasperation. “Come on, I was only watching your back. It’s for your own protection.”
“Take me to her.”
“That’s not—”
“If she wants me to put my life on the line spying on Reverends, the least Rhyanon can do is talk to me.”
Osan hesitated, and then suggested, valiantly, “I can pass a message?”
I gave him a caustic look.
“Fine, but she’s not going to be pleased,” he grumbled.
I did not care. Osan led me on a winding route through Major West, past the greenhouses and around the Gardens. He moved quickly, but I noticed the way his eyes roved, his gaze shifting from street corner to alley to shaded doorway, ceaselessly vigilant. He seemed on edge.
Who does he think would follow me? I had done nothing to draw the Order’s attention. Not yet, anyway.
“Just up here,” he said.
Rhyanon’s home was at the border of Minor East. A modest property for a high-ranking Herald, single-storey and rough-plastered. The garden was wild, overrun by oleander and bougainvillea, carpets of nasturtiums. An old dog slept on the front steps; he raised his head as Osan opened the gate, and his tail wagged.
I remembered this place. The name-giving celebration, the sugary sweetness of Rhyanon’s gift. The dog sniffed my feet.
“A word of advice?” said Osan, resting his hand on the gate. “Don’t involve your friends in the Order’s business again.”
The hair on the back of my neck stood up. I leaned forward to knock on the front door, and when I spoke, my tone was perfectly controlled. “Why do you care anyway?”
“More people involved, more opportunities for mistakes. More opportunities for someone to get hurt. Think about it, all right?” He closed the gate and stepped back. “See you around, Just El.”
“Not if I see you first.”
The door opened.
Rhyanon wore a long green shirt and cotton pants. Her hair hung loose, which made her look less severe. Relaxed, she seemed almost pretty. Her features were soft and animated, and she had a distracted smile on her face, like she had been laughing a moment earlier.
The expression vanished the instant she saw me.
“What … what are you doing here?” she asked.
I folded my arms. “We need to talk.”
Rhyanon peered down the street. Osan had melted away, and we were alone in the evening twilight. “You couldn’t have waited? I was going to arrange a meeting for tomorrow.”
“You told me you needed information, and I risked my life to get it. Why would I wait?”
She was still flustered, grasping the edge of the door to block me from entering. “I do appreciate your efforts, but now isn’t the best time. You shouldn’t be here. Tomorrow—”
“People will notice if I keep missing work. I already had to take a stress pass for yesterday.”
“I see.” But she didn’t move.
Annoyed as I was, I couldn’t help but wonder at her reluctance. I had expected her to be irritated, and instead she seemed alarmed.
“It won’t take long,” I said.
She wavered, unhappy, then nodded.
“Yes. Yes, of course. Osan brought you here? I would have expected more discretion from him.” She stepped backwards to open the door wider. “Come in.”
The entranceway smelled of beeswax polish and sandalwood. Small details drew my attention: fresh flowers in a glass vase, books arranged by colour on the shelf, hand-painted bookends in the shape of stretching cats. Pretty, homely things. Things I wasn’t supposed to see. Somewhere in the house, I heard a door close.
Rhyanon’s jaw was clenched. She watched me out the corner of her eye.
“Let’s talk in my study,” she said.
“Mom?”
A scrawny, straw-haired girl, ten or eleven years old, hung in the doorway to the kitchen. She chewed on the end of her ponytail.
“Is everything okay?” she asked.
“Everything is fine, darling.” Rhyanon’s shoulders were tense. “This is Elfreda; she’s a friend of mine. Elfreda, this is—”
“Jaylen,” I blurted out as her daughter’s name finally came back to me.
The girl regarded me with large moss-green eyes. She had a turned-up nose, and a sharp chin. Unfriendly, unsmiling, steady in her gaze.
Rhyanon interrupted our staring match. “Yes, that’s right. Jay, I need to have a quick conversation with Elfreda, and then we can finish the costume. Can you go to your room until then?”
She nodded slowly. “Are you sure everything is fine?”
“Absolutely. Off you go.”
Rhyanon’s study was a mess. Papers were strewn across her desk and stacked in dog-eared heaps. Mostly financial statements and records of transactions, all bearing the stamp of the Department of Civil Obligations.
She closed the door behind me. “Take a seat.”
“Thanks.” I cleared a pile of folders off her spare chair and set them on the ground. “Costume?”
“For Moon Tide,” she said shortly. She drew her floral curtains across the street-facing window.
“Oh, of course.” I found it difficult to imagine Rhyanon sewing. Difficult, and faintly amusing. “You’ve probably forgotten, but I was at her name-giving.”
She paused, still holding the edge of the curtain. “You were?”
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“You gave me sweets.”
Her brow furrowed.
“I remember Kirane being there,” she said. “She was the only person who didn’t congratulate me.”
Hearing her say my mother’s name gave me an odd, out-of-place feeling. I gestured apology. “She could be thoughtless.”
“I believe it was the opposite, actually.” Rhyanon shook her head. “So you saw my public meltdown?”
“I wouldn’t call it a meltdown.”
“Everyone else did.” She snorted. “Horrendously embarrassing. For years, I was a joke in Civil Obligations. The incident cost me a promotion, you know. Not to mention I got sent to the Sanatorium for a month.”
I was silent.
“What, that surprises you?”
“No,” I said, stung. I felt defensive, although I wasn’t sure why. “Of course not.”
“Ah yes, because you’re the expert on the San.” She smiled, a cold and deliberate movement of her lips. “Have you lost weight since I last saw you?”
She was trying to goad me into losing my composure, to reclaim the upper hand after I’d trespassed on her private life. I looked at her, and I understood her cruelty. I had made her feel vulnerable.
“Actually, I was thinking that you were unjustly treated,” I said. “I’m sorry. Truly.”
Rhyanon’s mouth tightened. For a moment, I thought she would tell me to get out of her house.
Then she looked away and sighed.
“You’re quite like your mother,” she said, in a different voice. “I didn’t see it at first, but sometimes you sound exactly the same.”
I tried to affect nonchalance, but couldn’t quite pull it off. “In what way?”
“You share a certain forthrightness, I suppose.” Rhyanon leaned back in her chair. “Kirane was my supervisor for a few years. She wasn’t always an easy person to be around, but I admired her.”
A strange kind of hunger rose up inside me. Now wasn’t the time to ask questions; Rhyanon would only leverage my weaknesses against me. And yet I could not help myself.
“At Kisme’s party, I overheard women talking about…” I hesitated, struggling with the word. “Accidents. In the Martyrium.”