Tonight, however, he was catering to the crowds, stumbling over his soaked loafers while trying to find the extra lemons, sweating under the glares of impatient guests drumming their fingers against the bar and waiting for their orders. Harvey had always liked cocktails better as props than for their taste, so when the book’s recipes called for a “splash” or a “pinch,” he had no idea if the result was palatable. And as the night progressed, his tip machine remained bleakly low.
As the hours passed, he snuck glances at Narinder, who seemed to move through the crowds much as Harvey could. He was everywhere. On the stage, playing music loud enough to make the bones on the church walls rattle and Harvey’s ribs tremor. In the booths, laughing with attendees whom he seemed to all know by name. Behind the bar with him, picking up Harvey’s slack or replacing a draft keg when the old one kicked out. He made the work look effortless while Harvey spilled grenadine down his shirt.
Once the night ended, Harvey felt exhausted from inside out. His lager-wet socks squished with every step. His stench was one hundred proof. And he’d been, more times than he could count, berated or publicly humiliated.
Narinder slapped him on the back as Harvey slumped over a barstool. “There’s still cleanup to do. The bar needs to be wiped down, the lemons and cherries and limes tossed, the floor mopped, the glasses restocked—”
“It’s five in the morning,” Harvey said groggily.
Narinder shrugged. “I assumed when you asked if you could sleep here, you knew you wouldn’t be getting much sleep.”
While Harvey worked to unclog a wad of soggy bar napkins from the floor drain, Narinder examined the tip meter.
“You’re not very good at this,” Narinder said matter-of-factly.
“I don’t normally need to be good at things,” Harvey grumbled. “I smile, and people do things for me.” The thought reminded him of Zula, of her unkempt house and cool acceptance at her own end. He swallowed down the sick feeling in his stomach. “But I don’t do that anymore.”
Narinder nodded seriously, in a way that gave Harvey a warm, nervous feeling in his stomach. Like he believed him, even when Harvey wasn’t sure he believed himself.
The staff cleaned for over an hour, trickling out around the time the dawn seeped through the stained glass. Harvey stood beneath the largest window, examining the scarlet and golden light, and tried to reconstruct the Catacombs from memory, from when it had been a church instead of a club. Muscles aching and feet sore, Harvey felt more cleansed than he had in a church in years. He felt like he could sleep—really sleep.
But before he did, he passed through the kitchens and into the back room where Narinder hunched over his ledger. It reminded him of how Bryce had done the same yesterday when they’d spoken. Well, it did and it didn’t.
“I...” Harvey started. “I just want to thank you for letting me stay and work here.”
“And for saving your life?” Narinder asked, not looking at him.
Harvey’s mouth went dry. “Yes. Of course,” he said, even though he hadn’t wanted to be saved.
But hewasthankful. In the moments where he forgot what he’d done, what he’d let Bryce do for so long, he was thankful. That just wasn’t the same as being better. He wasn’t sure better was even an option at this point.
Narinder closed the book and stood up. “You hungry? I’m starving.”
Harvey wasn’t hungry, but he wouldn’t turn down an invitation from the person who’d shown him charity. “Sure.”
He thought Narinder meant to eat the leftover fries in the kitchen, but then Narinder slipped on his coat, and they left the club. The morning overcast sky played tricks on Harvey’s mind, nudging him to wake up when all he wanted was to sleep.
The Street of the Holy Tombs looked different than even a few days earlier. The Faith symbols, once discretely hung on porch beams or resting on windowsills, were now prominently displayed. There were symbols Harvey recognized from the Stories of Omens, Protection, or Martyrs. One shop had rested a sign on its steps advertising Creeds 3 for 20V. A church had flung open its doors and set up a stand outside, giving away prayer cards with the faces of Queen Marcelline and the rest of the executed royal family.
Narinder eyed the Creed around Harvey’s own neck. “What do you think of this?” he asked, nodding at the church. “Is this because there’s a Mizer left alive...or a malison?”
“Both, I imagine,” Harvey said quietly. Even if he wore a Creed, he didn’t like drawing attention to his faith. It had been discouraged—in many places, outlawed—after the Revolution. Most historians believed that the Mizers had engineered the Faith to proliferate lore about their own talents. And even though some of the Faith’s stories brought Harvey comfort, he also understood they’d also been used to hurt. He tucked his Creed beneath his shirt.
“I wasn’t raised with the Faith. My family were revolutionaries,” Narinder said. “And it never bothered me, living on this street. I only bought the church for my club because the real estate was cheap. But someone shoved those prayer cards underneath our door this morning. Maybe it’s just because of that woman who died in the fire on Thursday, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about it.”
Harvey bit his lip. He knew, rationally, that he couldn’t bear responsibility for all the Faithful, just like he couldn’t for all Chainers, but that hardly stopped him from bearing their guilt.
The pair turned off the Street of the Holy Tombs and walked north until they reached the westernmost part of Tropps Street.
They stopped outside of a row of casinos, where a lone street stand remained from the night before. An extremely sullen-looking woman slouched in a fold out chair beside it, her arms crossed. Half her table already seemed packed away.
“Harvey, this is Amara. Amara is kind enough to always wait for me to close up each night,” Narinder said. “Half the time, she’s the sole person making sure I’m fed.”
“I don’t know why I do,” she grumbled. “You come later and later, ever since you bought that club of yours.”
“This is the same woman who, for half my life, told me to grow up and get a job,” he said, rolling his eyes.
She smirked. “Yet I’m still taking care of you, and you’re very ungrateful. Just go sit.”
