“But I am.” Firming my resolve, I all but jog down Cygnus, also known as Salvation Street. For this is where all of Lumenas’ many churches are. I was surprised at first to learn how many religious establishments there are in a city known for sin, but I suppose it makes sense. Where debauchery grows thick, so too rises the desperation for atonement. I walk past the varied façades of the churches. Some, like the Church of Dawn and Church of Saint Michaelo, host humble brick and stately turrets while others, like the Church of Undulating Pleasure, look more like something found on Halley Street with marble columns and bright bulbs of light. I’m not entirely sure half the churches here are home to legitimate religions, but I’ll take the Church of Undulating Pleasure’s word for it, scrawled over its brightly lit marquee:Heaven is found in one’s britches.
Further down, outside the Church of Textiles, is another sign, this one propped on the sidewalk. It bears a black-and-white portrait of a startlingly handsome human man. Next to it says:Who Wants to Marry a Milliner? Prize: Randolph Hartz heart and a lifetime of very fine hats. Beneath that, bold yellow letters announce:Final night of the bridal pageant tomorrow. Who will he choose?
I’d laugh if I weren’t so focused on finding the Church of Saint Lazaro, so I pass the sign without more than a cursory glance. I’m not a frequent visitor of Salvation Street. There are normally too many judging eyes here for me to feel comfortable stealing, too many preachers standing outside their church’s doors, too many zealots passing out flyers and promising a rollicking good time followed by verse and praise. I honestly shouldn’t even be here now. Podaxis’ anxious grumbles are reminder enough with every step I take.
“This is a bad, bad, very bad idea,” he says.
“Most things I do start as bad ideas,” I mutter back.
I slow my pace, looking everywhere for my destination as I pass church after church. In my imagination, Saint Lazaro is a building with menacing black turrets, perhaps surrounded by heads on pikes. The vision is so strong, I nearly miss the simple brick structure with a modest bronze plaque bearing the church’s name. I stop before its doors, and my eyes fall onto a sign that looks much like the one that stood outside the Church of Textiles. Instead of a handsome hatmaker on it, there’s a photograph of a man with thinning hair and a smile that looks more like a grimace. His eyes seem to leer straight from the black-and-white portrait. This one says:Who Wants to Marry Brother Billius? Prize: Eternal salvation and five hundred citrine rounds. First night of pageantry begins…followed by several dates that have been crossed out and updated, the most recent being today’s date.
I quirk my brow, unable to decipher if the sign is being cheeky or serious. Five hundred citrine rounds is a decent fortune, considering a single round is worth ten chips. But to marry the man in the photograph?
“If you’re going to do it, do it,” Podaxis says. His voice reignites my sense of urgency.
Without a second thought, I climb the steps to the church’s front door, tug the collar of my coat high around my neck, and pull my cap low. I listen for sound but there’s none coming from within the building, which I suppose makes sense for a religious establishment well after midnight. I lift my fist to the door but pause. Do I knock? Just go inside? I don’t know how churches work. I’ve never been inside one before.
With a deep breath, I decide on a knock. When no one answers, I knock again.
Finally, the door swings open, revealing a middle-aged man, as short as I am, with shoulder-length graying blond hair, a mustache, and eyes that are heavily creased at the corners. He’s dressed in black robes decorated in gold embroidery at the neck and sleeves. On the right side of his caplet is an embroidered pair of crossed swords over a flame—the insignia of Saint Lazaro. He doesn’t look at all like I imagined a church priest should. Especially with the dainty gold hoops he wears in his ears. The jewelry provides just a hint of flamboyance that makes him seem well-suited to Lumenas…but not a church. Aren’t churches all about modesty? I suppose the Church of Undulating Pleasure would counter that assumption. With a nod, he steps to the side and extends a hand. Beyond him, I see a dark antechamber opening to a dimly lit room lined with rows of empty pews. “Greetings,” he says, voice soft as if he fears frightening me away. “I am Father Viktor. Welcome to the Church of Saint Lazaro. We are always open for prayer.”
“I’m not here for prayer,” I say, keeping my head down and my voice low.
“Are you here for the bridal contest then? It’s been…postponed. We shall resume tomorrow—”
“No,” I say, glancing at the priest quickly before lowering my face again. Shudders run through me as I prepare to fulfill my reason for being here. My throat burns, knowing what I say next could make me even more of a criminal than I already am. Stealing for survival is one thing. Granting sanctuary to someone I illegally escorted to shore…
I inhale deeply, then release my words before I can keep them a second longer. “There’s a man at Cape Vega seeking sanctuary with Saint Lazaro.”
He furrows his brow and blinks at me a few times. “Pardon?”
“He’s on the shore. Almost drowned. I don’t know if he’s alive. He’s human.”
“How—”
Before he can ask more, I turn away and rush down the stairs. I expect him to chase after me, ask me to clarify, but when I hazard a glance behind me, the priest is still watching me from the steps of the church. My stomach unclenches as relief washes over me. I did it. I delivered my message. Gave the man one more chance to live. It was the right thing to do. The only thing to do.
I repeat that to myself as I make my way to the Vulture’s Prose and slip silently through the back door. It’s quiet backstage, with not a soul in sight. I wonder if the others are still out with Martin at the Honey House or if they’ve already returned and gone to bed. It is but a fleeting thought as my mind returns again and again to the man on the shore. To what I did. Despite all my reassurances that I made the right choice, I can’t fight the unsettling mixture of dread and pride that churn within me.
When I reach the quiet solitude of my tiny room, I all but collapse next to my bed. Blind in the dark, I reach beneath my mattress until my fingers come against smooth fur. I tug my sealskin free and drape it over me like a blanket. Closing my eyes, I luxuriate in the warmth, resisting the urge to fully don it. I haven’t allowed myself to shift into a seal since I left home, but I’ve kept my skin close. Safe. Hidden. It’s the most indisputable proof of who I really am, one I can’t risk anyone finding.
Nor can I fully let it go. It’s part of me. All that’s left of my childhood.
Podaxis climbs onto my knees. I expect him to chastise me for tonight’s recklessness, but he says nothing. He must sense that I’m fully aware of it on my own.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. No one will know what happened. I break the law every day. This isn’t any different.
Speaking of breaking the law…
I remove my cap and run my hands over my still-damp hair. My heart sinks when my fingers come away empty. I should have known better than to expect my prized shell comb would still be there. It must have been swallowed by the ocean.
At least I still have the fork tucked into my coat pocket.
“I really wanted that comb,” I say out loud.
Podaxis sighs. “Instead, you aided a fugitive in claiming sanctuary with an ill-reputed church.”
“Fugitive. That’s a strong word,” I say. “How do we know he didn’t just need a place to recover that isn’t a jail cell?” Although my words are only stated for the sake of arguing with Podaxis, they make my heart feel somewhat lighter. What if that’s all it was? What if I’ve been overreacting this whole time? What if he is a citizen or simply a lost seafarer who holds no ill intent for my homeland? Whowouldwant to go through such an arduous legal process after the trauma of surviving a shipwreck?
