I guide her away from the gate to the city center. All this is familiar. The narrow shop fronts lined up in neat little rows with arched windows and colorful awnings. Potted sunflowers and foxglove and lilies. The smell of cinnamon and sugared almonds. Fresh baked bread. Roasted meat. Boiling stew.
Lanterns, in a rainbow of colors, hang over the street, hung from rooftop to rooftop. They send a kaleidoscope of color over the cobblestone road.
We reach the next intersection where a cart is parked at the curb displaying lollipops and candy floss. The man selling the sweets shoves a treat at Kansas. It’s a licorice lollipop, the candy the color of dark nights.
“No, thank you,” she says.
“I insist!” the man shouts.
“She doesn’t want it,” I tell him and pull Kansas away.
“Thank you,” she mutters to me. “These people act like I’m some hero but I was just defending myself against the witch.”
“I suspect the how doesn’t matter much to them. They’re just glad you’ve done it.”
“Killed a woman,” she says as we turn the next corner.
“Killed a tyrant, you mean.”
I feel her sharp intake of breath as much as hear it. She’s still nestled in the span of my arm, sinking closer and closer the farther we go.
She’s making herself small as if the very thought of being perceived might strip her bare.
I find it incredibly endearing if not perplexing.
“Where are we going?” she asks me.
Excellent question. I let my feet guide me.
We turn the next street corner and are stopped by a line of men and women dressed in matching suits of violet.
I know who they are immediately.
The Council of the East End. The woman in front, with the long, wavy dark hair and bright, dazzling smile against warm olive skin, is the one in charge.
“Welcome, Great Sorceress!” she says. “I am Viviana Luzia, but everyone calls me Ana. I am Provost of the Hollow. You and your friend are our guests here. Anything you want, we will provide.”
Kansas looks up at me. Her dog looks up at me. Kansas’s expression is one of desperate need, rising panic, while the dog’s is one of distant disgust. I’ll prove him wrong. I can protect Kansas. Iwillprotect her. I have nothing better to do, after all.
“We need a bed,” I tell the council.
Beside Ana is a short, stout man with a bushy mustache and thick glasses. He’s whispering in her ear like an annoying little gnat. “Later,” Ana whispers back to him and then returns her smile to us.
“We also need a doctor,” Kansas adds.
The provost snaps her fingers and several more Enders scurry forward. There is a tall person, pale, with short hair and pearls hanging from their ears. Another wearing a button-up jacket, fingernails painted purple. A third, with bronze skin, sporting a top hat and a neat braid.
“Remy will show you to their inn and provide you a room,” the provost says, nodding at the person with the pearl earrings. “Dr. Fennel is our primary doctor in the Hollow. He can help with whatever ails you.” The man in the jacket. “Ruth is his assistant.” Braid.
Dr. Fennel comes forward. “Are you hurt, Sorceress?”
“It’s not for me.” Kansas tips her head at me. “It’s for Rook.”
As if it weren’t already clear that I’m the one bleeding and broken.
Dr. Fennel finally looks at me. He’s poised to greet me, to say kind things, reassuring things. But once he takes in the sight of me, his expression drops and he says, “You.”
The word is a breath. Barely a whisper.
