Stroking blades of grass, eyes widened in wonder. She melted, frazzled edges giving way to perfect softness. Nik couldn’t look away as she broke a blade off to stare at it closer.
Nik had done the same thing the night his father gifted him this place. The house had been too big and too empty for his comfort, so he’d retreated to the garden, where he lavished in the greenery.
“We’ll take care of what she’s running from,” he heard himself say.
Blai peered over the sill.
“How will you do that?” they asked.
Nik shrugged. “Money. Blackmail. The usual.”
Below, Chantal stepped into view, watching Elouise for a long moment. Nik waited for her to use the cane to nudge her up. Instead, she lowered herself to the ground and fell backward. They lay like that for a moment, talking. Then giggling.
“Some problems,” Blai muttered, “like poor orphaned boys, can be solved that way. Others, like running from a past that could kill you at any moment, can’t.”
Because that was Blai’s existence. They gave up their passion in exchange for safety in a new country. If their real name ever got out; if they ever dared to return? They’d die.
“I doubt her past is so dramatic.”
Chantal and Elouise absorbed the sun while in gentle conversation. Elouise laughed, and a moment later, Nik heard the sweet sound again. Why was it so easy for Chantal to earn the girl’s trust?
Nik turned back to his desk and frowned at the amount of parchment and ledgers he still had to go through.
“You’ll need to cross the river to find out.”
Across the rooftops, a small strip of the Joyaux gleamed. When he was a child, the name had never made sense to him. All he knew were the murky depths that served as the Restes’s only water source—both food and sewage. When he’d crossed the river four years ago to filtration and automatic taps, he’d vowed not to return unless he had a way to save the Restes.
From this view, it really was a stream of gemstones, each wave refracting the light.
Elouise and Chantal got up and disappeared back into the house. A moment later, there was a calm rush of water and the quiet clink of dishes as she started practicing again.
If she could keep going, so could he.
“Blai,” he said. “I’ll need a disguise.”
Nik had braced himself for unruly crowds and people huddled on stoops. The last time he’d visited, even before the bombing and the bloody aftermath, the Restes had been a hub of constant activity. Now street corners were manned by police rather than buskers trying to earn a som.
The Restes had never been a dangerous place, just one where you needed to stay alert. They might be afraid of each other, afraid of another uprising, but the Restes were also afraid of the confines the Counseil had been forced to issue: curfews, identity checks across the bridges, search and seizure. It was the price paid to keep the rest of the city safe.
The Restes was sick, and only he and his father could provide the cure. When Lafontaine was ready, he would share the news of LisettePlouffe’s treason and murder at the hands of the very rebels she helped. The ensuing panic would cascade their plan into motion. The Counseil would realize they needed someone to protect them, and who better than the greatest doctor in the city?
But to set any of this in motion and succeed, Nik had to verify who Elouise really was and keep her safe from whatever it was she was trying to escape.
Except, his plan wasn’t working. Two bakeries later, he still had no clue if Elouise Auclair even existed. There were only so many in the southern quarters, and he was quickly running out of leads. It sent him farther downriver.
Despite the heat hammering from the stones, a chill raced down his spine.
The tourists staying in artsy Le Cœur had no idea this side of Anespérer existed, let alone how cruel the winters under the bridges could be. Ice clung from the arches, and you had to huddle close to the middle to avoid being impaled come morning. And frost had a way of creeping through every tattered hole in your sweater, scraping skin sharper than any scalpel.
He rolled his shoulders back, shedding the memory as he came to the next bakery.
“—join me in wishing a hearty congratulations to our seven Favored officially entered into the Objet d’Art!”
A beautifully rendered sketch of Lisette Plouffe cheered from a poster plastered to the brick wall. The paper was magied to withstand the elements, but that hadn’t stopped someone from marking her face: x’s over the eyes, fangs for teeth. It was impressive considering the artist’s magie matched her grand gestures.
“They herald from all parts of our beautiful city, including a rare Restes gem. I’ve been told she’s a natural talent.”
The morbidity of a dead woman’s sketch relaying gossip as if she were still alive was almost too much for Nik. Almost. She was a traitor and deserved this humiliation.
