Her mother used to claim she had the best view in the back, and last night, after her second show, Enne had checked the back row dozens of times, both out of habit and longing, staring into the faces of strangers.
Before Enne left Bellamy, she’d already had a list of questions to ask Lourdes. Since arriving in New Reynes, she felt like the city had handed her two new mysteries for every question answered. If Enne had only one more chance to speak to Lourdes, only one question to ask, it wouldn’t be about her parents, about the bank or even about the lies.
Tell me your story, she’d plead. The heartbreak that Zula had mentioned, the memory of Lourdes crying while holding baby Enne... She needed to know. How had Lourdes known her parents? What happened during the Great Street War? How young had she been?
Had she asked for this?
White chalk coated Enne’s hands, and she drew zigzags with it on her thighs. Her fingernails left scratch marks on her pale skin.
Alongside her grief, a darker thought lingered, one Enne had suspected but Zula had confirmed. Enne had spent her life on the periphery of her world, no matter how hard she worked, no matter how desperately she tried. Until she arrived in the City of Sin.
Nine days ago, Zula had said. Lourdes had died the day before Enne arrived in New Reynes.
The day before Enne arrived in New Reynes, Lourdes’s protection had broken.
Enne had already known Lourdes had used her talents to keep Enne safe, but she hadn’t truly understood what that meant. Her mother had kept her invisible. Now Enne’s memories of Lourdes wiping away her daughter’s frustrated tears, of teasing her about her social ambitions—they all seemed tainted. Enne had never suffered in her life—not truly—but that didn’t mean those hurts hadn’t mattered to her. She’d agonized over them. She’d accepted them.
And Lourdes had watched.
Hot, bitter tears sprang from Enne’s eyes. She’d cried a lot since yesterday. She’d cried for the story of her mother’s life that she’d never know, for a woman she somehow both loved and resented. She’d cried for the girl she used to be. From her first lie to Levi, her poisoning of Sedric, her battle with Lola—the city was turning her into someone she didn’t recognize.
But the more she thought about her life before, about her ambitions and her character, Enne knew she’d always been this determined, this ruthless. Thanks to Lourdes’s protection, she’d merely lacked the opportunity to truly know herself. She was a pistol wrapped up in silk. She was a blade disguised as a girl.
Enne practiced for another hour on the trapeze, pushing her limits with tricks and moves she wasn’t ready for. Repeatedly, she lost her grip on the bar, or her strength gave out.
She’d begun to relish how it felt to fall.
While climbing the ladder to the platform, Enne suddenly noticed that she had a real audience. Lola watched from far below, her arms crossed. Enne vaguely remembered something about Scrap Market, a promise she’d made Before.
“How long have you been here?” Enne called.
“Not long,” she answered. “I couldn’t find you in the casino. Didn’t think you wanted to cancel our trip, though.”
Enne had no reason to go to Scrap Market now. Digging up Lourdes’s old newspaper articles wouldn’t change anything, wouldn’t bring her back. But telling Lola about Lourdes would acknowledge what had happened, and that seemed more difficult than pretending everything was normal.
“Are the Iron boys coming?” Lola asked.
She hadn’t seen Levi since yesterday evening. He’d been nothing but kind to her, but still, she preferred to be alone with her grief. If he came, she wouldn’t be able to keep up her charade.
“No,” she said. “It’s just us.”
*
It was so early that the sun had yet to rise. Dew and fog clung to the streets in front of the abandoned factory in Scar Land, the noise inside piercing through the night’s quiet. Since her first encounter with Lola, Enne hadn’t ventured outside of St. Morse after dark, so she’d grown accustomed to the ever-present loudness of Tropps Street, where dice rattled and drunkards sang no matter the hour. Here in the Factory District, the silence felt almost tangible: heavy and cold.
Lola pushed open the factory’s doors, and the two of them slipped inside.
It was almost as large as a city block, with various stalls and carts clustered in the rows between machinery and conveyor belts. The bustle of the crowd reverberated around the interior, a chorus of haggling and bidding for everything from food to weapons. It smelled of cigarettes and roasted sausage, neither of which appealed to Enne’s unsettled stomach.
A hundred feet or more above their heads, children climbed the rafters and vents as if they were a playground.
“They could fall,” Enne said. She twisted the inside of her dress’s pocket in her fist. The crowds made her claustrophobic, though she’d never felt that way before. Maybe she simply wasn’t used to Scrap Market. Maybe what she called anxiety others called thrill. But a sense of dread imbedded itself in her stomach, and every click of her heels sounded like the loading of a gun.
She shouldn’t have agreed to come.
“Nah, they won’t fall,” Lola answered. “They’re just showing off. Trying to get noticed by the Guild.”
Enne normally would have asked what she meant, but she was too exhausted. Part of her decided that she no longer cared, that this city would always be a mystery no matter how much she attempted to understand it.
“Let’s stop over here first,” Lola said, pointing to a stall covered with huge pieces of fabric and moth-eaten tapestries. “Asking what we’re asking...we might want a bit of anonymity.” She ruffled through the bins of used clothing and fished out a thin black sash. “Here. It almost matches that lipstick you have.”
Enne rubbed the satin between her fingers. The quality was reasonable, and unlike the rest of the clothes, there weren’t any stains or rips.
Lola cut two even holes in the satin with her scalpel knife, then tied it behind Enne’s head.
“Feel good?” Lola asked.
“Sure,” Enne said flatly.
After they paid for the sash, Lola slipped a mask of her own out of her pocket, tied it on and led Enne to another stall. The air around it was so humid from the steam vent nearby that Enne felt like she was breathing sludge. Inside, a man with yellow lips sat on a stool holding a pipe. He wore a glove on one hand, but pieces of hay stuck out of it. In fact, his entire left sleeve was lumpy and thicker than the right.
“He’s got old newspapers he’s willing to sell,” Lola whispered.
“’Lo,” the man greeted them. “Who are you two who look up to no good?”
“My name is—” Enne started, until Lola elbowed her side. Enne reddened, chagrined—masks were useless if they gave away their names. “...we’re customers.”
“Pleasure to meet ya.”
“We’re looking for old newspapers,” Lola said. “Articles by specific journalists.”
“How old we talking?” He set his pipe on the table.
“Ten to twenty years ago.”
“What journalists are you looking for?”
Lola nodded for Enne to speak, and Enne took a deep breath until she found her voice.
“We’re interested in a writer named Séance.” That was the pen name Reymond had told her, the day she’d arrived.
He sucked on his bottom lip. Its yellow color made him look almost inhuman. “Ah, you are up to no good. I used to read the Pseudonyms when I was young and foolish.” He leaned forward. His straw arm remained in the same spot, so with his position, it made his shoulder look detached. “There was Jester—another pen name. Ventriloquist. Nostalgia. Shade.”
“Do you have any of the papers?” Enne asked. She hadn’t realized until now how much she wanted to read one of Lourdes’s articles. Even knowing they had reached their ultimate dead end, and there was no chance they would find her mother alive, she could still learn more about why Lourdes had led her double life, and she could hear the words from Lourdes herself.
It was the closest she would ever get to her mother’s story.
“I might have one that escaped the burnings,” he said.
“You might?”