The library? Could she search for the name there? Unless Talbur Gwenwig was a politician or mentioned in a newspaper, the library wouldn’t help, but it was a start, wasn’t it?
Her stomach tightened and growled. She kneaded a knuckle into it. She’d have to steal food to eat. She had no money. She had nothing. She checked the pockets of the coat, but they were empty save for a slender pocketknife and a charcoal pencil.
She glanced up and ventured down a less crowded street. How would she do it? Go to the market and palm an apple? If she was caught, she’d have no space to run—the market was always crowded. Maybe no one would notice her stealing in the thick of the throng . . . or they would, and they’d grab her and see the script, and then the scarlets would arrest her or a grafter spy would report her . . . She’d either have her neck in a noose or between Kazen’s hands.
She swallowed, and her belly protested at the emptiness of it. It might be better to go to prison, where they could only hurt her body, than back to Kazen. He knew how to hurt her outside and inside. Like when Kaili had angered him that day three years ago—Sandis still didn’t know what she’d done—and he’d forced her to watch while Galt shoved some sort of awful poison down Rist’s throat, making him vomit over and over until blood spattered his lips. Sandis hadn’t seen it, but Heath had. Kaili hadn’t spoken to any of them for nearly a month after that.
Kazen would never have their bones broken or skin torn. That would lower his vessels’ ability to summon high-level numina, or leave them unable to host at all. But anything that didn’t leave a mark was fair game. Galt often leered at her and the other women. Kazen would never let him ravish any of them; being virginal was another vessel requirement. But maybe, in his anger, Kazen would permit other things . . .
Sandis shook her head. Sidestepped to avoid a boy leading a skinny goat by a rope. Stop thinking about it.
The library. She could try the library. And food . . . Could she go to a restaurant, order something, and then flee before she paid? Or would she be asked to pay first? She’d never been to one. Perhaps she could try it, and if she had to pay first, she could claim she’d left her wallet at home and leave before anyone suspected her.
Yes, that. She would do that. Repay the establishment someday, if she could. But she had to eat. Just this one time, until she could find Talbur Gwenwig and explain herself. He’d take her in, surely. Even as a servant . . . She would work for free, for his favor. Anything to keep her from sleeping on the streets. Anything to protect her from Kazen and— She stepped into a tavern, and the smell of goat cooking on a spit immediately reminded her of Heath. She bit her lip to keep her empty stomach from heaving. Her appetite nearly left her . . . but she needed the energy. Weakness would make her slow. She’d be caught for sure.
She scanned the room. There were few people there at this early hour—taverns made their money on the nightlife. Wooden booths lined two of the walls, and small round tables featuring an array of cards and gambling games took up the center of the floor. The far wall had a small bar with an overweight, bald man standing behind it, picking at a sliver on a shelf holding glasses. The slack in his forehead told Sandis he was disinterested in his work, and the shadows beneath his eyes whispered he hadn’t slept much the night before, either. A small nook behind him led to the kitchen, where the smell of Heath wafted into the room.
Kolosos.
Sandis swallowed. Eat first. Think later.
She studied the two other guests—a young man, perhaps midtwenties, counted money in a booth. A steaming mug sat beside him. His posture was relaxed, his knees apart. Confident, especially since he was counting bills in plain sight, though the droop of his shoulders said he also lacked sleep. An older gentleman with a long mustache sat two booths behind him, holding a newspaper in one hand and a roast chicken leg in the other. The ferocity with which his teeth dug into the flesh, paired with his too-tight hold on the paper, whispered he was frustrated about something, perhaps angry. Sandis needed to keep her distance from him, but her focus returned to his food.
Her mouth watered.
“Hey, you.”
Sandis jumped and clutched her coat to herself. She turned toward the voice. The first man had stowed away his money and was staring at her with frank interest. She didn’t recognize him from her life before, and it was obvious he wasn’t a grafter. No physical signs of being a mobsman, at least not for the Riggers, Skeets, or Aces.
To her surprise, he smiled. “Skittish, are we?” He tilted his head toward the bench across from him. When she didn’t move, he held up his hands and said, “If you want to sit by yourself, by all means . . .”
Sandis shouldn’t talk to him. Shouldn’t connect him to her. Yet in a moment of panic—or perhaps desperate need for kindness—she hurried to the bench and sat. Let out a breath. “Sorry.”
The man glanced at her hand—checking for a ring? Oh. She touched her hair, tucked it behind her ear. She wasn’t used to that kind of interest, minus the leering looks Galt often cast her.
“Little early for a drink, isn’t it?” he asked. He was trying to be funny. If not for the crinkles on the sides of his eyes, Sandis might not have picked up on it.
She glanced at his mug. “You’re the one drinking.”
He smiled again and tilted the mug toward her so she could see its dark contents. “Cider, I swear. What’s your excuse?”
Sandis fiddled with the button of her coat. Was someone supposed to come by to take her food order? “I’m just getting a bite to eat before my shift.”
“Where at?”
“The firearms factory.” It would be easiest to answer his questions as if she were still fourteen and normal. Better for keeping track of what she said.
“Which one?”
“Helderschmidt’s.”
The man folded his hands and leaned his chin on them. “Isn’t that District Four? That’s a ways away.”
Sandis stiffened. Did he not believe her? But he didn’t look at her in an accusing way. He looked at her the way Rist looks at Kaili.
Did he think she was pretty?
Her cheeks warmed. “Um. This is where we found space to live, I guess.” Not “I guess.” Sound sure.
“We?”
She swallowed. “My brother and I.”
The brother she had been desperately searching for when the slavers picked her up. At the time, she hadn’t yet accepted she was looking for a dead boy. The heat in her face instantly iced over.
She cleared her throat. That must have been the way to summon service, for a girl no older than twelve hurried over and asked what she’d like. Guilt ate at Sandis nearly as much as the hunger did. She was stealing from a child.
She asked for chicken and cider. The girl bobbed her head and retreated.
The man across from her was fairly handsome—dark eyes and dark hair with a bit of a curl to it. He needed a shave, but his collar was nice.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Sandis.” She winced internally. Should she have used a fake name?
“Rone.”
“Hm?”
He pointed at his nose. “Rone. My name. There. We can be friendly now.”
Was she not being friendly? Maybe she was focusing so much on his expressions she’d forgotten to check her own. She cleared her throat a second time.
Rone slid his cider toward her.
Thanking him with a nod, Sandis took it, forcing herself to drink slowly. The cider was spicy and sweet, with a hint of cinnamon.
Rone shifted in his seat so the side of his foot touched the side of hers. He was flirting with her, she was certain, but she didn’t know how to respond. She’d never flirted before. Kazen didn’t let anyone touch his vessels, and he didn’t let them touch each other, either. That was why Rist and Kaili exchanged looks and nothing more.
“So, firearms. That’s exciting.” His eyes searched her face.