But I’m her sweetbug.
When Villiam first adopted me, I was only three years old. He may have been my father, but, in truth, he was more of a teacher. He needed someone else to look after me while he managed the Festival, but no one was too keen to babysit me, with my freakish face, my unsettling jynx-work and Tree following me wherever I went. Only Kahina volunteered. And though Villiam and Kahina may have different views on parenting, Villiam has always appreciated the maternal role she plays in my life.
“What is Villiam doing to find the perpetrator?” she asks.
“I don’t know yet. He was too overwhelmed with moving the Festival to do anything last night. He sent some guards. But they only asked us a few questions and left.”
“That doesn’t surprise me—last night was chaotic. I hope he doesn’t involve you further in the investigation.”
I pull away. “Why not?”
“Because I know Villiam. I’ve known him since he was a boy. And as much as he loves to involve you in all of his work, he doesn’t know you like I do. He’s clever and calculating—able to detach himself from a situation to view it objectively. You are not like that.”
“I could be. If that’s what it took,” I insist. I’m going to be proprietor one day, so I’ll need to be.
“Now, sweetbug,” she says, continuing to run her fingers through my hair, “no one wants you to go through that. What happened to Gill is a wretched thing. But you need to promise me that you won’t let the anger get to you. You have too beautiful a soul for that. You focus on love, because you still have a whole family who loves you. Don’t you forget that. And drink your tea.”
“A whole family I made up.”
“I was made on a cold January night by a fisherman and a fortune-worker, not by you,” she says wryly.
I snort. A very clogged, snotty snort.
“Yes, Venera and Hawk and all of your family may be illusions, but they still love you. And love is real. Love is a choice.” She squeezes my hand, and I stare at her black veins with a mess of dread pinching at my gut. I don’t know what I’d do without Kahina. “Now, you’re going to take it easy right now. You’re going to sleep and cry and eat or not eat as much as you want until we get to Cartona. And then you’re going to perform your show and see your friends and do things again. And it won’t feel better right away, but it will eventually.”
Would it get better? I don’t have any friends to see—the only people I spend time with are my illusions, Kahina and Villiam. Most people in Gomorrah avoid me because my face makes them uneasy. Even with my mask on, people have complained because they can’t see my expression or tell if I’m looking at them. Around me, they cannot trust their own senses. I make everyone uncomfortable. It’s easier to be among other misfits.
“I promised Villiam I’d go see him tonight,” I say.
She purses her lips, and I prepare myself for another speech about not getting involved in the investigation.
She must know I won’t take her advice. Not on this.
“Then, after tonight,” she says. “You take time to yourself, okay?”
“Okay. But can you do a reading for me before I go?” Kahina often does fortune-work for me. I may have given up on aspirations of beauty, but my fantasies of romance have been kindling since Kahina told me fairy tales as a child. So I usually ask if she sees anything remotely romantic in my future. She never does.
“Of course,” Kahina says. “Maybe there’s a mystery man.”
“Or lady,” I add. When I imagine myself in Kahina’s fairy tales, I tend to prefer princes and princesses equally. “I was hoping you could read for anyone connected to what happened to Gill. Through me.” I sit up, my hair brushing against the leaves of a palm potted behind me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sorina.” She only uses my name when aggravated.
“I just want to make sure that everyone else is safe,” I say. “Please. It would make me feel better.”
“Fine. But only this once.”
She grabs a black clay jug from her table. Inside are hundreds of coins, each with a different symbol. I take the jug and shake it until one coin falls out from the opening underneath. It’s a gold piece with a menace on it—a type of demon believed to live in the Great Mountains, the region between the two continents. Not a good sign.
She turns it over in her hand. “You are surrounded by confusion,” she says. “It’s strange. Difficult to see through. As if you’re surrounded by the same smoke as Gomorrah.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, but I’ve grown used to Kahina’s vagueness after hundreds of readings.
“You can’t see anything?” I ask.
“There’s only the negative energy in your aura.”
“What about any positive energy with a good jawline and broad shoulders? Or doe eyes and silky hair?” I ask it with a teasing smile, so Kahina doesn’t suspect I’m thinking “ugly thoughts.”
She laughs and then shakes her head. “I don’t see any good jawlines or doe eyes, but, then again, I don’t usually do those sort of readings with the coins. Do you want some tea leaves?”
“That’s okay.” Not like the tea leaves have foretold anything before, and I don’t have much desire to finish my cold mug of chamomile. “I’m going back to sleep until I see Villiam.”
“That’s a good idea, sweetbug.” She squeezes my hand. “Sleep as much as you’d like.”
CHAPTER FIVE
I yank one foot after another out of the mud as I trudge my way to Villiam’s caravan. This Up-Mountain road wasn’t made for heavy travel in the rain. Especially not with hundreds of mules, horses and caravans ahead, tearing the ground apart and leaving a mess in their trail. With each step, I sink into the earth halfway up my shins.
The red tent usually outside Villiam’s caravan is currently packed away, so the whole caravan is visible. It was painted black about thirty years ago, so now it’s merely speckled with the remaining paint, revealing pale wood beneath. Fresher coats of red, pink and purple spell out the swirling letters of The Gomorrah Festival. I knock on the door, walking to keep up with the two enormous stallions that pull it.
Villiam answers. As usual, he wears neatly pressed business clothes, though I doubt he’s seen anyone today, as it’s barely four o’clock in the afternoon. He extends his hand out to help me up and then embraces me once I climb inside. “Dismal outside, isn’t it?” he says.
“It’s appropriate,” I answer.
Agni is in the process of setting out a full four-course meal. In Gomorrah, breakfast is our typical supper, with the heartiest foods eaten before guests arrive. He reaches out every few moments to catch an empty wineglass knocked over by the bumps of the caravan. “Maybe the breakfast wine should be skipped today, sir,” Agni says.
“Nonsense. Wine is an important component of a meal,” Villiam says, ever the gourmet. “And without all the pieces, a whole structure could collapse.”