One by one, I concentrate on them disappearing. To accomplish this, I have to locate each of the illusions’ Strings, the thin bonds between them and my mind. I untangle one illusion’s Strings from the jumble and then reel them in like a fisherman with a fresh catch. The Strings and the illusion go into a Trunk, a mental compartment where they’re safe, which makes their physical form disappear. They each vanish one at a time, leaving the room empty, except for me and Luca. My head feels heavier, and there is a constant knocking on each of their Trunks like the pounding of several headaches.
“This is going to be exhausting,” I say. And Venera isn’t even here yet.
“I have faith in you,” Luca says.
It’s strange to see him sitting at our table, where Unu and Du’s lucky coins are spread out across everything, including dirty plates and brushes for stage makeup. “Do you want something to eat? We have kettle corn and...” I glance into our food trunk. “Kettle corn.” Guess Crown hasn’t been feeling up to cooking or buying more food since we’ve gotten to Gentoa.
“Go right ahead,” he says. I fill up a bowl and place it on the table.
“I’m sorry I don’t have any gin.”
He smiles. “I’ll manage.”
“Is this the part where I get to ask you questions? Where I get to find out the gossip-worker’s secrets?”
“I’ve made up my mind to tell you anything you ask.” His tone is light, but the expression in his eyes shows the weightiness of this statement.
I blush and look down. “You don’t have to share anything.”
“No. I want to,” he says. “I’ve been living in Gomorrah for almost a year now, collecting other people’s secrets, and not once have I told anyone mine. I’m not usually comfortable enough to do so.”
“I make you feel comfortable?” I’m absurdly pleased at the thought but try not to show it.
“Yes.” He pauses. “And no.”
I sigh. “Before you start getting vague and confusing again, I’m just going to ask my two questions,” I say. He nods. “What was your life like before Gomorrah?”
I expect him to wait a moment before launching into his story, but he doesn’t hesitate. He wasn’t kidding about telling me everything. He does, however, talk at his usual breakneck pace that’s difficult to follow. I wonder if he’s been practicing this speech.
“My life before Gomorrah seems so long ago that it’s almost hazy. I lived in a small city known as Raske, and my family was the wealthiest in the town. We owned the clock tower, the church beneath it and the library. My father was an engineer, and he taught me about clockwork, about everything behind the face that makes a clock tick. He had—and I have—a similar approach to people. He had to figure out everything beneath someone’s surface before he felt comfortable enough to trust them.”
My hand is lying palm up on the table between us, an invitation to hold it, if he wanted. An invitation that feels terribly dangerous. At first, I’m not sure if he hasn’t noticed it or is ignoring it, but then, to my surprise, he slides his hand into mine. The rushed way he does it doesn’t feel natural—it feels forced—but his smile looks genuine.
He pulls out his pocket watch. “This used to be my father’s.” He turns it over in his hand wistfully. “My father knew I was a jynx-worker for years. I hurt myself badly once when I was young but healed instantly. He wasn’t a particularly religious man, not like my mother and the rest of the town. But it didn’t occur to him then it was jynx-work. He just thought I was blessed.” Luca laughs. “Gomorrah visited my town once when I was ten, and I remember thinking then how much the people fascinated me. The jynx-work that my town refused to acknowledge because it was unordinary. And I started to wonder if that’s what I really was—a jynx-worker. Or a devil-worker, as my town would say.
“My family lived on an estate outside of town, and when I was seventeen, it was struck by lightning and burned to the ground, with my entire family and all of our servants inside.”
He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.
“Naturally, I survived. With no burns or injuries, despite being dug out of the rubble. The rumors spread around town that I had come back from the dead, that I’d made a pact with the devil. So I grabbed what remained of my family’s possessions in our clock tower and fled. I found Gomorrah several weeks later. Bought a caravan. Conjured a performance. And figured out a way to make money to survive.”
“You could have chosen dozens of different jobs,” I say. “You’re brilliant. Villiam would hire you to help him run Gomorrah. You could help with—”
“I asked him, when I joined,” he says. “I don’t know whether it’s because I’m an Up-Mountainer or if he genuinely disliked me, but the only space he would sell me was in the far corner of the Downhill where I now reside.”
“I could talk to him.” Even if I have no idea what I would say.
“I like my show, believe it or not. I like the thrill of it.”
“The thrill of dying?”
“The thrill of horrifying my audience. The thrill of being a freak.”
Normally the word would bother me but not from him. He went from being an outcast in his city for his jynx-work to becoming a sort of outcast here because he’s not as lustful for Gomorrah’s sexual pleasures as others. Freak may be the only word to describe a misfit in an entire city’s worth of misfits.
There are footsteps outside the tent. I instinctively lean myself closer to him. “I wonder if that’s Venera.” It’s past sunrise. She should be back by now. Venera out, alone, partying in the Downhill has never been a safe endeavor. But now, if there really is a pattern to these killings, she could be an easy target.
The footsteps disappear down the path.
“I could go find her,” Luca says. “But I also don’t want to leave you here alone.”
“I’d rather you didn’t, but...what if she’s—”
“I’m sure she’s fine,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t, but I don’t think getting worked up is going to solve anything.” He scoots closer toward me until our shoulders touch. I work up the nerve to lean my head into the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, and I wonder how many times a sword has sliced through this area to decapitate him. Surprisingly, he doesn’t tense at my touch, and he doesn’t let go of my hand.
“Do you have any other questions?” he asks.
“Only one.” I’ll give Venera a few more minutes before my worry grows. “Why does Nicoleta think you’re dangerous?”
He laughs. “Probably because I know a lot of assassins. That’s not much of a stretch. Dangerous by association.”
“Then what were you talking to the bartender about last night?”
“He wanted me to track down a woman he met once.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m entirely serious,” he says. “He gave me her description, and I found her. She’s a shadow-worker, lives in the Uphill, helps manage an orphan tent. Quite personable. Too good for that man.” Even though I’m not looking at him, my head is against his shoulder, and I can feel his cheeks move into a grin. “I could tell you a lot about Gomorrah’s estranged lovers and family drama.”
“How interesting.”
“I think it is. I’ve always found people’s romantic lives rather baffling. Like everyone was gushing about a song that I’ve never been able to hear.”
“You’ve never felt interested in...anyone?” I ask.
“Not really. Nothing beyond a passing thought. Then again, I wasn’t close with that many people as a child. And I don’t have any acquaintances whom I could truthfully call a friend.”