“A performance? My job is to be invisible.” I fiddle with the edges of the nun sleeves, which, on close inspection, are the darkest shade of navy, rather than true black. I hope it will go unnoticed. “Nothing about this is certain. We aren’t even sure that Dalimil is the Alliance’s leader.”
“We’re mostly certain. And if he isn’t, he’ll have information. It will be of value, nonetheless.” She peeks out of the window. “We’re nearing the cathedral. It’s best to remain silent. I’m supposed to appear alone in this carriage.”
It’s impossible not to dwell on what’s coming as the voices grow louder. A church organ plays a somber ballad that sounds inappropriate for a wedding. Other than the musical accompaniment, the atmosphere reminds me of the moments just before a Freak Show. The hushed whispers and chattering of anticipation. I imagine the feeling of our tattered velvet curtain in my hands, the voices of my family behind me.
Our carriage pulls to a stop.
Nicoleta nods to me.
The show is about to begin.
I cast my moth illusion as soon as the liveried attendant opens the carriage door. “My lady,” he says, his eyes on Nicoleta. She grasps his arm for support as she descends to the cobblestones. Just as her foot touches the ground, she makes a show of losing her balance and then, with her other arm, braces herself by keeping the carriage door open. I climb out, invisible, into the city.
“My lady, are you all right?” the attendant asks.
“My shoe merely slipped,” she says, her accent lilting heavily from practice. In the Freak Show, her lines required constant repetition. It took her months to perfect her persona. Here, she seems a natural. I suppose she performs better than me under pressure. They say pressure can turn even a grain of sand into a pearl under the right circumstances.
As Nicoleta joins the queue of pastel-colored guests, I follow in her shadow. My form is gone. My smell, gone. The sound of my footsteps is replaced by the slight flutter of the moth’s wings. I am a ghost.
The tower above us extends endlessly into the overcast sky, turning my stomach even as I admire it. This tower has stood for hundreds of years, and it will likely remain for hundreds more in the same spot. I can imagine why such a landmark would appeal to people: such a rigid sense of home. But then I turn behind me, where the Gomorrah smoke is slightly darker than the afternoon clouds, and the spire of the Menagerie is just barely visible, the flag above it a speck. For the common people of Sapris, that represents excitement. Something new.
I’ve always preferred change to tradition.
After three minutes, the fatigue of the illusion is already setting in. I fix my gaze on Nicoleta’s beaded slippers in front of me to keep my focus.
Nicoleta presents her invitation to the attendant, who allows her to enter the cathedral. I squeeze in past her, careful not to brush shoulders with any of the guests who cannot see me.
Once we enter the cathedral, I immediately adjust my illusion to expand to the crowds and adapt to the dim lighting. Candelabras glow from the edge of every stone pew, and it almost reminds me of the flickering torchlight of Gomorrah. Nicoleta speaks her name to an usher, who directs her to her seat. It’s early enough that the pews are only a quarter of the way filled, and we have nearly a half hour before the ceremony will begin.
While Nicoleta walks to her seat, we both scan the front for someone matching the description of Dalimil. There are many blond men in the crowd. Many tall men—Up-Mountainers are shockingly tall, or at least they seem so to me. I feel like an ant roaming unknowingly in their midst. Nicoleta shakes her head nearly imperceptibly. He isn’t here.
Next I scan the room for other nuns, but there aren’t any. It’s been nearly seven minutes; I need to find some place to conceal myself, somewhere I can still see Nicoleta. Along the edges of the cathedral, behind a row of columns, are individual prayer rooms separated by a gate. Each features a unique piece of artwork, all depicting the artistic prowess of Up-Mountain prodigies: warrior saints cleansing the world of the jynx-work, through such choice weapons as fire, sword or rope.
Sneaking inside proves a complicated task. Not only do I need to continue to conceal myself, I need to make it appear as if the gates are not moving at all. Once inside, I slip myself within the shadow in the corner, angled away from the wandering eye.
And now we wait.
The air smells of incense, which I associate with Gomorrah’s mehndi tents or fortune-workers. Here, however, it doesn’t feel sacred, warm or safe. Despite the summer heat, the inside is kept cool from the thick stones walls of the cathedral. It feels sterile.
Minutes pass as I scan the entering crowds for Dalimil. I briefly make eye contact with Nicoleta, and it’s clear from her expression that she hasn’t seen him, either. What if he doesn’t show? What if all of this danger was for nothing?
With a handful of moments to go before the ceremony begins, Nicoleta temporarily excuses herself from the pew by saying something to the man beside her. I take this as my cue to follow her, and I rush to slip out from the prayer room. We walk side by side, though I am concealed again. She should not gamble with my endurance. I need my illusion-work to last us.
“I don’t see him. There are so many men,” she says. “When everyone forms a line to bless the couple, you will need to be close. You’ll need to find him, if he’s here.”
“I can’t get so close to the altar. Someone could notice my silhouette.”
“We need to find him, Sorina. Gomorrah needs him.”
I sigh. “Fine. But I don’t want to die in this church.”
Nicoleta returns to her seat, and I to my prayer room.
The cathedral doors open, and the wedding procession begins. The bride, a young girl not many years older than myself, wears rose-pink. Her dress trails out nearly three meters behind her, and there are more flowers on her head than there is hair. The groom is nearly two decades her elder, with a beard already touched with gray. He smiles at her in greeting rather than with love.
People have joked and called me Gomorrah’s princess before, but I’m not a political pawn like this girl. I’m not a prisoner of my role. I’m a warrior, at least in this moment.
The priest opens one of the five books of Ovren to begin a reading about how the union of two souls brings them closer to Heaven. Love cleanses one another.
I’ve never heard a religious text of Ovren lacking the usual fire and brimstone.
After the reading, the couple exchanges their vows. It’s then that the procession begins.
I slip out of the prayer room and hurry to the front of the cathedral. It’s so large that it takes me nearly a minute to reach the altar. The line grows behind me as every individual finds a place, and I keep to the steps, facing them. They are an endless line of lemon and apricot and lavender. Men, women and children. I’ve never seen so many Up-Mountainers directly in front of me, without the darkness of Gomorrah behind them. I’m horribly out of place. I don’t belong here.