“I just don’t think it makes sense that it was an Ovren fanatic,” I finish. It occurs to me that Luca, being from the Up-Mountains, might also follow their religion. But I doubt it. He’s a jynx-worker who ran away to Gomorrah. It doesn’t matter where he’s from—they would scorn him as much as me.
After a few moments of silence, Luca only says, “No.”
“No, what?” I ask.
“I’m not interested.”
It takes me a moment to process that he means he’s not interested in helping me.
“What? Why not? I can pay you. It may take time to gather up some money, but—”
“I don’t take payment. I only work if the story interests me, and, to be honest, this does sound like the work of a purity-crazed Ovren disciple. You haven’t provided reasonable doubt, so that’s my answer for you. Sorry, princess.” He pulls out a golden pocket watch to check the time, as if he has better places to be.
“But I have no idea how Gill was killed at all. He’s an illusion.”
“Was. He was an illusion,” Luca corrects. I lean over the table to slap him across the face, but he catches my hand and holds it there. “And I know all about your illusions. Nicoleta, for instance, had a drawn-out, tumultuous affair with a prettywoman I happen to be acquainted with. So if your illusions can be touched, smelled, heard, and they can act on their own, what exactly is your definition of not real? What makes you so certain they can’t be killed?”
“By definition, an illusion isn’t real,” I snap.
“Illusion-worker is just a title. Like gossip-worker. Like poison-worker.”
I stand up. “Thanks for nothing,” I snap and storm out. Who exactly does he think he is? Giving himself a fake title. Acting smarter than everyone else. He’s so...so...infuriating. I kick down the wooden sign outside his tent. Then I kick it again after it’s fallen.
My walk home from the Downhill passes in a blur. I’m so focused on my thoughts and figuring out who else would want to help me that I pay no attention to where I’m going. One moment, I’m at Luca’s, and the next, I realize I’m already back at my own tent.
What makes you so certain they can’t be killed?
Is there more to my illusion-work, like Villiam thought? But I create illusions. There’s no debate about that. So what more could it be?
As I approach our tents, a figure runs toward me. Nicoleta. Her face is pink and puffy—our signature look, lately. But not usually for her. She’s managed to stay collected while everyone else has fallen apart, at least while we’ve been looking. Has something happened? Or did she not mean for me to see her cry?
“Sorina!” she calls.
Nicoleta crying. Nicoleta running. Something is wrong. Something is even more wrong than before. I run toward her, my heart pounding. I push more than one Cartonian patron out of the way to reach her.
“What is it?” I ask. She nearly collides with me, and I wrap my arms around her, stiff while she’s shaking.
“It’s Blister. Crown found him in the dunk tank near the games area. He drowned.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Down-Mountainers wear white to funerals. I borrowed a dress from Kahina, which hangs down to my skinny ankles and is already staining with mud along the hem. Villiam stands on my left in elegant, almost priestly robes, with a starched collar and bare feet. On my right, Venera wears a simple white tunic, no makeup, no strands of beads, no flowers in her hair. She is almost unrecognizable.
All of us—my family, Villiam and Kahina—gather around the small hole that Tree dug this morning. Blister’s casket, not even three feet long, lies at the bottom, wrapped in the red quilt Kahina made him a year and a half ago. There are no patches on it for significant life moments. It’s blank.
I imagine the patches full. I imagine his first day of school. I imagine how dazzling his unique fire abilities could have been once he grew older. I imagine him lighting the fireworks of the show he loves so much.
Hawk sings a mourning song. Her voice sounds distinctly inhuman, more like a bird’s, shrill but beautiful. It’s strange to hear her sing without her fiddle’s accompaniment, or to sing something so slow and deep and sad.
I look everywhere but at the casket. At the overcast sky. At the anthill a few feet in front of me. At Crown, who cries the hardest but the most quietly. Everyone loved Blister, but Crown was the one who read Blister the same stories every night, who convinced Blister to take a bath by bribing him with treats, who rocked him to sleep when he cried.
My chest tightens, and it feels as if I’m not getting enough air. I’m standing still, but my heart is pounding. I glance over my shoulder around the field, half expecting someone else to be here with us, examining the results of their handiwork. Selecting another victim.
Crown digs his cane into the dirt; his dark knuckles whiten from squeezing so hard. Circles hang beneath his puffy, bloodshot eyes. He looks broken.
I never worried about Crown’s age before, but now that I know that my illusions can die, all I thought about last night was whether Crown would make it. Blister was Crown’s entire world.
I can’t lose another member of my family.
And I won’t. My hands curl into fists and I take a long, deep inhale. Because now we know that Gill’s death wasn’t just a random, crazed disciple of Ovren. Not when Gill and Blister were killed so close together, both never before believed real enough to kill.
Someone is targeting my family, and I’m going to find out who, how and why.
Kahina casts me a warning glance, as if she can tell what I’m thinking. I haven’t spoken to her alone since just after Gill died, but there’s no way she can tell me to focus on healing now. I’ll heal after we find justice.
At first, Nicoleta assumed Blister’s death must’ve been an accident. Blister was almost two—he naturally got himself into trouble when no one was watching. But Blister hated water. He hated baths. He hated rain. He wouldn’t go near the dunk tank, which is glass and obviously full of water. Not to mention tall and difficult for a small child to climb.
Someone drowned him on purpose.
He was only a baby. Our baby. I choke back a sob and wipe my face on my sleeve.
Hawk finishes her song, and Crown inches closer to the grave. He stares down at the hole blankly, as if it goes on for miles and miles. He says nothing for a few moments. The only sound is Gomorrah preparing to open for the evening a hundred meters behind us. This field outside of the Festival’s fence has soft earth and wildflowers. It seemed a good, quiet place for Blister to rest.
“Blister was a happy one,” Crown says, “and a star performer. He loved the attention of being on stage, especially with all of us. He clapped for all of us backstage, even when we told him to be quiet. I think we’re all going to miss his high fives after the shows are over.”
His voice catches, and he covers his mouth with his hand. Everyone gives him time to compose himself, and when he continues, his words quiver.
“Blister liked fireworks more than anything, so I brought one to light when this is over.” Crown pulls a small red flare out of his jacket pocket. “We watched the fireworks at Skull Gate every night, just me and him.”
Venera cries beside me quietly. She reaches out and intertwines her fingers with mine, and I know we’re picturing the same things. Blister returning every night in Crown’s arms, saying he saw the “booms.” The way he said our names: “Ree-ah” and “Vu-rah.” The hugs and kisses good-night.
“My sweet baby boy, you were too young,” Crown chokes out. “I wish more than anything that you were here with us right now. So I’ll tuck you in one last time, and maybe one morning, we’ll see each other again.”
Nicoleta passes me a shovel. Then all of us, except for Kahina and Crown, lay Blister to rest.
When we finish, my hands and shoulders ache, and my nose won’t stop running. All I want is to sleep undisturbed, where I don’t need to look at the grief on anyone else’s face and I can cry in private. But my heart races, and I look over my shoulder every few moments in case someone is watching. The someone who killed Blister. Who killed Gill.