“It’s not that far.”
It’s all the way out of the church and then to the carriage. It’s far enough to fail.
We make it halfway across the church before I need to stop. When I let Dalimil fall to the floor, it is only a half rest. I still need to maintain the illusion. The weight of the constant pushing presses against my mind, and I feel as though I am drowning, too exhausted to fight against the currents.
“The breaks won’t help,” Nicoleta says. “You’re only extending the illusion.”
She’s right. I’m depleting our time.
We hoist him up again. This time, we make it out of the cathedral’s doors and into the packed square. People dart around us, searching for their respective parties. They don’t see us. They don’t see the man we carry, though more than one person trips on Dalimil’s ankles and mistakes them for a cobblestone.
I spot our carriage among many others huddled together at the street’s corner. The sight of the end propels me forward and, despite my blurring vision, I quicken my step.
As we cross the street, a carriage darts out in front of us. Obviously, the driver does not see us, and we’re directly in the path of his horses. “Push,” Nicoleta pants, and we both lunge forward. The wheels of the carriage, however, nick Dalimil’s shoes and roll over his ankles with loud cracks I’m not prepared to conceal. We stumble and fall, Dalimil landing on top of us.
For a moment, the illusion flickers.
“What was that?” the driver calls. He stops the horses and jumps out of his seat.
“Sorina,” Nicoleta hisses, “I think I’ve sprained my ankle.”
The driver comes closer, not realizing he’s about to walk over us. I let out a long curse and cast an additional illusion, a bird swooping down in front of his horses. The effort feels like I’m stretching my muscles to the point of tearing. The horses shriek, pulling the driver’s attention away.
“Get up,” I snap. I’m ready to scream or cry; I don’t know which. “Get up. We’re nearly there.”
We hobble the rest of the way. I have no strength left, but still I manage to move forward, to maintain the illusion. The strain comes at the expense of breathing. I nearly collapse against the carriage door and then gasp as I release the illusion on Nicoleta.
“Hirohito,” she says to the driver, “help us.”
He startles at her sudden appearance and then leaps to our aid. He, Nicoleta and I push the limp body of Dalimil into the carriage, and we collapse in afterward.
We have succeeded, but we don’t waste time on self-congratulation. Hirohito snaps the reins, and we exit the gray city toward the comforting smoke of home.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Villiam embraces me, and I allow myself to relax, inhaling the warm scent of his cologne. I’m in Gomorrah. Safe in my father’s office. Back in my regular clothes. The tower of the Cathedral of Saints Dominik and Zdena is behind me, and it cannot see me through Gomorrah’s smoke.
“I’m so proud of you,” he says. “And so, so relieved.”
“I felt like such a...” I search for the word, but that feeling of helplessness and ugliness I felt in the church is difficult to articulate. “A bug. An ant.” Like, if they saw me, they could squash me at any moment, without the slightest bit of thought.
Villiam smile softens. “Who has carried more than her fair share of weight, as I understand.” He brushes my hair behind my ear. “You have never looked more beautiful.”
I don’t feel beautiful. I don’t even feel victorious. Only tired.
In the corner of the office, a healer braces Nicoleta’s sprained ankle. She doesn’t wince as he pulls the fabric tighter. Her gaze is fixed on the floor, and I can tell she’s troubled. She wears the sort of expression she usually has before snapping at Hawk that she has a headache.
“When will you and Chimal speak to Dalimil?” Nicoleta asks.
“This evening. But I don’t wish to concern you two with that. Your roles in this matter are very much completed, and you deserve a rest.”
Part of me wants to insist on being there, however gruesome Chimal’s interrogation methods become. That man potentially orchestrated the murder of two members of my family. But even though the fury over their deaths remains, I struggle to connect it to his face. Dalimil may not be a good man. He may even be an evil one. But when I looked into his eyes, even if he didn’t see me perched on the marble steps of the church, I didn’t sense I was before Gill’s and Blister’s killer. And I would know, wouldn’t I? The soul should recognize those who have wounded it.
Once the healer finishes treating Nicoleta, we say our goodbyes and head to our tent.
“I’m sorry,” Nicoleta says. “I nearly got both of us killed.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Of course it does. I was useless.”
“Had you not been there, I wouldn’t have been able to carry Dalimil out on his own,” I say, trying to ease her mind. “It’s over. We did it. That’s all that matters.”
Outside our tent, Luca is bent over a table, playing a game of lucky coins with Hawk and Unu and Du. His face sags with relief as we approach, and he abandons the game to come to my side.
He wraps his arms around me. “Did we win?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Are you all right?”
“Yes.” I press my forehead against his. “I’m going to sleep.”
“Of course.”
* * *
That evening, after a much-needed rest, I don my best mask and some bright red lipstick. Luca has promised me a night of fun.
I don’t know what to expect. Luca’s idea of fun is tea-partying with prettyworkers and telling morbid jokes. But, regardless, I could use some fun. I could use a distraction from my thoughts, which keep drifting to Dalimil and what Villiam might have learned from him by now. If he really is the leader of the Alliance, anyway.
In my excitement, I race to Luca’s tent. The Downhill is abnormally quiet for this time of night, and the weather has grown chillier over the past few days. I had to dig my thicker cloaks out of storage. The guests have also changed their clothes, shifting from pastel oranges and salmons to rich sapphires and emeralds. I don’t know why anyone would wear their best clothes to Gomorrah, but our audience members, without fail, are always gussied up in pearls and satin gloves and sweeping up-dos. Begging to be pickpocketed.
I find Luca waiting outside his tent, leaning against the silver-tipped cane that does nothing but make him look pretentious. He smiles when he sees me, that smile with the dimples that makes my insides flutter.
“Where are we going?” I ask. I try to hide the giddiness from my voice, because I’ve never been on a date and I’m starting to think that’s what this is. A real date. He’s probably going to make it a surprise. Somewhere enchanting or exhilarating, a part of the Festival only he knows.
“I’m taking you to Skull Market,” he says. “I know you’ve barely explored the Downhill.”
“You weren’t supposed to tell me,” I say.
“What?”
“It was supposed to be a surprise.”
He furrows his eyebrows. “I hate surprises.”
“That’s because you’re serious. And bor—because you’re so deliberate.”
He flicks my forehead, on my mask.
“What was that for?” I ask.
“You were going to say boring.”
He pulls me forward by my hand and leads me down a diagonal path, deeper into the Downhill, where I’ve never ventured before. Within a minute, we reach one of the two obelisks that mark Gomorrah’s end. They are twelve feet tall, black and identical. Their stone is so solid that no one has been able to carve into them, and, despite constant exposure to the elements, their surface remains forever smooth and matte.
“The other obelisk is...maybe a mile away,” Luca says. He points his cane to the left, toward the twin obelisk. “Legend says that to walk between them brings misfortune.”
“Everyone knows that.”
“Well, excuse me. I didn’t mean to bore you.”