I smirk and let him take me farther down the paths. We turn to the left and, nearly immediately, are struck by the noise and heat of hundreds of people together in a small space. The paper-lantern lights that usually dangle above tents and caravans are decorated with various expressions of sorrow, terror and fury in black paint. Skull Market is a maze of hundreds of vendors, thousands of smells. It sounds of coins jingling, the bells of auctions, the squabbles of haggling. There’s something to see around every corner. I can hardly believe the size of the place. It must be two or three square miles, made up entirely of stalls. They aren’t set up in a grid pattern to make it easy for the customers. Instead, vendors have constructed their tables and stalls wherever they please. In the middle of paths, adjacent to each other, in clusters that you practically need to crawl into in order to view the merchandise. The market is a mess of hiding places, and I have the itch to explore.
“The fabric seller here can spin thread out of nearly anything and turn it into something worthwhile,” Luca says. He points to another stall. “That red sign means it’s a trading booth. You barter. I’ve seen the owner take one man’s trash and sell it to another as a treasure.”
He has spiels prepared for nearly every stall, putting on a show for me.
“As huge as this place is,” Luca says, “I doubt anyone is selling rare and exotic bugs. Unless they’re covered in chocolate.”
“I don’t know...this place seems to have anything you could want.”
“The Market covers a huge area of the Downhill, and it’s got quite a few landmarks. There’s a haunted caravan, apparently full of spirits. A cursing well. The famous pillar of salt in the heart of the Downhill.”
The smells of the spiced wine and candied cashews from a nearby stall make my stomach rumble, and my coin purse is growing warm and eager in my pocket. Before Luca can object, I buy us two mugs of the wine.
“What is this?” an Up-Mountain girl asks me, pointing at the mugs in my hands. She wears a brown cloak covering all but her pale face. She doesn’t seem like the type to visit the Downhill. She’s too...delicate.
She also looks rather familiar.
“Wine,” I say. “It’s warm. They put spices in it.”
Her eyes twinkle and she mutters something to the man next to her, who nearly jumps at her touch. He doesn’t seem the type to be in the Downhill, either. After some eye rolling, he fishes in his pockets for coins and hands them to the girl.
“Your mask is beautiful,” the girl tells me. “The colors are so vibrant.”
“Thank you,” I say hesitantly. I’m not used to being complimented by a visitor. It also bothers me that I cannot figure out why I recognize her.
“And that boy there. He’s beautiful, too, no?” She giggles and takes a sip of her wine. At the taste of it, she squeals with delight and turns back to the man with her.
Then I recognize her. The bride from yesterday. I’m certain of it. She’s less recognizable without her trailing pink gown and the flowers in her hair, but it’s definitely her.
I return to Luca’s side. “That girl over there. She’s the bride from the wedding this morning,” I say. I point her out to him. “What do you think she’s doing in Gomorrah?”
“Can’t have been much of a honeymoon, if she’s here without her husband,” he says jokingly.
I watch her pass with the man beside her—probably a bodyguard. As jarring as it may be to see her here, I won’t stop her. She deserves some fun.
“I can’t believe I’ve never come here before,” I say to Luca, turning my back on the princess. “This place is so alive.” I sip my wine, and it warms me all the way down. “Where should we go first?”
The wine turns Luca’s lips a deep burgundy. “I thought I had to make that a surprise,” he said.
“See? You’re catching on.”
He wraps his arm around my waist, and I’m surprised by our closeness and the firmness of his grip. We haven’t been this close since almost two weeks ago, when he stayed the night to help keep me awake and the illusions locked away in their Trunks.
We walk through the paths, and within a few minutes, I realize Luca has no idea where he’s going. Not that I blame him; Skull Market has clearly been constructed for visitors to lose their way—and their money—within it.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and for a few moments, I forget to breathe. “Come on. I want to show you the pillar.”
“Do you even know where you’re going?”
“Of course I do. It’s just this way.” He points to a mere crevice in between a few tents. We squeeze through it, the tent material brushing against us on all sides. Soon the Market vanishes behind us, and we are in a tunnel of pink, purple and red. Luca stops walking, and he turns around so suddenly that his blond hair falls out of place and into his eyes.
“Why are you stopping?” I ask.
“There’s no one around,” he says. His eyes travel from the silver tip of his cane to me, and he watches me as if I should have expected this comment, as if I should know what’s coming, as if I should keep up.
And then he kisses me.
Since we have only kissed a few times, it still shocks me when it happens. It only lasts for a few moments, but it’s tender, and I’m breathless when he pulls away. He slides his hand around my waist and holds me there, our faces only inches apart. The material of the tent beside us presses against my hair.
“I know I haven’t told you, but I like having you around. I like what we have,” he says.
I laugh breathlessly. “Did you bring me here just to kiss me?”
“Did I surprise you?”
“Yes.”
He smiles a wide, boyish smile that makes my heart melt. But it disappears, replaced by hesitation. “I know I’m not impulsive or spontaneous, but I like what we are. I’ve never had this. And I want you to like what we are, too.”
I kiss his cheek. “I promise I like...what we are. As long as you do.”
“What I said before was true—this is very new to me. I’ve rarely had close friends, let alone anything close to a romantic relationship. And I still doubt I’ll ever be a person who looks twice as I pass the House of Delights. But I’m not breakable—you can touch me. I’m a big boy. I can tell you what I want and what I don’t, if I want to stop, if I want to keep going. You have my consent to...touch my neck.” He brushes my fingers against his neck. “Or step close enough that we’re touching.” I inch a step closer, until there is no space between us. “Or kiss me, whenever you want.”
I know this is an invitation to kiss him exactly the way I’ve wanted to for so long, but I’m so amused by his use of big boy that I giggle.
“What?” His face reddens. I’ve probably embarrassed him. That was a very serious speech.
Once I have my laugh at his expense, I kiss him the way I want to, the way he wants me to. I wrap my arms around his shoulders and pull him so close that the buttons of his vest press into my stomach. I slide my tongue over his bottom lip, and he runs his fingers through my hair. And after at least a minute of this—maybe two, maybe five—I kiss my way along his jaw, my lips only brushing his skin.
I want to move. The tents are so close that it’s growing claustrophobic and almost uncomfortable, so I say, “Maybe this isn’t the best place for this.”
“I was going to suggest relocating, as well.”
We slide our way out of the tunnel to the other side, free at last. “I’d like to show you the salt pillar,” he says. “Unless you’d rather we go back somewhere else.”
I interpret this as going somewhere private. “What, to your tent?”
“If you’d like.” The words are loaded. Not with the promise of sex—at least, I don’t think so—but of taking this further.
“I feel like you have this idea of me as someone who is walking around in a permanent state of lust,” I say.
“I envision that of most people, actually. It’s not only you. And this is based purely on observation.”