I wouldn’t make a good proprietor, anyway.
The corner of Luca’s lips twitch into a smile. “As if Gomorrah would want an Up-Mountainer to be their proprietor.”
“Then what about Nicoleta?” Hawk says. She tugs on Nicoleta’s sleeve. Though Nicoleta also resembles Luca’s people, she is hardly the only one in Gomorrah to do so, and she is from the Festival. People know her. People respect her. “You could be the proprietor. You’d keep everything very...organized.”
She laughs. “I could hardly—”
“I think that’s a great idea,” I say. “I think that’s perfect.”
Nicoleta watches me with apprehension, and I can almost see the questions floating around in her mind. Would Gomorrah take to a proprietor who isn’t a real person? But then a determined glint shines in her eyes, and she smiles.
* * *
I sit at Villiam’s table, holding an insect vial that Villiam must’ve intended to give me. It’s an oyster spider—not technically an insect but interesting nonetheless. Its eggs look like pearls, and it buries them in the sand near areas of salt water. I’m alone inside the caravan, debating about whether to keep the exotic gift from such a hateful man.
Outside, Gomorrah is burying Villiam’s body. Rumor has it that an Up-Mountain official murdered him.
They want war.
I shouldn’t feel guilty for missing my father’s funeral after what he did, yet there’s a part of me that does. But I can’t bear to go. I’ve attended three funerals in the past five weeks because of him. I will not attend his. I won’t stand there as Gomorrah buries him like a hero.
People will talk about the proprietor’s daughter not showing up. Let them. Nicoleta will become proprietor and soon, they’ll forget about me. They never wanted a freak as a proprietor anyway.
Worse than that is the guilty feeling that everything that has happened is my fault. Even if Villiam orchestrated all of this, I was willingly ignorant. Had I only asked questions, had I only taken a moment to think, none of this might have happened.
Someone knocks on the door.
I open it, and it’s Luca, dressed in a fresh set of clothes without any stains of blood or dirt. He peers up at me through the rain. His blond hair is soaked and dripping down his neck. “May I come in?”
I nod, holding my breath and bracing myself for the conversation that will inevitably follow. Our relationship, which had already begun with complications, has now developed into something impossible. I created him, whether or not I remember it. All of his memories—everything he is—came from Villiam, the man who intended to murder him.
And I almost let it happen. I’m shocked he can even look at me.
He climbs into the caravan and stands at Villiam’s desk. He removes his hat and soaked coat and looks up at the ceiling. “The warrior constellation,” he says.
“I forgot you knew about stars,” I say.
“My father and I used to examine them from the clock tower...” He taps his cane on the toe of his shoe. “But I suppose that never truly happened. The City of Raske and the clock tower are very real places. I’m simply not a part of them.”
My heart aches when I look at his face. At his dark eyes. At the way he bites his lip. This is the boy I’ve come to love, the only person I suspect in the world who could ever also love me.
Because I made him up.
But he feels so real. The smell of his sandalwood soap. The groans of the caravan shifting from his weight as he paces around the room. The burning in my chest. All of it is so real that I could burst from the pain of it all.
“I’m very sorry about Villiam,” he says, still standing. He doesn’t touch me the way he usually does. Five feet span between us. “I’m sorry about all of this.”
He was the one who almost died.
“I’m sorry, too,” I say bitterly. “I don’t know if I can ever say it enough. I didn’t trust you—”
“It doesn’t matter,” he says, but, by his tone, it does.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. My headache is gone. Doesn’t seem like any lasting harm was done, though I can’t seem to stop my right hand from trembling.” He lifts it off his cane to show me the tremor. “But I didn’t come to you for small talk. Gomorrah is leaving Leonita.”
“I know that,” I say. “Everyone is packing up now.”
“Despite the fact that you and I disagree with Villiam’s motives, the Alliance is real. With the other Up-Mountain city-states in turmoil, Exander will act. What are you going to do about it?” He leans on his walking stick. “Nicoleta isn’t proprietor yet.”
“I’m not going to kill you.”
“I was hardly suggesting that,” he says.
In truth, I’d rather abandon the proprietorship entirely. The Festival isn’t my responsibility, and I want nothing to do with the Gomorrah family.
“What would you have me do?”
“You can do nothing. You can take Gomorrah away from here and let history play out. But that isn’t the purpose of Gomorrah,” he says. “You should give Exander something to remember. Something that will make him think twice about taking on the Down-Mountains, when the Ninth Trade War does begin.”
He wants me to create an illusion.
“I don’t want to be part of a war.”
“It’s inevitable. Just as it is inevitable that Gomorrah will be caught in the middle of it. That’s the nature of these things.” He stares out the open window. “What will you do to protect the Festival?”
It isn’t fair for him to ask this of me. I’ve already gone to extraordinary lengths to protect my family and, by extension, this Festival. I am not the proprietor. I’m merely his daughter. This isn’t my city.
My crusade is over.
“Why do you want me to do this?” I ask. “What is it to you?”
He grimaces. “You’re right. I’m an Up-Mountainer. Why would I possibly care about world events? Why would I not dwell, even a little, on the fact that I only exist because Exander exists? I have been fashioned in the image of prejudice and terror. Everything I remember about my life was invented by your father. Why would I possibly care that you are sitting in your dead father’s chair, mourning him and the future he promised you?”
I wince. “Do you hate me now?”
“No. No, I don’t hate you. Even in the Menagerie, trapped and feeling very much betrayed, I did not hate you.” He sighs, and I’m too overcome by guilt to speak. “But I know you. You aren’t going to do nothing. While Gomorrah remains in Leonita, you’re the proprietor. So...what are you going to do?”
He holds out his hand.
His eyes are questioning, but he already knows my answer.
I take it.
The walk to the outside of Gomorrah takes over forty minutes, from Villiam’s caravan to the obelisks at the edge of the Downhill. The Festival moves behind us, a roar of wheels turning and wood creaking. Neither of us speak.
I am not certain who I am doing this for. For my family? To help finish Villiam’s goals feels like a terrible insult to their memory. But Luca is right: the Alliance is a real danger. They always have been.
Am I doing this for myself? I was once a slave, according to Villiam’s stories. Even if he lied about so many other things, I don’t really think he lied about that. But I was so young. I cannot even imagine my life then. The evils of the Up-Mountains’ empires have harmed thousands, and I feel almost guilty for not remembering my past. It’s my story, yet it doesn’t feel like mine to tell. Maybe Villiam stole that from me. Maybe the Up-Mountains did.
I shouldn’t merely do this for Luca, simply because he wishes more of me. Everyone thinks I am a warrior, but I don’t believe there’s any fight left in me.
We stop in the field, its grass trampled and brown from accommodating Gomorrah. It looks as if we’ve left a wasteland behind us. Even in the sky, we have stained the clouds black.
“Leonita’s officials even reached the Downhill,” Luca says. “Look. One of the obelisks is broken.”