The Midnight Lie (The Midnight Lie #1)(34)

She smirked. “You’re staring.”

This was different from her friendly arrogance in the prison. There was an anger to her that seemed directed at me even though I had done nothing to deserve it.

She slid her long hand inside the open mouth of the piano, feeling around inside. The strings hummed and twanged.

“Do you play?” I asked. In the Ward we were allowed only little wooden flutes that played simple melodies. I knew what a piano was only because I had read about them in books at Harvers’s printing shop.

Sid shuddered. “Not on your life.” She roughed up her short golden hair, frowning into the instrument.

“I suppose you’re no good at it,” I said, “and don’t enjoy something where you have no opportunity to show off.”

Her gaze snapped up. Her black eyes narrowed.

“I didn’t come here to be ignored.” I wasn’t sure what allowed me to give voice to the resentment brewing in my chest. Normally I wouldn’t, to anyone. “I risked punishment going through the wall to meet you. I wandered for hours trying to find this place because you left no directions. So tell me why I’m here and what you’re doing or I will leave.”

Her expression changed, screwing up with rue. She scrunched her eyes shut and covered her face with her hand. “Directions,” she groaned. “I didn’t give you directions?”

“None.”

“I thought you would recognize the address. I thought you must come to the Middling quarter all the time.”

“The last time was my first time.”

“I am such an idiot.”

“You are,” I agreed.

Her hand slid away from her face. “I’m sorry. I waited for a long time. I assumed you weren’t coming. It bothered me.” She said her last words slowly, seeming to consider them as she said them.

“Everything is safer for you than it is for me.”

“You’re right. I should have been thinking about that. I was thinking too much about me. About how I was feeling.” She looked down at the piano.

My curiosity got the better of my fading anger. “What are you looking for?”

“A prayer book.”

“There is no such thing as a prayer book.” I studied her to see if she was joking or making this up. “No one worships the gods. They’re not real.”

“There used to be such books. It’s an old book. And hidden, I’ve been told, in this piano.”

“So this is not your piano.”

“No.”

“Is this your house?”

“No.”

“Do you even have the right to be here?”

“No,” she said cheerfully, “which is why I must hurry. I will understand if you wish to leave. I’ll stay here until I find the book.”

But I didn’t want to leave. I planted my hands on my hips. “So you are a thief.”

“I am many things. But for the moment, yes, you’re right. Nirrim … will you be thieves with me?” She went back to inspecting the piano, knocking along its black lacquered wood.

“Have you tried playing the piano?”

She shot me a flat look of mock outrage. “We have already discussed my ability to play—or lack thereof.”

“I mean: Have you struck each key? If a book is hidden inside, maybe it obstructs some part of the piano from playing. See if a note or notes won’t work.”

“Ooh, yes.” She trickled her fingers up the keys, moving from the rumbling low notes.

“Why do you want a prayer book?”

“Information. Do you realize that although your city has libraries in the upper quarters, there are no history books? Why are there no history books?” She danced out the middle notes, shifting her hand so that she struck the notes only with her thumb and little finger, hand stretched. “And there are no books about the gods, even though people refer vaguely to them as having existed, even though there are statues of them in the High quarter.” She hit a key that thudded instead of rang. The note was dead. She smiled at me. “Clever Nirrim.” She reached inside the piano’s body and fiddled with the tuning pins, then seemed to find something. She wrenched at the flat board that held the pins.

“You are going to ruin the instrument.”

“It deserves it,” she said. “It’s in the way of what I want.”

The board popped up. Strings squealed. Tuning pegs broke off, one sailing to the floor, the others dropping into the piano. Sid reached around inside, then slid out a small red leather-bound book, the edges of its pages bright with gold. She made a satisfied noise.

“What’s so special about that book?” I asked.

“I want to know if Herrath’s gods are the same ones my people worship. What they’re like. Their supposed powers.”

I thought about how she had phrased her words. “Your people worship them. Do you?”

“Pfft. Mere superstition. Fanciful tales. At least”—she closed the book—“so I always thought. But something is happening in this city, and I want to understand it. I’d like for you to help me.”

“Me?”

“I have a proposition. Help me find the source of magic—or whatever trick is making things look like magic—and I will help you leave this island.”