The Midnight Lie (The Midnight Lie #1)(36)

“We should find out.” Slowly, she said, “I don’t like that you have never seen a tree. It’s like saying you have never seen the sky, or sun.”

I looked away from the leaves and into Sid’s black eyes. Then her gaze lowered. She was looking at the burn on my cheek. I immediately covered it.

“It was an accident,” I told her. “It’s ugly, I know.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it, lips tightening. “It looks like it hurts.”

“No,” I said, although it did. Embarrassed by her disbelieving gaze, I said I had to leave. The sun would rise soon.

I thought maybe she was disappointed, and I couldn’t tell whether it was because she knew I was lying about the burn and didn’t like it, or because she believed me and wondered how I could be so clumsy.

Maybe she was second-guessing our bargain.

But she said, “Meet me here tomorrow night. Think about what you want from me. In the meantime, I can give you what you came looking for in the night market the other night.”

I folded my arms across my chest. “And what is that?”

“Adventure.”





23


IT WAS SO HOT THE FOLLOWING DAY that the silver ants came out, zipping up and down the white walls of the Ward in glittering lines like tinsel. They bite. You don’t want to get in their path.

“So long as the windows are shuttered and we stay indoors, the heat should be tolerable,” Raven said when she walked into the kitchen. The walls of the Ward buildings are thick, slabs of stone cut from a quarry I had never seen. They hold the chill of the night.

I was kneading the morning bread, sweat dampening the hair at the nape of my neck. It felt good to work the dough. It helped me not think too much about last night.

And what might happen later, this night, after everyone in the tavern was asleep and I snuck into the Middling quarter.

I punched the bread dough back down. I rolled it under the heel of my hand. The rhythm of this kept away my nervousness.

Or was it excitement?

“By noon, not a soul will be stirring in the Ward,” Raven said. I had almost forgotten she was in the room.

Annin cut sun melon into thin, papery orange slices and dropped them into a bowl of pale wine. With a sigh, she said, “It will be so dull with no customers.”

Morah said nothing. She cracked eggs into a bowl one-handed. Each tap of an egg against the rim of the bowl was precise and surprisingly loud. She watched Raven as she did it. She watched her the way you watch the silver ants, to see which direction they want to go in, so you can get out of their way.

“Now, girls,” Raven said brightly, “it is never possible to be bored when there are things to do. There are errands to run in the Ward.”

“I thought you said we should stay indoors,” said Morah.

“And so you should! I can’t even imagine setting one foot into that sun, particularly when I have been feeling so poorly.”

“Nirrim, too,” Annin said.

I lifted my gaze from my work in surprise.

“Just look at her,” Annin said. “Those shadows under her eyes! They look like they’ve been smudged with that kohl the High ladies use.”

Two nights of lost sleep were catching up with me. I hadn’t realized that Annin had noticed.

Raven came close, tipping her head up. In the last two years, I had grown past her height. She tucked a lock of damp hair behind my ear. It was so reassuring to feel her tenderness. She could easily lose her temper, it was true, but who among us is in perfect control of our feelings all the time? And she always became kind again.

“My lamb,” she said, “have you been sleeping badly?”

“No.” From the look on her face I could tell she was remembering when I had first come to the tavern from the orphanage, and had woken, weeping, in the night, babbling about things that she assured me were not real—except Helin’s death, which sometimes I would hope was one of the lies I had believed. “It’s not like that,” I said.

She smiled in evident relief. When you see relief on the face of someone you love you also see the worry that had been hidden. Her worry made me feel beloved. I was her girl. Her lamb. “I feel fine,” I promised.

“Annin, she is fresh as a flower. Except…” She touched my hair again, but this time let her fingers slide free, and rubbed the fingertips as she grimaced. “Very hot. My dear, you are so sweaty!”

Morah cracked another egg. The yellow globe of the yolk and its slick transparent white spilled from the shell in her hand into the bowl. She gave me a hard look I didn’t understand.

“I’ll run those errands myself,” Raven said. “Now, what did I come down here for? Oh, yes. A basket.”

“I’ll go,” I said. “I don’t mind. I’m already hot.”

“We are all hot,” Morah said.

“Oh, would you?” Raven said to me. “I bet you won’t feel the heat a bit if I loan you my parasol.”

“Parasols are Middling,” Morah said. “She can’t use one.”

“That’s right. I forgot. Maybe you shouldn’t go after all, my dear.”

“I want to,” I insisted. “The dough can have its second rise while I’m gone.” I untied my apron.