Ace of Shades (The Shadow Game #1)(86)

A hundred feet or more above their heads, children climbed the rafters and vents as if they were a playground.

“They could fall,” Enne said. She twisted the inside of her dress’s pocket in her fist. The crowds made her claustrophobic, though she’d never felt that way before. Maybe she simply wasn’t used to Scrap Market. Maybe what she called anxiety others called thrill. But a sense of dread imbedded itself in her stomach, and every click of her heels sounded like the loading of a gun.

She shouldn’t have agreed to come.

“Nah, they won’t fall,” Lola answered. “They’re just showing off. Trying to get noticed by the Guild.”

Enne normally would have asked what she meant, but she was too exhausted. Part of her decided that she no longer cared, that this city would always be a mystery no matter how much she attempted to understand it.

“Let’s stop over here first,” Lola said, pointing to a stall covered with huge pieces of fabric and moth-eaten tapestries. “Asking what we’re asking...we might want a bit of anonymity.” She ruffled through the bins of used clothing and fished out a thin black sash. “Here. It almost matches that lipstick you have.”

Enne rubbed the satin between her fingers. The quality was reasonable, and unlike the rest of the clothes, there weren’t any stains or rips.

Lola cut two even holes in the satin with her scalpel knife, then tied it behind Enne’s head.

“Feel good?” Lola asked.

“Sure,” Enne said flatly.

After they paid for the sash, Lola slipped a mask of her own out of her pocket, tied it on and led Enne to another stall. The air around it was so humid from the steam vent nearby that Enne felt like she was breathing sludge. Inside, a man with yellow lips sat on a stool holding a pipe. He wore a glove on one hand, but pieces of hay stuck out of it. In fact, his entire left sleeve was lumpy and thicker than the right.

“He’s got old newspapers he’s willing to sell,” Lola whispered.

“’Lo,” the man greeted them. “Who are you two who look up to no good?”

“My name is—” Enne started, until Lola elbowed her side. Enne reddened, chagrined—masks were useless if they gave away their names. “...we’re customers.”

“Pleasure to meet ya.”

“We’re looking for old newspapers,” Lola said. “Articles by specific journalists.”

“How old we talking?” He set his pipe on the table.

“Ten to twenty years ago.”

“What journalists are you looking for?”

Lola nodded for Enne to speak, and Enne took a deep breath until she found her voice.

“We’re interested in a writer named Séance.” That was the pen name Reymond had told her, the day she’d arrived.

He sucked on his bottom lip. Its yellow color made him look almost inhuman. “Ah, you are up to no good. I used to read the Pseudonyms when I was young and foolish.” He leaned forward. His straw arm remained in the same spot, so with his position, it made his shoulder look detached. “There was Jester—another pen name. Ventriloquist. Nostalgia. Shade.”

“Do you have any of the papers?” Enne asked. She hadn’t realized until now how much she wanted to read one of Lourdes’s articles. Even knowing they had reached their ultimate dead end, and there was no chance they would find her mother alive, she could still learn more about why Lourdes had led her double life, and she could hear the words from Lourdes herself.

It was the closest she would ever get to her mother’s story.

“I might have one that escaped the burnings,” he said.

“You might?”

“It will cost ya. Fifteen volts. Or a trade.”

Fifteen volts was hardly pocket change, but it was worth it. Vianca’s first paycheck had already arrived, both for Enne’s acrobatics performances and her other assignment. It was very generous. Enne would not hurt for volts in this city if she continued to work at St. Morse.

“I’ll pay in volts,” she said.

He eyed her skeptically. “Fine.” His straw arm hung limply as he walked to one of the tables and reached for a box underneath. He riffled through piles of old newspapers and pamphlets.

“How’d you lose your arm?” Lola asked.

The man smiled. His teeth were even yellower than his lips. “I sold it.”

Enne’s stomach did an unpleasant somersault.

He grabbed a thin newspaper and a small, cheap-looking orb—gray-tinted glass, with a murky look to it—from a soup can on the table. Enne wondered if it could even hold the fifteen volts. But she pulled one of her own orbs from her pocket anyway, unscrewed the cap and paid. His shoddy orb managed the transaction without shattering.

He handed her the paper. It was called The Antiquist. This issue must have featured one of Lourdes’s articles. Enne folded it and slipped it in her breast pocket.

“That’s the only one I got,” he said.

“Thank you,” Enne told him, and she meant it. She crossed her arms protectively to keep the paper close to her chest. “What’s your name? We haven’t met many who know about the Pseudonyms.”

“Sold my name, too.”

“Why—”

“Thanks for your help,” Lola said suddenly. She pushed Enne out of the stall before she could finish her question. Upon reentering the Market, however, someone sprinting down the aisle slammed into Enne’s side. She yelped and nearly toppled over Lola’s boots.