Anya sat in the living room of Jenya Pentacost’s manor; ankles on either side of the heavy lockbox, hands fiddling with her writing board as she waited for Veronica, the eldest daughter, to return. The chamber was tight by aristocratic standards, but sparse for a family of three, filled with plump, frayed chairs which had little hope of being used; and walls so covered in decorations—Jenya’s early manuscripts, the children etched in profile, trophies of uncertain origin—that Anya doubted she could set an open hand on the plaster without knocking something loose. A cracked hearth jutted out from the rear wall, beige stones covered in statuettes of horses and fish and other small gods. Beneath, pokers rusted in a quiet fireplace.
Anya heard the tell-tale sound of water moving through pipes and looked to the clock in the corner; then she peeled back her papers to reveal a slip covered in timed notes. She scribbled “flush at 1923” and counted up from the last entry, tapping her stylus once for each minute—damn, six could go either way, and she couldn’t be sure it was Veronica in the water closet. Would that wretched Jenya never leave her study!—Footsteps echoed from the stairwell, and Anya slipped the timesheet back behind her other documents.
Veronica stepped into the living room, returning to her seat opposite Anya, a low table between them. She pulled her auburn hair aside as she settled between the cushions and tucked one ankle behind the other, calves soft and pale under purplish red robes tailored in style of Republican ladies—a cut which might look frumpy on a girl of seventeen, were Veronica not poised and pretty enough to fill it. “Where were we?”
“I asked about your family. You mentioned the house feeling empty these days.”
“Yes, it’s been over a year since Clive left, and much longer without Bernard. At first I was surprised at how little I missed them, but I suppose it’s catching up to me.”
“It’s setting in?”
“It might also be how I spend my time: tutoring, my own exams, helping Nadya; mother wants to move her into secondary studies as fast as possible; says twelve is plenty old and it’s a crime to delay while I’m still home and not working…” She glanced back at the stairwell, then leaned in with a low voice. “But I am working.”
“You are,” Anya chuckled.
“It was simpler when the boys were here.”
“Did they help you teach?”
“Clive did. Bernard was too proud to teach fundamentals, but everything else worked a little smoother when he was around; and Clive could at least make us laugh.” Veronica’s eyes lit up, and she scooted to the edge of her seat. “One time we were around the hearth. Mother and Clive were sewing, Bernard and I were doing quizzes, Nadya and…” She trailed off, eyes roving the chairs and davenports. “Anyway, we got Bernard talking about which bureaus he was applying to or if he might work for Menora. Clive joked he might put on a wig and try for the Draft. We all laughed except Mother, then Bernard asked how he’d keep up the ruse once the robes came off. Silence, then we all looked at mother and she just…”
Veronica snipped the air with her fingers, then she burst out laughing, arms wrapped over her stomach. Anya tried to match the girl’s enthusiasm, and struggled. It was funny, but not enough to make her cry and run out of breath and nearly fall from her seat. Veronica settled, and Anya cleared her throat. “I did want to ask…”
“Wait, I forgot!”
Veronica rushed for the kitchen, fussing with the silver strings which dangled from her elbows. Anya reached for the list of timed notes, but put them down when she heard a dull screech followed by the smell of something sweet and slightly burnt. Veronica came back with rolled sleeves, holding a platter of thin, round pastries, light yellow and dusted with spice. “It’s okay so long as you get them hot, right?”
“Yes,” said Anya, although she snuck a sip from her quinebottle as Veronica set down the tray and knocked the pastries free of the metal, weaving a lattice of buttery smears as they skittered along the silver. Anya broke one in half and watched steam curl up from the crumb, then she popped it into her mouth. “They’re very nice. Thank you.”
Veronica lingered next to Anya, giving the sergeant an embarrassed, pleading look as she held out her arms. Anya put her hands under Veronica’s elbows, pinching the strings and undoing both knots at once with three quick tugs. Her sleeves fell back to full length, and Veronica brushed them flat as she sat back down. “So sorry about that, but it seemed less rude than talking with girded arms. I like this style of robe, but I’m not sure it’s worth it anymore. Yours look much more practical.”
Anya glanced down at her Irrigator uniform: sandy brown with gray-blue trim, no decoration nor frills save for the rank on her collar. “They work,” she said, smiling. “Did you want one?”
Veronica laughed and took a pastry. “I hope this is enough ‘til morning. I’d have made a proper meal, but I didn’t have time to work out what was safe and get ingredients and sterilize…”
“It’s perfect.”
“Bernard used to love these,” she said, taking a bite. “Nadya does too, which is part of why I made them.”
Anya tensed up. “She’s here?”
“Let’s check.” Veronica crouched forward and whispered into the space under the sofa. “Nadya, the sergeant is taking the last one. Better come out now!” She waited a beat, then leaned back and smiled. “I checked the couches, and the cupboards, and the nook under the stairs, and the bushes under the windows. None of that matters because she doesn’t know you’re here and I sent her to study group, but I did check.”
“Thanks,” said Anya. “It’s too bad I had to use the baton last time, but she had to learn this is serious.”
“Oh, of course,” said Veronica. “She’ll be in trouble sooner or later. I’d much prefer it happen now with someone she can trust.”
“She understands?”
“I think so. Just the other day she was asking when you’d come by again. I told her not for a few weeks, which I thought was true. Maybe you should show up unannounced more often. I’m not the best liar.”
“Maybe,” Anya chuckled.
“But your question?”
“My question?,” Anya asked, then she remembered. “Oh, just all these stories about you and Bernard. You never seem to mention your father…”
“You think he’s a bastard?” Veronica cut her off. Anya blinked, and the girl pressed on. “He wasn’t, but his father was, we think. The rumors get messy, and mother is slow to correct them; but my uncle said it’s true, and so did Aunt Menora.” She sighed and stared at the ceiling. “If anything, shouldn’t I be asking you that?”
Anya sipped from her wineskin and shrugged. “You’re the one with a brother in Heredity.”
Veronica smiled. “I think Bernard can work that out on his own… I still can’t believe he chose Heredity.”
“Really? It’s a good bureau.”
“Yes, but it has so much to do with people, and he never cared for the human subjects, although he still studied them for exams. One time, I asked if he needed help with Poetry and Philosophy. He asked me to say a number between one and seven-hundred seventy-four, so I said two-hundred six, then Bernard said ‘sperm swim upstream’ and walked away.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did I. Later I was studying on my own and realized it was the two hundred and sixth line of the Eponyme.”
Anya heaved the lockbox onto the table and turned its dials until the lid snapped open. “We’d better get through this before Nadya comes back.” Anya pulled out a ream of yellowed paper covered in dark, dense writing. Veronica looked up at the clock and started. “Lord, it’s six fifty-five,” she said. “Men are such small, self-same objects…”
“Huh?”
“Nothing. Sorry, I left them upstairs. Give me a moment, then I promise to quit jabbering.”
“It’s fine, Veronica.”
Again, the young woman rushed from the room. Again, Anya slid over her notes, adding “Ver out 1855” to the end of the list. A few minutes later, she heard another flush and recorded that as well.
----------------------------------------
Datra glanced down the wiremesh table, where twin rows of family and factors sat elbow-to-elbow in the open courtyard, trading platters of bread and fruit with the same warm precision Datra had seen in the offices, hands underlit by dozens of brass lamps with glass windcolumns, clad in a half-dozen shades of the same wine-dyed motif. At the end, Menora leaned over to help little Miro with a spill, taking his cheap clay horn as Boris moved in with a rag. A voice said “hot tray, sir,” and Datra leaned back. The server placed a lidded plate before him and pulled the cover. Steam billowed out, revealing a sizzling bird flanked by tubers and a pudding coated in flecks of dark pepper; in the center rested two forks and a knife, beads of moisture trickling along the silvered edge. Datra quined his hands under the table and tested the cutlery with his palm—still too hot.
“So, let’s say I want to get…” Sena waved a hand down her trunk. “Clean. What would I do?”
“Depends,” said Datra. “Where are you going?”
Menora’s oldest put a finger on her chin and glanced up at the stars. After an obnoxious pause, she said “huh, I never thought of that” and took a long, slow drink. Menander chuckled, and a red winedrop trailed down his sister’s chin. He wiped it away with a napkin, neither asking for thanks nor getting any.
Since Datra’s arrival, Sena had been his shadow, floating at his elbow as Datra plowed through greetings with old courtiers and new members of Menora’s staff. When Boris announced dinner, Datra had slipped free and fallen in with Menander, asking the boy if he’d be so gracious as to sit at his side—only proper for the man of the house. Menander accepted the honor, but no sooner had Menora blessed the meal than her daughter marched over and sat in Menander’s lap, sideways with one arm hooked over his shoulders. A servant had fetched her meal without prompting while Menora looked on with a sweet, serene smile.
Datra bobbled his knife until it was cool enough to grasp. “Barlow won’t touch a speculum before the paperwork is done. You would need outgoing forms from your alderman and guardian—in your case, one person—and a charter from whoever is taking you.”
“I don’t have a guardian.”
“Right…” said Datra, doing math in his wine-spun head as he sliced away at the bird. He flipped a blackened chunk into his mouth—the steam had softened the char, but it was tender and well-salted, better than his usual fare. “Either way,” he continued, “you send a master form to Heredity with copies of the other two. A third one to me can only speed things up.”
“Is it hard to get approved?”
“No. Bureau heads don’t take people the Palace won’t like, and nobody cares about moves between clades: one cobblestone patch is as good as any other.” Datra caught himself and paused, remembering the city map and the bridge with the bright red warning. “With one exception, but so far it’s never come up. More often than not, they just confirm the new resident has a bed and won’t spill out onto the streets.”
“Wow,” Sena leaned in. “That is so interesting.”
“What does quine taste like?” asked Menander.
“Death,” said Datra. “I’ve some in my bag if you’d like a taste.”
“Maybe later. I’m curious, but not enough to risk spoiling this meal.”
The lad weaved through his sister to skewer a capon, and she shifted to ease his path. Her rump stuck out under the armrest, and Datra jerked in his knee to avoid it. He sideeyed her hips like a predator, trying to place her organs and not liking the result. Datra imagined a small ring atop Menander’s thigh, harmless at first, but red and burning by the time he went to bed. Surely he’d scratch in his sleep, then it was only a matter of time until that same hand rubbed his face—an annoyance for siblings of the same mother; Datra would not be so lucky.
“Uh, chief?” said Menander. Datra snapped up, and the boy kept talking. “I agree that’s fascinating, but what about the actual treatment?”
“Barlow comes by to talk risks and options, and give a quote. Once you pay, he can usually take you that day.”
“Yes, but what’s it like?”
“How would I know?”
The siblings exchanged uncertain looks then glanced down the table, as though their mother might shout an explanation across the courtyard. She didn’t.
“I never had a full infestation,” Datra continued, “only worms, and not for long. Getting rid of them wasn’t fun, but I doubt it compares to the real thing, and I’ve never stayed around to watch.”
“This man Barlow,” said Menander, “does he have long hair and big eyes? Talks oddly?’
“Very.”
“I think we’ve met him: the day Bernard left for the bureaus.”
“You think? Poor form, boy. Men of his rank are rare.”
The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
“I tried for a greeting, but he didn’t seem to notice, and his attendant spoke for him, a tiny…” Menander groped for a better word, “a short woman, a Sudress.”
“Lyre. She usually handles the pillow talk. You can imagine why.”
“I can, sir. Still, he must be quite skilled, to hold that position so young.”
“A once-in-a-generation talent. I sent him to Medical the day he earned a baton. He matched his trainer in two years and took over in five.”
“That’s incredible,” Sena chimed in. “Seeing his hidden potential. It shows your skill as a leader.”
“Coincidence, actually; but I’m glad it worked out.”
Sena laughed. “Can patients choose who treats them?”
“No promises, but you can request Lyre. Many people do.” Having stripped his bird clean, Datra forked a fat tuber and dipped it in the suet.
“I want Barlow.”
Datra froze with parted lips, wondering if he’d misheard her as the vegetable warmed his nose. “Really?” he asked. “I promise you Lyre is quite competent.”
“I’m not letting a Sudra touch me down there.”
Datra bit down on the tuber and slid it free of the prongs. While he chewed, Datra twirled his fork towards Sena’s seat. “Obviously,” he said through a mouthful of food.
For the first time that night, Sena’s girlishness slipped, her face gone to shadow with a smile which didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Menander is my brother,” she murmured, holding Datra’s gaze until he blinked; then she tapped Menander’s knee, and he scooted back to let her up. “Thanks for the advice, Dat!” Sena chirped, walking back to her seat near Menora. Datra raised an eyebrow at Menander, but the boy shrugged and adjusted his chair.
The meal finished without incident, and by the time Datra threw down his cutlery, most of the factors had left. Menora walked towards him. So did Sena, but the alderman placed a hand on her shoulder and said “audit.” The girl skulked off towards the offices.
“Tired, Datra?” asked Menora.
“Getting there.”
Menander rose to escort him, but Menora said “I’ve got him; go check on Boris,” and moved to Datra’s side, guiding him back to the stone stairs in the heart of the palace. Once they’d cleared the second floor, she asked “what was Sena so eager to speak about?”
“Work, mostly.”
“Did she ask you to get her out of the clade?”
“No, just a few questions. She is at that age. It would be stranger if she didn’t think of leaving.”
“To do what?” asked Menora. “Laze around a smaller palace? Find a new batch of cousins to flirt with? It would be one thing if she was chasing a rank, but that girl has no place in the bureaus.” A few steps more and she spun to face him, eyes bright and inspired. “She could work for you!”
“Or put in for the Draft!” said Datra.
They held each other’s gaze for a long moment, then Menora broke down in laughter, and Datra followed. She leaned on the wall with one hand on her stomach, then reached out to embrace him, pulling back at the last moment, as though she’d reached for someone else’s purse. She regained her dignity, tucking her shock of red-brown hair back behind the ear, a few silver threads running in the mix like wires; then Menora surprised him by going up the final stairwell.
“Your room was turned into a nursery. I hope you don’t mind the top floor.”
“My room?”
“It was here when you were.” Menora said. She passed the ornate door which had once housed Old Menander, a great slab of copper and glass, framed in solid oak; then walked a few steps further to a shorter, stouter entrance, with plain boards and no window. “The old mistress quarters,” she said, yanking the handle. “It’s not much, but you’ll have plenty of room. I made it up for two.”
“Trust me, I’ll use it,” Datra chuckled.
She stepped back to give Datra space. He stepped out of his sandals and into the bedroom, never letting his feet touch the hallway. Beneath his cracked, yellow soles, Datra felt the moist tingle of a freshly swabbed floor. He took in the chamber with a slow, theatrical turn, nodding at the stocked desk, jars of preserved food, and other little comforts he’d been supplied with; then he faced Menora at the threshold.
“The doors inside don’t lock,” said Menora, “But they lead to me and the balcony—so no danger there. This one… “ she rapped her knuckles on the planks, “has a deadbolt. I’d suggest you slide it.”
“Trouble with the servants?” Datra asked.
“No,” Menora pressed on. “The pool is full and heated, but still needs quine. How much do I add? One-part-twenty?”
“Lord no, that’s what I use back home. Two percent would be fine, but don’t trouble yourself. Hardly worth it when I’m only here a few days.”
“Don’t question gifts, Datra. It’s rude. Now I’m going to add it whether you use the pool or not.”
“Thanks, I guess.”
“Anything else before I go? I’ll be up in a few hours if you want company. I’d have finished work early if I’d known you were coming.”
“I doubt I’ll last that long,” Datra said, feeling the tension bleed up from his ankle. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.”
Again, Menora moved as though to embrace Datra, only to catch herself and back away.
“Oh, come here,” he sighed, pulling an arm partway into its sleeve. He leaned over and squeezed Menora ‘round the shoulders, their skin separated by the fine threads of his robe; then Datra stepped back and shielded himself with the door as he uncinched his sash and slipped out of his clothes, balling them inside out and tossing the bundle into the hallway.
“Burn that,” Datra said through the gap.
“I will.”
Datra closed the door and rubbed his arm with quine, then he took up his duffel and emptied it onto the bed: spyglass, shackles, extra bottles. Finally, a brass lockbox, far slimmer than the one Anya had lugged, fell into the pile. He carried it to the corner desk, setting up with candles and a bottle of grappa. Datra unlocked the case and pulled out a neat stack of papers, his copy of files Anya had pulled for this outing, mostly the dossiers for Jenya, her daughters, and their various relations. On a whim, he flipped to Menora’s file, longer than most at a full nine pages, and carved up with boxes of black ink—even where text was legible, many details had been “[REDACTED]”, banished to the master copy in Datra’s credenza. He breezed through the header, then slowed at the section on kinship, resting his finger on “known children”.
> #G058776 Sena Pentacost. F, c. 88; Nathanial Pentacost (high)
>
> #G059223 Menander Pentacost. M, c. 90
>
> #G059939 Mion Pentacost. M, c. 92; Ibram Korre (high), Nathanial Pentacost (low)
>
> #G072203 Danica Pentacost. F, c. 93; Igor Sparr (moderate), Ibram Korre (low)
He moved on to the sequential notes which made up the majority of her file, skimming through the years and letting his eyes linger where they may:
> Acknowledged by father (Menander Pentacost). Heir-apparent. Parentage near-certain. Other father candidates excluded by Bureau of Heredity—Sgt. Birch, 4.5.63
>
> Menora scores high on preliminary exams (competitive for selective bureaus) but has no intention of joining Civil Service. Expresses curiosity for Daughter’s Draft, but has made no effort to establish herself as a candidate—Aux. Coleman, 6.6.77
>
> Slim chance Cpl. Datra is father of oldest child (Sena Pentacost)—Chf. Birch, 9.8.90
>
> Zero chance Cpl. Datra is father of Sena Pentacost—Cpl. Datra, 9.21.90
>
> Bureau of Heredity has eliminated all male Sudras in Menora’s palace as potential fathers of Menander Pentacost. BOH has also said further testing will require payment—Irr. Larson, 2.23.91
>
> At the dinner following last week’s meeting, Clive Pentacost made a joke about Menander Pentacost becoming Alderman. Bernard Pentacost chided him, but Menora interrupted by asking what Clive had done wrong. [Hearsay]: She refused to explain further when senior staff confronted her in private—Aux. Coleman, 10.1.102
Datra set Menora aside and moved on to the residents of Jenya’s manor. Jenya herself bored him: a decades-long transformation from someone who writes memos all day into someone who writes memos all day, plus a bit of poetry; the only interesting bit being her section on children and paternity, which looked like a party game. In Veronica, he found the precocious pillar who’d been described at breakfast—athletic, charitable, inhumanly studious. Every note increased Datra’s desire to meet the young woman, but made it less urgent; not the sort of person who’d shit flies for two weeks without alerting the authorities. Finally, he spread Nadya across the table—a scant three pages counting the cover—and unstoppered the bottle of grappa.
----------------------------------------
“Last time you mentioned Elijah Korre,” said Anya. “Is he still interested in the bureaus?”
“I think so, although he seems less confident than before,” said Veronica. “I tutored him the other day and he brought up the military out of nowhere, but sometimes boys do that then never mention it again, so who knows?”
We have a military? Nadya supposed that an empire would need one of some kind, but she’d never met a soldier nor given it thought—something to look into once Anya was gone. For now, she sipped her rootwater and listened.
“And his argument with his mother?” Anya asked.
“It’s mostly settled. I encouraged him to be honest, and he took that to heart. He stressed how gentle he would be in calling off the betrothal, but I suggested his mother should be the one to tell the other family, since she is the one who offered his hand.”
“Well done. I would have said the same…”
Nadya fought back a yawn and wriggled in her seat, wincing as the leather strap bit into the bruises on her lower body, not quite healed since the last time Anya caught her eavesdropping. Nadya had thought of the fireplace the next day, when mother told her to clean it as part of her punishment. She’d looked up and seen a dark black streak against pale blue sky, then lit a match and found an old iron damper, bent and rusty, but strong enough to hold Nadya’s weight. She’d fashioned a seat from an old belt looped at its fattest notch, finding it high enough to conceal her and reasonably comfy, especially when she stuck her legs out and braced her feet on the bricks.
Earlier that day, when Danica had mentioned Chief Datra was coming to the clade, Nadya rushed home on a hunch and heard Veronica upstairs, tied up in an argument. She’d snuck to the chimney with snacks and a big horn of rootwater, setting up in her sling and waiting. An hour or so later, she’d heard the sergeant’s voice and known the gamble had paid off.
The conversation wound down, then Nadya heard a heavy thud followed by two sharp clicks. “Okay then,” said Anya. “Ready for notes?”
“Yes, one moment,” Veronica said, followed by the woody echo of feet hitting the stairwell. Nadya pursed her lips. This was taking long enough without all these breaks to use the water closet—it also reminded Nadya of her own need to go, and she cursed herself for bringing the rootwater. She heard Anya scribble something, which the sergeant had done every time Veronica went upstairs. Nadya tried to imagine why, but drew a blank. It was just weird. Veronica came back down, and a heavy thud echoed throughout the space.
“These are all your old copies?” Anya asked.
“Yes, and the key.”
“That’s junk now. But you might as well get rid of it.”
Nadya’s heart thumped at the mention of a key. She tried to still it, holding her breath; then she closed her eyes and let her mouth hang open like a simpleton—Clive had once told her this strengthens the ears.
“Two-hundred five. Two-hundred six,” Anya kept counting. “Two-hundred seventeen left over from last time. That matches what I have here. And these—” Another thud, louder than the first. “—are your new clade-notes. And, the new keyphrase…” Anya slowed and lowered her voice. Nadya’s nails dug into her palms, hands shaking in anticipation.
“Sudra’s boil chickpeas in rootwater,” said Anya.
“Sudra’s boil chickpeas in rootwater,” Veronica whispered.
Sudra’s boil chickpeas in rootwater!
Nadya sighed and savored her victory with a long, slow slip, thinking of the fun which awaited her upstairs and wishing that the other two would hurry up so she could get to work; although, when Anya said “let’s toss the dead copies,” Nadya’s ears did perk up. She’d never gotten this far; and while the fate of those old, key-less papers wasn’t important, she was curious as to how the Irrigators got rid of them—shredding, thrown in the canals, maybe even eating?—but then she heard the sound of a twist-match and smelled sulfur. A stone hit the bottom of Nadya’s stomach, settling somewhere near her bladder. She looked down through her shins and saw a stack of yellowed paper hit the ancient stones below, a single thread of flame creeping along the edge.
“Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?” Veronica asked. “The couch is fine? I would offer you water but we’d have to boil it, right?”
“I’m fine. I’ll be in bed soon. Lots to do tomorrow.”
“Other auxiliaries to meet with?” Veronica laughed. “I know you can’t tell me. It’s fine, so long as I’m your favorite.”
“A boss shouldn’t have favorites.”
The flames grew hotter, and spicy plumes of smoke bit at the corners of Nadya’s eyes. She looked up and saw a gray haze blotting out the square of light above. Her throat tickled, and Nadya tried hard not to cough.
“Oh, isn’t Chief Datra here too? Are you part of… sorry, sorry. It’s none of my affair.”
“It’s none of mine either, but it’s not a secret. He’s there to talk land swaps or something. Everyone will know in a few days.”
“Wait, land swaps? With whom?”
“Not sure. They never actually happen anyway.”
Nadya tried to listen—she could see two other clades from her bedroom window, so the borders getting moved seemed important—but the papers had lit up in earnest, and she was starting to feel the heat. Nadya took a few sharp breaths, then bit down to keep her throat from seizing. She squinted down and tried to see how much paper was left, how much longer she had to endure; but a second stack landed on the first and kicked up a swarm of dirty sparks.
“Will you be seeing Menora at all, then?” asked Veronica.
“Maybe, if I can fit it in. I have paperwork and errands, and someone needs to monitor the work they’re doing here tomorrow. Actually, can we go look at the other building while there’s still some daylight…wait, let’s put this away in case your sister slips past us.”
“Oh, good thinking. Can you imagine?” said Veronica, yet again bounding up the stairwell.
Nadya saw stars and gritted her teeth, lungs fit to burst as a torrent of smoke billowed across her face. She heard a new wave of taps and clinks as Anya fussed over whatever she had on the table, and Nadya admitted defeat, accepting that she had to slide out of her perch and into the flames—and worse, Anya. The last beating had made it hard to sit for three days, and this would be so much worse. Nadya also doubted the sergeant would ever talk to her again; and wondered at how she’d spoiled the friendship in a few short months, thinking back to their first meeting last Winter, when the woman had set Nadya in her lap and let the girl try on her mask.
Her mask! Nadya tugged out her neckline and stuffed the loose fabric into the dregs of her rootwater, feeling the warm liquid seep up past her fingers; then she doubled the folds and clamped them to her lips with an open fist, sipping hot air through the center, just mellow enough to get down without choking. Her vision cleared, her mind grew sharp, and her sweaty hands quit trembling. She stewed over the embers until her sister and Anya went outside, then she let go of the belt and tumbled out of the hearth, setting her horn upside down in the kitchen before she hurried upstairs. “I’m back from study group,” she yelled out to nobody in particular, slipping into the water closet and tearing off her robe. It was worse than expected: coated from shoulder to skirt in streaks of black grime. She turned it inside out and shoved it to the bottom of the hamper.
Outside in the hall, a door squealed open. “Nadya!” her mother called out.
“One moment!” she called back, diving into the bathing stall and yanking over the curtain. Jenya called again, and Nadya ignored it, clawing away her subungula as the footsteps drew nearer—if she started before mother came in, maybe she’d…
The door wrenched open. “Nadya, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Washing before bed.”
“Out, now.” Jenya snapped her fingers. “You just washed yesterday.”
Nadya lingered in the stall. “Yeah, but nobody’s here and I’m real sweaty and you let Veronica…”
“I said out! Your brothers are gone, but they took their jobs with them. Veronica tutors and is also a young lady an—what the hell did you do?!”
“I was at study group?”
“And?”
“And then we played for a bit and I came home.”
“And what did you play, exactly?”
Nadya looked at the mirror over the basin, hair and face blackened with a vellum of soot which ran down her neck and ended in a sharp point on her chest, framed by light skin which her robes had covered. “We were playing… sudra.”
A crack rang out as Jenya reached out and popped her daughter across the mouth. “I expect better from you, Nadya. Your sister is having Sergeant Anya over today. Did you know that? Do you know how much that means to her? What a friend like that can…” Jenya slowed, sighed, and leaned back with one hand on her face, the other holding her elbow. “What am I going to do with you? Just try to help your sister, okay? Someone needs to be a good host, and Lord knows it won’t be me.” Jenya lowered her hand, revealing a black handprint she’d just pressed onto her cheek. Nadya bit her tongue and fought back laughter as her mother leaned forward and gave her a kiss. Jenya turned to leave, but paused in the open doorway and pointed to the sink. “You can wash, but use the basin. You only need an inch. Goodnight, Nadya.”
“’Night, mother.”
The door swung shut. Nada reached over the basin and yanked on the chain, calling down water from the overhead pipe; then she reached into the drain and set the baffles, blocking it just enough to build up a few inches of water. Nadya leaned in to wet her hair, then she took up a lufa and dragged it across her face, cleaning one side white while the other stayed dirty, a sharp line down the bridge of her nose. She put a finger to her soot-side eye and pulled the skin towards her ear, pursing her lips in the caricature of a Sudran face which has been so popular a few years before. Nadya wondered if she should have done this when Mother stormed in—if you could make her laugh, there was always a chance; Clive could have managed it.
Nadya rinsed off the filth, set the drain to full-open, and dried her hair with a clean rag. She turned to leave, but paused with her hand on the door, remember they had company. Nadya dug a ratty pink tunic out of the cupboard, squeezed it over her shoulders, and walked out towards her room. She heard voices at the bottom of the stairwell and called out “is that Sergeant Anya?!”