CHAPTER TEN

End of Sentence

Leta drifted.

Never before had she felt so untethered, so lost. She did find that people treated her with respect and would offer her anything that they couldn’t hide, but she was learning that there was a difference between true religious fervor and keeping up appearances. Not to mention, most people were more than aware that the church of the perseverant, as the officially sanctioned religion of Umara, had much more than they did. To put it plainly, Leta was broke, tired, and hungry. And she was tired of being broke and hungry.

Her robes were not the only habit she had begun carrying with her. Little by little, she found herself marking the places of large topherroot patches. Then, she began to collect particularly promising roots (they didn’t grow this well by the ‘Roc). And sooner than she would have thought possible, she began to plan her return to tophra dealing.

The problem was that even though she had more access to topherroot than ever, she had no supplies. And she certainly couldn’t just go asking around after tophra making supplies dressed as a nun.

She didn’t like it, but she was beginning to realize she would have to cross the Sourlands back towards the Divine Sjlunroca. She had contacts just outside the Sjlunroca grounds that owed her favors and could get her what she needed. She’d have to be careful and smart, but it was the only way she could think to survive. A small thought in the back of her head nagged at her whenever she let up control of her thoughts: maybe you were better off in the ‘Roc.

And maybe she just wanted to see it—to remind herself of how terrible it was, to appreciate the freedom of the outside, a life without cold crumbling stone and cold crumbling stoners. She would have to go back to the Divine Sjlunroca.

* * *

INTERLUDE

The Mad Madam was missing. Usually, this wouldn’t have bothered Frankie, but today she needed her. And, if she was really honest with herself, she missed Mad’s presence. She was the calm and constant presence of The Bedrooms, and without her, the place felt edgy—or maybe that was just Frankie.

She’d worked in The Bedrooms of the Divine Sjlunroca since she was twenty, only two weeks into her stay in the ‘Roc. Her fire-red hair and oversized breasts made her a quick target for the men of the prison, and The Madam suggested she might as well get paid for the indignity. The work sucked, but the pay was—well, not great, but better than nothing. Really, the part that kept Frankie in the profession was the sense of safety and security. There were even pockets of friendship that could be found among the other women, if you avoided the women in their fourth decade, who blamed the younger women for “stealing their business”. Frankie had never gone out of her way to get a John, let alone another woman’s, but there was no convincing women like Silva of that, so she avoided her the best she could.

A door opened to Frankie’s left, and she spun to face it, hoping to see the Mad Madam enter the room like a storm front, with her curves strangled into position with a series of hardworking underclothes under her velvet dress and a still-lit cigarette in her pile of hair. Unfortunately, the figure exiting a bedroom was only Raquel, a mousey girl who was a lifer at the ‘Roc. She didn’t offer the information willingly, but she had heard from other girls that Raquel was conceived in The Bedrooms and just never left.

Raquel waved her hand at Frankie, urging her inside. Frankie’s brow furrowed, but she walked over to Raquel. She began to ask what was going on but was “shushed,” so she just followed. Raquel walked silently down the twisting hall of the bedrooms back to her small bunk. Usually, she would share the bunk with two or three other girls, but at the moment, the room was empty. Frankie felt a chill walk up her spine as Raquel locked the door behind her.

“What is going on, Raquel?”

“Something. Something is wrong.”

Frankie let silence fill between them, watching as Raquel gathered herself.

“The Mad Madam is missing.”

Frankie felt herself blanche. “I’m sure she’ll be back soon. She’s probably just out running an errand.”

“She took her things. The important things, anyway. And she’s been acting weird, whispering with the outers along the fence.”

“Okay, so where do you think she is?”

“I don’t know. But I know she’s not here. And I worry that we shouldn’t be either.”

Frankie stifled a derisive laugh. She didn’t have to be told that it would be better not to be in a Divine prison. She blamed Rusty Tangier, her ex-boyfriend. He had gotten into deep debt, drinking and gambling. She had known he was no good, but she knew it because her mama told her, so she couldn’t just leave him. Being eighteen and in love was the worst type of drug she’d seen yet. It seemed like a simple enough plan—she’d distract the jeweler while Rusty robbed the man. Only, the jeweler was smarter and better prepared than two kids hopped up on lust and whiskey. Rusty ended up with a beating so bad he choked to death on his own blood, and Frankie ended up here.

She should have listened to her mama.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

“I think we need to get out of here.” Raquel was almost panicked. With each sentence, she grew more flustered until she was on the brink of tears.

“It’s probably just something to do with Leta’s escape. I imagine she would be a main suspect. Who else could get someone as well-known as Leta Tallum out of the ‘Roc? I’d hide, too, if I were her.”

“Okay,” said Raquel, “yeah. That makes sense, I guess.”

That’s when the floor began to shake beneath them, and Frankie realized that the Mad Madam was long gone.

* * *

Thorne sat on the suicide stone and planned his escape. He hadn’t gotten used to being up here and knowing Leta wouldn’t join him, but he continued to come here anyway. They said she had killed her mother in the worst way. Covered in thousands of tiny cuts, she was. After the body was removed and Leta disappeared, Thorne went to her quarters to see for himself. No one had bothered cleaning the place, and Bonnelle’s old bedroom smelled like blood and gunpowder.

Most wouldn’t recognize the smell. Of course anyone in the ‘Roc would recognize the earthy tang of blood, but gunpowder was a completely different story. It had been common in the time of the Cattoleiri, but the trick to make it had been largely lost—lost and forbidden. Maybe the crown was right. Maybe gunpowder should be forbidden. Maybe she wouldn’t have been killed if Thorne hadn’t brought it to Bonne. He shook his head, then looked down at the ground below. How could he be responsible for what happened? He had checked the room as thoroughly as possible, and while he found the small twist of paper that had held the gunpowder, he found no firearms.

Had she known she was in trouble? Was she trying to protect herself against her attacker? If so, it hadn’t worked. He should have asked more questions. He shouldn’t have just let it go when she asked him to. He should have told Leta. And now Leta was gone, too.

Leta Tallum, his closest and only friend. They used to sit here each morning as the sun rose over the ledge of the world, past the ice ring and into the grey sky. She would walk ‘Ol Petey downstairs and cajole him into eating something, and he would watch the dew burn off the grass and look for chinks in the Divine Sjlunroca’s armor. Only now, the game was lost.

He was alone, and Leta—well, Leta was probably dead. And that was probably best. Leta was too full of life to rot in here. At least she was free. Thorne looked at the ground below, at the twisted tangleroot and prisoners littering the yard. It was beginning to rain—hard enough to drive most people inside. Suddenly, he felt the overwhelming weight of his life. Of his future in the Divine Sjlunroca, which extended into every direction, as far as the eye could see. He’d seen it all in here, and he thought he was done with it. He inched closer to the edge of the stone, just to the breakpoint of falling. One more inch, one big breath, and he’d be tumbling down to the ground.

That’s when the ‘Roc began to shake, and Thorne began to fall.

* * *

The ratman was hungry hungry. Where had all the ratsies gone? It was too long to be this hungry hungry. Sometimes when the weather was bad or there was too much smoke or ash, the ratsies would run away and hide in the basement. But the ratman looked in the basement, and they were gone! He didn’t like being in the basement. He didn’t like being anywhere that people could be. He didn’t like people, the ratman. He like rats. He liked to watch them, to catch them, and to eat them. He could even talk to them, or play with them. The ratman didn’t need anything except for rats. But now they were gone and they didn’t take him. He wanted to be where the rats were, not here, with all the people. He didn’t like how the people looked at him, and watched him. Rats didn’t do that, rats didn’t stare at him and make him feel stupid, or weird, or bad.

There were people in the basement now. People and their talking, always talking. He wanted to be far away from them. The basement used to be a catacomb where bodies were buried, but the ratman didn’t like to think about being surrounded by people all the time, even if they was dead people. He wanted to hide, he wouldn’t hide by the dead people, no no no. He tried to think like a ratsie—they could always hide when they wanted to. He got on the ground, as low as he could and tried to be a little as he could be—not just a rat, but a baby ratsie. He tried to find somewhere small to hide, too small for big people to find him and catch him.

He scurried along the floor, being so so quiet and so so small. There was a big barrel. Like something that might keep the ‘Roc warm, or help the water flush. There was a gap under the barrel, a gap just big enough for a ratman. He took in a big breath, the pushed it all out of his ribs, making himself as flat as possible. He was pretty little for a manman, and getting littler quick without his ratsies. A tear fell from his eye and landed in the thick layer of dust on the ground. He had to turn his head to the side to get under the barrel, but he was able to squeeze past it and reach the other side where he would be hidden. Maybe there would even be ratsies over here. Maybe he’d find them!

The ratman didn’t hear the sounds of people over here, and there were no bright lights, but it wasn’t what he thought he’d find, either. He thought that he would be flat against a wall over on this side, somewhere he could wait and hide for the humans to leave. Maybe he would take a nap. But instead of a flat wall, he found a door. And the door was a little bit open. It was open only enough for a rat to get in. Maybe here is where the ratsies were!

Again, he listened for the signs of people in the room behind the door, but didn’t hear any, so he carefully and quiet as a mouse, opened the door and walked in. The room was real, real weird. A room like he’d never seen in here. It was so clean. Too clean for ratsies. And along the walls of the room were dozens of shelves, and each shelf held jars. Jars that were exactly the same, but looked empty to the ratman. He’d check out the jars, maybe there was food in them. If there were food jars, and he could live by himself down here, that wouldn’t be so bad. He would miss his ratsies, but at least he wouldn’t have to see the people.

The ratman began to walk around the edge of the room, looking to see if he could find anything in any of the jars. Why would someone have so many empty jars? The ratman would never understand humans. He got up close to one of the jars, thinking he could tell what used to be in it. As he got up close, the jar began to shake. He took a step back, thinking he’d bumped it, but the jar only started to shake harder. Then all the jars were shaking, and hard enough to start falling to the ground around him, like tiny firecrackers being thrown on the ground by a hundred little kids. He went to the ground and wrapped his hands over his head. He began to cry and to moan and to wish he’d never been in this stupid prison at all.

* * *

Leta Tallum stood at the edge of the Sourlands, with the Divine Sjlunroca just within sight. It seemed so much smaller from out here. She had wanted to see it, had been drawn to it like a divining stick to water—only, the ‘Roc would give her no drink and no rest. She looked up to the highest arch, the one that held the suicide stone in its cradle. She thought she could see Thorne sitting there. Sweet Asha, she wished she could run over, screaming his name. To tell him to come down and join her. Her vision blurred with tears, and after she wiped them away and looked back, he was gone. Then, impossibly, the ‘Roc was shrinking. No, not shrinking, collapsing.

“No—no!” Her brain told her to move, to reach out and stop it. But, of course, there was nothing to be done. Leta Tallum stood in the great expanse of the Sourlands and watched a dust plume rise up and then bury everyone she had known and loved and wronged and hated for the past six years.