Still, Mother doesn't stir. But she drinks, lost in remedy-slumber.

  Carefully, I set the glass down on the table, then lift the duvet over her body. I look down on her, on the depths of her sleep, how tightly the sickness clings to her frail frame. It’s not only the remedy that plunges her into such heavy sleep anymore. It’s the sickness, too.

  I suffer the same bouts as Mother, but not nearly as severe. I have days where I cannot claw my way out of bed, days that I endure torn between rest and wakefulness. But this—this is what I have to look forward to. A life lived in bed, forgotten by the servants, uncared for.

  It’s why I crave a husband. It’s not so much to love that captures my hope, but to be loved. Because to be loved is to be cared for, and it’s all I can afford to wish for in my short life.

  I don't want to end up like my future there, forever bound to the shadows and stink of this bedchamber.

  Mother stays resting. I didn’t wake her.

  Her deep slumber makes it all the easier to rush over to her dust-covered dressing table and pick through the small unpolished pots and drawers. I come up with a good stash. An emerald amulet, a blue-crystal ring, and a handful of warped pearls.

  I take only a black pearl and tuck it into my pocket to join the coins and Mikhael’s note. No need to take more than that—and I don’t want Mother to notice that I’ve stolen from her. The thought of hurting her breaks my heart. Not that she even makes it off the bed these days. And whenever I come up to visit her, she has been asleep each time, lost deep in those dream worlds.

  I doubt she would notice much, even if she was awake. She’s too far gone now.

  I leave for the lobby where I corner Jasmine, one of the servants. I chide her for the smell of Mother’s bedchamber and she promises to have someone clean it.

  I head out to the street. It’s the Sun Season and, as midday starts to inch closer, the humid heat outside instantly has me feeling light-headed. I pause at the foot of the stairs to down the rest of my remedy. It burns my throat, and ignites a shudder up my spine.

  My health can’t afford the long walk to the Lost Square, not in this heat, and so I flag down a carriage to take me there. It only costs a bronze coin that I fish out of my deep pocket, from my own meagre stash of money. What I have is not enough to make the difference that I need to buy both remedies.

  Through the dusty carriage window, I watch the fading colour of the buildings in the Textile District start to drift away before we pass through the corner of Scholar Square, where the schools and the scrollers live. Olivia completed a higher study on the Divine Ones when we finished school—Father wouldn’t pay the fee to send me, too. Said that he could only afford one of us to be better educated, and of course that ‘one’ was Olivia.

  I’m glad that we pass through the outskirts of Scholar Square in moments, since the roads seem to be quiet. Once midday comes, carriages and people will clog the roads.

  Into the edge of the Lost Square, the work of Princess Monster is unavoidable. When Princess Monster—a third God who is said to come from the Commos Isles (though no one knows why or how she came to be)—took her place at the Palace of the Gods, she for some reason embraced the Lost Square. Before her, it was a shadowy den of a place, lost to underground gambling rings and corner-side ladies of the night. It was the hub of darkness, even in bright daylight it seemed to clutch to shadows.

  Not much has changed—it is still the place one goes when they need to sell something stolen, or buy something they shouldn’t. But Princess Monster had the whole Square redecorated. The once-inky facades of the buildings are now painted bright colours, like the parts of the city closer to the shore, and the streets are better paved, and there are new gas lamps that cast white glows to penetrate the dark alleyways.

  Though the Lost Square is brighter—and prettier—now, the repainting did little to dispel the shadows and shadiness of the place. It’s still where I am going to sell Mother’s black pearl without any trace leading back to me. It’s still a place of cheap shops, smaller apartments, and crooked people.

  Anything goes here. And no one will talk.

  But it’s still not the darkest place in the Capital. If one really wants to get into black market things—like assassinations and tortures and poisons—all they have to do is go to the Shadow Quarter. That’s where I get my remedies.

  What I take for my sickness isn’t something any run-of-the-mill healer will dish out. It’s black market stuff. So forbidden that I don’t even know what’s in my remedy.

  The carriage driver stops in the middle of the Lost Square, where a fountain rains glittering drops of silver water—Princess Monster’s colour. It matches well with her lover’s red, Prince Poison. In the middle of the fountain looms a marble statue of Princess Monster, and at her bare feet is the crumpled body of Phantom—a God she is rumoured to have killed. Though, I’m not sure I believe that tale, since the Gods are—by nature—unkillable.

  There are Gods who are said to be dead—I think they just vanished. Maybe they live out in the Wild Woods somewhere, or hide on some forgotten isle far out to sea. I don’t believe They truly die, not the way that we do.

  The carriage door whips open, and I’m hit with a punch of hot air from outside. The driver holds the door for me as I step out.

  He throws a shady look around at the empty streets spearing off from the centre square. Can’t see a soul, but that’s how it always is in the Lost Square.

  “You’ll be all right here?” He turns his furrowed eyes back to me.

  “I’ll be fine, thank you.” I straighten out the skirt of my dress. It’s all crinkled from the carriage ride. “Can you come back in two hours? I’ll need a way back to the Textile District.”

  He sucks his lips in for a beat, uncertain. Most carriage drivers avoid the Lost Square. All of them steer clear of the Shadow Quarter.

  “You’ll be here?” He throws a look to the fountain. “Right here, in two hours?”

  I give a sweet smile to better convince him to return for me. “Yes.”

  The driver shuts the door. “All right. I’ll wait for ten minutes, not a second more, got it? But it’ll cost you two bronze coins.”

  I nod once. “Deal.”

  For a moment, he hesitates. Lingers. Like he doesn't want to leave me—a young woman—all alone in the Lost Square. He might just have a heart attack if he knew I will be walking to the Shadow Quarter alone shortly.

  It’s not like I have a choice. If I want the remedies, I have to go there. Mind, I’m not completely without sense. Tucked into my soft-soled boot, there’s a dagger, and up my sleeve I keep a flip-knife. Not that I know how to use them.

  And, I’ve never had to use them. Still, can never be too careful around here.

  The driver lets up and disappears, leaving me in the Lost Square’s centre alone. The moment he’s gone, I become aware of gazes slinking over to me. I can’t see anyone watching me—I can’t see anyone at all—but I feel their eyes on me all the same.

  I take off down the closest cobblestone street. I follow it downhill, making sure to stick close to the freshly-painted green wall, and let it lead me in a curve around the back of a small cemetery. The gravestones are a dark grey, the shade that looks freshly rained-on, and some are chipped at the corners. Whoever is buried in this cemetery died a longgg time ago. Surprised Princess Monster didn’t turn it into a garden or something.

  The street ends in a gated-off area that reeks of sour lotions and a nose-tickling powdery scent. Smells like someone is brewing up something they shouldn’t be—something that better belongs in the Shadow Quarter.

  I squeeze by the gate and head down the narrow alleyway to the shop door I’m headed for.

  As I push open the door, a chime above me gives me away. I’m barely inside a second before a round-bodied woman bustles into the shopfront from a heavy curtain that leads out back. Her familiar blotchy face lights up when she sees me. Though, she hardly ever looks friendly. It’s greed that lights up her beady eyes.

  “Keela! What have you got for me today?” she practically croons.

  I approach the bench separating us—which is littered with discoloured rings and faded diamonds and dusty crystals—and fish out the black pearl from my skirt pocket.

  I set it on the faded velvet strip on the bench.

  Margot, the pawn-shop keeper, pulls a magnifying glass out from under the bench. As she brings it to her eye, she bends over to inspect the pearl.

  I look around the shop, waiting. On the walls, antique clocks tick out of sync, and behind a glass screen, there’s a collection of fine daggers whose blades gleam and whose hilts wink with gems.

  This is the place to go if you want to sell something without leaving a trace. Or if you want to buy something without it leading back to you.

  “It’s warped,” Margot finally says as she straightens up. We both know the pearl is misshapen, and we both know that she’s only pointing it out so she can cut me on the price. “I’ll give you one golden coin.”

  My mouth puckers as I run through the numbers in my head. Last time I sold her a pearl—a less valuable ivory-coloured one—I managed to haggle her to three golden coins. Black pearls are worth more, but she’s right. The shape knocks off a few pints of value.

  “Three golden coins,” I challenge, starting higher than I expect her to go. I’m all too used to this dance we do whenever I bring her something to pawn off. At first, I was too shy and embarrassed to fight on the price. Not how I was raised. But after the fourth or fifth time, when I was just a young girl, I learnt the dance by watching her haggle with another customer. A valuable lesson.

  Her eyes narrow on me. “One and a half.”

  My eyes slide to the pearl. The dent on its side carves in like a dimple. Still, it gleams darkly at me under the dim light of the shop, and I know it’ll fetch a few pretty coins from a buyer.

  I could get more for the pearl on the West Side. But then, secrets aren’t so well-kept there, and people would see me—people would talk. My father would find out about my little excursion within the day, and he’s not predictable enough for me to feel safe that there would be no punishment.

  This is the price paid for secrecy and silence.

  “Two and a half,” I say, and fold my arms over my chest as if to cement my offer in place.

  Margot sets the magnifying glass down on the bench. She plucks the pearl from the velvet strip and rolls it around her fingers.

  “It’s smaller than the last one you brought me,” she thinks aloud. “And warped—”

  “But it’s black,” I argue stiffly.

  She hums a sound that tells me she’s not too convinced on its worth. “Very few of my customers will want a deformed pearl,” she goes on.

  I point out, “But you can turn it into a ring, or even a pendant. Just face the dented side away and no one will know.”

  That sparks her interest. Her pale, mostly-faded eyebrow hikes as she studies the pearl with renewed interest. “What is its history?”

  Paper-trail, she means. Does it have a paper-trail?

  “Given to my mother by a sailor, decades ago.” At least, I think that’s what happened. The stories she once used to tell me about her suitors have drifted away to poor, twisted memories over time. “She’s kept it in her room since.”

  Margot looks at me. “Is she dead yet?”

  I shake my head. The heavy bun of hair at the back of my head rustles with the gesture. “Not yet.”

  Her mouth turns down at the corners. “Pity. Can’t wait to see what you bring me when she does kick the bucket.”

  Her words don’t cut. Perhaps they should. But I’m used to Margot being a bit of a seagull circling over my stash of goods, just waiting for the right moment to swoop.

  And who knows, maybe I will bring her my mother’s things to pawn when Mother does fall away to the sickness. Better than Olivia keeping them when she doesn’t make the time for Mother at all, and far better than Father selling them on the West Side to keep a few extra notes in his money-pot.

  Maybe a day will come when I can sell all of Mother’s jewels, steal all of her dresses, and run off with a sailor. Mind, I’d have to get a sailor to take an interest in me first. And in my circles, it’s not often I happen upon one.

  Margot sets the pearl down on the velvet and her hardened eyes lock onto mine. She’s made a final decision, no more bartering from here on out. I’ve seen that look enough times to know that.

  “Two golden coins and a pretty ribbon,” she offers.

  Pretending I’m not sold on the deal, I pucker my mouth and lazily drag my gaze to the roll of ribbons stacked on the far side of the bench. There are at least a dozen rolls of them, thick and full. None of the gleaming colours match any dress I own (since all the ones that fit me are Mother’s old dresses from a time when murky and dull colours were all the rage). Still, the shiny purple ribbon roll is singing out to me.

  Margot latches onto my fixation. She pulls the purple ribbon edge and it flitters across the bench. “Tell you what,” she says, and uses large metal scissors to cut off a long stretch of ribbon, “I’ll give you double the length, and you can fasten some of the ribbon through your corset, maybe.”

  I like the idea. But as I glance down at my mud-brown dress and beige corset, I’m not certain how well that will match. Mind, I can always try the purple with one of my black dresses. That wouldn’t be so bad, and it might bring some life to the dull gowns.

  “Deal.” I nod and a small smile dares to slip onto my mouth.

  We shake hands, as we always do, and my frail one is lost in her meaty grip. Then I watch as she divvies out two golden coins and rolls up the ribbon for me.

  As I stuff my catch into my pocket, she starts to polish the pearl with a dirty rag. Head bowed, she looks up at me and says, “Next time, bring a hair clasp if you can. Demand for them is picking up, and I have so few.”

  My mouth flattens into a thin line. Another fashion trend that I won’t be able to keep up with, since I have no hair clasps to my name. Mother has a couple, but they are so discoloured and dirtied with age that I doubt how much they will fetch at this pawn shop.

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  With that, I’m out the door and sweeping through the alleyway back to the street. Now for the Shadow Quarter.

  3.

  I wind and weave through the narrow, colourful streets of the Lost Square until I’m nearing the cusp of the Shadow Quarter.

  This is why my father claims to be so short on money and complains about the taxes. The East Side of the Capital is the poorest side. We have the lowest income areas. The Lost Square and the Shadow Quarter have decent money pumping through them, but nothing is ever declared for taxes, so not much of the coin ends up in my father’s hands. The Textile District, the Merchant Market and the Scholar Square are where the monies are in the East Side.

  But the West Side is booming. They have the Port, the Emporium Quarter, Worship Street, the Gods’ Gardens, the Spa Square and the First District.

  I haven’t yet reached the Shadow Quarter when another wave of vertigo almost knocks me off my feet. I lean against a shopfront and wait for it to pass. I would take more of my remedy, but my little phial is empty, and I forgot to fill it up before I left home.

  Across the street, there’s a lanky vendor tending to a cart of treats. He’s the only person on the street, besides me. Ribbons of sweet fragrance snare me from across the street.

  I find myself drifting over to him, my hand deep in my pocket, fishing around for a bronze coin. When my fingertips brush over the rough texture of the coin (golden and silver coins are much smoother), I pull it out and hand it to him.

  “Sea-salted caramel,” I order and run my gaze around the array of treats. Anything to give me a sugar-buzz, enough to keep me going the rest of the long way to the Shadow Quarter.

  Can’t afford to be too slow, not if the carriage driver who’s to meet me in an hour and a half will leave if I’m late. And no matter how much remedy I buy, I cannot make the trip back to the Textile District on foot, not a chance in the Gods’ graces is that happening.

  The vendor trades the bronze coin for a stick of caramel. I chew on it immediately and stroll away. I sit on a stone pew out the front of a dress shop. The paned glass window reveals three gowns on show, one casual, the other two ball gowns.

  They are pretty. Pretty enough to tempt me into stealing more of Mother’s treasures to pawn, then buy myself one of the dresses. But I know better than to fall into these temptations.

  Besides, if I was going to do that, I would purchase a dress from the Emporium Quarter in the West Side. There, it’s littered with boutiques and tailor shops. Some of the shops are said to even dress the Gods and aniels.

  Mind, if I pawned all of Mother’s jewels, I doubt I would have enough to buy even accessories from one of those shops. Even Olivia gets her dresses from the Textile District or the markets whose seamstresses come to or home to fit and design for her.

  Still, I find myself wandering into the dress shop. I’m inside a second before a keeper runs me out before I can get any of the sticky caramel on the fabrics.

  I chew on the mouth-watering sugar-stick the rest of the way to the Shadow Quarter. And I know I’ve reached it when the first cemetery looms up ahead. I pass through it on the path that splits the cemetery into halves, and suddenly become too aware of the flip-knife up my sleeve.

  The cemetery soon gives way to dark-grey buildings wedged too tightly together. Here, there are no streets exactly. It seems to be a spiralling weave of alleyways and narrow lanes, where all the shops and houses are crooked, slanting into each other, ready to collapse if someone sneezes too hard.

  Once I hit those narrow alleyways, that familiar, gnawing sensation of someone watching me is quick to come. It’s not unlike the Lost Square, only here, it feels menacing. For a place so shrouded in secrecy, everyone sees everything. Hidden stares follow me through the shadowy lanes, and I’m itching to slip that dagger out from my boot, just to feel the cold hilt in my grip.