The Hanging City (72)

“Is she beating you?”

I laugh, though it’s dry and hard. “Unach? No. She’s prideful and hard skinned, but she wouldn’t lift a hand to me.”

Perg nods. “I’m glad.”

A bit of frustration ebbs out of me. Setting the vest aside, I gather up Perg’s dishes.

“I can do those,” he insists.

But I carry them to the tiny tin tub that serves as his sink. “I need something else to do.”

Perg frowns. “If you insist.”

I pour the last of his water over the dishes—I’ll need to fetch more for him so he can rest before returning to his labor. “Can I stay here for a while, Perg? Until Unach comes home.” I don’t have a shift today.

He regards me skeptically. “Are you lying about the beatings?” He touches his chin. “But I suppose if Grodd is nothing to you, Unach wouldn’t be, either.”

I deflate. “Let’s not talk about that, please.” Let me just be normal for a little while. Despite there being absolutely nothing normal about me.

“Yeah, if you want.”

Relieved, I turn my full attention to scrubbing.



Unach’s schedule has her returning at the eighteenth hour, so I plan to arrive a few minutes after that to start dinner. I prefer her rage to Azmar’s awkward indifference. When I arrive, though, Azmar sits at the tall kitchen table, a workbook in front of him. Unach is nowhere to be seen.

I almost retreat, but instead I take a deep breath and head to the kitchen. Being at the end of their rations limits our dinner options. I might as well pick up all our rations tomorrow.

I prepare the food in silence, skewer a hunk of liver over the low-burning fire, and occasionally glance at Azmar from the corner of my eye. He rests his chin in his hand, staring at the same page, tapping a pencil lightly.

Desperate to get over myself, I ask, “What are you looking at?”

He shifts, lifting his head. “The addition off the master armory. We’ve determined we should add a cliff anchor there, and I’m trying to decide how to do so with our budgeted resources while maintaining the city’s integrity.”

I glance over his thick arm to the book. Numbers and equations consume the left page, while sketches dominate the right, one of them unfinished. It’s all very symmetrical and familiar.

“Have you ever considered making it . . . pretty?” I suggest.

He glances at me, a short line forming between his brows. “Pretty?”

I shrug and continue into the kitchen. “Everything in Cagmar is so utilitarian. Even the council room limits its aesthetic.”

“It’s utilitarian because we must make do with what we’re given.”

“But even basic things can be beautiful.” Our gazes meet, and I look away, busying myself with dishes. “Where is Unach?”

“Charming another Montra at the south dock. She’ll be home late.”

I wonder. Not Troff, is it? Or maybe the south dock purely provides the meeting place. I reach for a plate and nearly drop it, the muscle at the base of my thumb cramping from overuse with the pliers. I move the plate to my elbow and rub the spot until it’s a dull burn.

The workbook shuts too loudly, or maybe we’re just too quiet. I peek over at Azmar, who sits with his hands together under his chin, looking toward the door, but nowhere at all. I cross closer to him and set the plates down.

“Lark.”

My pulse quickens when he says my name.

He waits for a breath. “Will you use it on me? Your fear?”

I blanch. “I would never—”

“That’s not what I mean. I want you to. I want to . . . understand what it feels like.”

My stomach clenches into a sick knot. “You don’t want to know what it feels like.” I know what it feels like, and it took me years of using it almost daily to learn how to compensate for the backlash, to understand the fear coursing through my veins, mirroring what I dealt to others. Even then, I’d only just learned how to fall asleep with dry eyes and keep nightmares away before I fled Lucarpo.

“I do.” Such an easy response.

I stare at him, the breadth of his face, the lines of his jaw interrupted by studs of bone, not unlike what I’ve been punching into that vest. My belly grows hot.

“Why, Azmar?” I’m angry, but my voice leaks out like I’m about to cry, and I hate it. “Why? So you can detest me, too? So you won’t have to feel this way about me anymore?” Maybe that’s an assumption, but Azmar came to my room. He told me those kind, heartrending things of his own volition. He let me get close enough to kiss him.

He also rejected me the moment I did.

His expression darkens. “That’s not why I ask. I simply want to understand.”

I shake my head and cross into the kitchen, though I’ve nothing to do here. I start reorganizing utensils to keep my hands busy.

Azmar follows me as far as the doorway. “I know it’s a trick of the mind. It will not change how I view you.”

“Please, Azmar.” It’s almost a whisper. “It will. And I cannot bear that.”

Several heartbeats pass. “It’s a blessing, not a curse.”

I drop the utensils and whirl toward him. “Then why has it brought me nothing but sorrow? Can all your fancy Engineering education and structural drawings tell me that?”