“No.” Regret colors his words. “Not unless he kills her.”
And then what is the point of justice? I don’t need to say it. It hangs in the air.
I hesitate, but if I cannot tell Azmar, whom would I tell? “A few of the trollis have said unkind things to me. Ritha says Grodd has allies.”
Azmar looks away. He’s thinking. I take the opportunity to look at him, the line of his jaw, the way his hair coils and falls into thick ropes, currently unbound. The divots of his neck, shaped just like a human’s.
“Perhaps you should spend more time here,” he suggests.
My needle stills. I look at the small fire, the glimmering coals. For a moment the apartment isn’t a hole in the great rock of Cagmar, but a little cabin tucked away on a plain of dust and sagebrush. A safe place to be . . . with family.
“Her hide’s thicker than that,” Unach chimes in, snapping me from the reverie. “A few foul words never hurt anyone.”
It’s true—but that foul word, witch, has always led to suffering. I hear it in all their voices: my father’s men, Danner, Andru, even Finnie.
“If you walk with her to her shifts”—Azmar raises his voice—“it might remind people who her allies are.”
“I’m no Alpine.” Unach comes out of the kitchen, wiping her emerald hands on a dishcloth that’s a few threads from falling to pieces. In Cagmar, supplies are sparse, so they’re used and worn until nothing remains of them. “But I suppose I could.” She frowns. “You require a startling amount of maintenance, Lark.”
I tie off the patch. “I’ll make up for it.” I glance to the window. “What time is it?”
Azmar pulls a clockwork device from his pocket, and I wonder if Wiln made it. “Five to nine.”
Standing, I fold the trousers and stick them under my arm. “I’ve decided to turn in early tonight.” I glance tentatively at Unach. “My shift’s at eight . . .”
She rolls her eyes. “Remind me in the morning.”
I pull my braid over my shoulder and turn back toward Azmar. I meet his gaze a second too long before I say, “Good night,” with the voice of a cricket.
“Lark.”
I hesitate.
He reaches behind him, pulls a small booklet from a trouser pocket, and hands it to me. The cover is made of the same paper as the rest of it, and it’s warm. I wonder if it’s extra paper for my star charting, but when I open it, hundreds of circles drawn in colored ink already occupy the pages, with connecting lines and dots representing stars.
I gape. The writing isn’t Azmar’s, and age has stiffened the pages. He must have retrieved it from a trollis library, another place humans aren’t permitted to go. The star charts blur, and I blink away a tear.
“Thank you,” I whisper, and clutch the precious gift to my heart, all the way home.
My nerves make time drag, and I soon find myself pacing the narrow strip of floor between the wall and the edge of my cot. I try to time my steps to what I think would be the fast hand of a clock. Judging by the candle, it’s about the twenty-second hour when a soft, barely perceptible knock sounds at the door.
I rush to let Ritha in. She’s bathed recently and has pulled her hair into a tight, wet bun at the base of her skull. The candlelight glimmers off several gray hairs hiding in the auburn. Her bruise is stark against her cheek.
“Away from the door.” She checks it for a lock, but doesn’t find one. She shifts toward the candle, the moving shadows making her look ten years older. She glances at the dark, slatted window. Turns to me. “Are you a Thellele?”
My chest seizes at the sound of my surname. My true name. I can’t recall the last time I heard it, but the syllables hit me like gut punches. I bump into my little table, and the candlelight flickers.
Ritha says, “I’m guessing I’m right.”
I struggle to swallow. “How did you know?”
Letting out a long breath, Ritha sits at the edge of the cot. “Because you look like your mother. Though in truth, you’ve more of your father in you.”
My fingers turn cold, my heart races, but I approach her and kneel at her feet. “Ritha,” my voice scratches the name, “did you know my parents?”
“I didn’t know your father. Not personally. But your mother, yes.”
The stone might as well crumble beneath my feet. My hands twist a fistful of my skirt. “I don’t look anything like my mother—”
“Your real mother, child.”