Instead of worrying about your damn ‘Brothers,’ tell me what I do now. You have an answer for that?”
Lisha looked down at her with a wounded expression that just made Roulette even angrier. She stomped toward the street.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the homeless shelter. It looks like I’ll be there a while, doesn’t it?”
“Dammit, Roulette!”
She set her ears back and hurried out, heading in the opposite direction of the Society and walking as quickly as she could. She heard Lisha and Gregir rush out behind her, heard Lisha start to call her name, heard Gregir say something softly reproving to the vixen. She didn’t look back.
Roulette had made it to the square she’d danced in nearly every day before she slowed down. As the adrenaline and anger subsided, she stumbled, suddenly exhausted. She let herself drop to a street-side bench, then slumped forward, head in her hands.
When she’d moved to Norinton from Bergin Valley she’d hardly been rich, but she had enough to secure the room for a month and pay for meals. She’d exaggerated her new poverty to Lisha, but not by much—she had seventeen vars and change left. Her tiny, wretched, beloved room at Mrs. Vliades’ place had cost ninety per week.
She’d have to start over—but where? How? She couldn’t just find another corner in Achoren and begin dancing again. Even if Lisha’s conspiracy theories were wrong, she’d still committed a crime. A horrific assault, very likely a murder. Yes, it had been self-defense, but could she prove it? Was the Guard looking for her even now?
And what if Lisha wasn’t wrong?
Pull yourself together. You can’t just sit here sniffling.
Wiping her eyes, she steadied her breathing and sat up.
The sun remained high overhead, just visibly on its post-noon descent. Today, like tomorrow, was a day off for most businesses—as independent-minded from Ranea as Achoren was, they’d embraced the five-on, two-off work calendar wholeheartedly. The square was entirely empty; she wondered if anyone would bother to show up for the rally tomorrow. She wondered if she would bother to show up.
She could hear a horse-drawn carriage approaching slowly on another street. The hoof beats reminded her of an old mantelpiece clock back at her parents’ home in Orinthe, a marvel of brass gears, something in it making a solid clunk twice a second. Time was ticking past.
On even a coldly practical level, leaving Gregir and Lisha behind at the boarding house had been foolish—she still should have gotten the wolf to help her carry the damn trunk back to the Aid Society. She wasn’t staying at the boarding house anymore, after all. She hoped Mrs. Vliades wasn’t going to charge her for the broken lock.
Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t paid attention to the footsteps behind her on the sidewalk until they stopped nearby. “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”
She turned to look up, startled, to see a burly human—around his mid-thirties, if she knew how read their ages correctly—standing by the bench. He dressed like a dock worker, rough denim pants and jacket. “It’s pleasant enough, yes,” she said, smoothing her dress down.
He clucked his tongue at her, looking sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been crying.” He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, holding it out to her. The carriage came into view, turning a corner and heading down the street along the square toward her.
She swallowed and took it, dabbing her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Guess you’ve been having a trying day.”
“That’s a good enough description of it,” she said, handing the handkerchief back.
“You’re real far from home, aren’t you? Most Procya are from down south in Orinthe, right?”
“Yes,” she said, mildly surprised that he used the formal race name, let alone knew anything about them. “I’m probably not staying here in Achoren much longer. Not that it isn’t a beautiful place,
Lisha looked down at her with a wounded expression that just made Roulette even angrier. She stomped toward the street.
“Where do you think you’re going?”
“Back to the homeless shelter. It looks like I’ll be there a while, doesn’t it?”
“Dammit, Roulette!”
She set her ears back and hurried out, heading in the opposite direction of the Society and walking as quickly as she could. She heard Lisha and Gregir rush out behind her, heard Lisha start to call her name, heard Gregir say something softly reproving to the vixen. She didn’t look back.
Roulette had made it to the square she’d danced in nearly every day before she slowed down. As the adrenaline and anger subsided, she stumbled, suddenly exhausted. She let herself drop to a street-side bench, then slumped forward, head in her hands.
When she’d moved to Norinton from Bergin Valley she’d hardly been rich, but she had enough to secure the room for a month and pay for meals. She’d exaggerated her new poverty to Lisha, but not by much—she had seventeen vars and change left. Her tiny, wretched, beloved room at Mrs. Vliades’ place had cost ninety per week.
She’d have to start over—but where? How? She couldn’t just find another corner in Achoren and begin dancing again. Even if Lisha’s conspiracy theories were wrong, she’d still committed a crime. A horrific assault, very likely a murder. Yes, it had been self-defense, but could she prove it? Was the Guard looking for her even now?
And what if Lisha wasn’t wrong?
Pull yourself together. You can’t just sit here sniffling.
Wiping her eyes, she steadied her breathing and sat up.
The sun remained high overhead, just visibly on its post-noon descent. Today, like tomorrow, was a day off for most businesses—as independent-minded from Ranea as Achoren was, they’d embraced the five-on, two-off work calendar wholeheartedly. The square was entirely empty; she wondered if anyone would bother to show up for the rally tomorrow. She wondered if she would bother to show up.
She could hear a horse-drawn carriage approaching slowly on another street. The hoof beats reminded her of an old mantelpiece clock back at her parents’ home in Orinthe, a marvel of brass gears, something in it making a solid clunk twice a second. Time was ticking past.
On even a coldly practical level, leaving Gregir and Lisha behind at the boarding house had been foolish—she still should have gotten the wolf to help her carry the damn trunk back to the Aid Society. She wasn’t staying at the boarding house anymore, after all. She hoped Mrs. Vliades wasn’t going to charge her for the broken lock.
Lost in her thoughts, she hadn’t paid attention to the footsteps behind her on the sidewalk until they stopped nearby. “Nice afternoon, isn’t it?”
She turned to look up, startled, to see a burly human—around his mid-thirties, if she knew how read their ages correctly—standing by the bench. He dressed like a dock worker, rough denim pants and jacket. “It’s pleasant enough, yes,” she said, smoothing her dress down.
He clucked his tongue at her, looking sympathetic. “You look like you’ve been crying.” He reached into a jacket pocket and withdrew a handkerchief, holding it out to her. The carriage came into view, turning a corner and heading down the street along the square toward her.
She swallowed and took it, dabbing her eyes. “Thank you.”
“Guess you’ve been having a trying day.”
“That’s a good enough description of it,” she said, handing the handkerchief back.
“You’re real far from home, aren’t you? Most Procya are from down south in Orinthe, right?”
“Yes,” she said, mildly surprised that he used the formal race name, let alone knew anything about them. “I’m probably not staying here in Achoren much longer. Not that it isn’t a beautiful place,
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