Ink in the Blood Read online

  Seer, a relative stranger letting them roost among her potatoes, looked a lot more like love to Celia than the crisscross of scars they both wore. Or the thoroughly entrenched fear of drowning that Celia suspected caused Anya’s motion sickness.

  When Celia finally plucked up enough courage to step outside—​no temple, no Asura, everything you’ve ever known is gone—​Anya looked up from where she was doubled over, almost as green as the grass under her feet. “Damn it, Cece!”

  The air smelled different—​fresher.

  “Hey, don’t blame me. You can’t move on water, you can’t move over land. At least when I throw up, it’s a reaction to a little drink, not a reaction to existing.”

  The sounds were different—​quieter.

  The horizon was different—​there actually was one.

  Lilac came over and huddled under the wagon’s awning with them. “You both look terrible.” She rubbed her hands to warm them while Sky and Caspian cartwheeled their way over, flinging mud in all directions.

  Acting so normal, as if the entire world hadn’t changed. People warmed their hands over fires flickering in ingeniously designed portable containers; every wagon had a large awning to keep away the rain. Though everything was soggy, it wasn’t underwater. No canals and gondoliers, no bridges, everything green and lush. Celia bent to adjust her boot buckle, inhaling the fresh air, as if to purge Asura from her lungs. We did it. We escaped. Her hands shook hard enough that Anya bent to help her with her buckle.

  The Mob cast curious looks their way, but extra smiles, too. Camaraderie rather than suspicion had grown last night. Celia supposed it was fitting that the Rabble Mob would thrill at the idea of harboring runaway kitchen workers or graffiti artists who’d painted mustaches on revered statues.

  Sky smirked when they popped up in front of Celia, revealing two deep, adorable dimples. Caspian poked his finger into one, and Sky responded by kissing his forehead. Some long-standing game between them, it seemed. Then Sky kicked into a handstand, their hands squishing deep into the mud. Cas caught their boots without even blinking, supporting Sky as they walked on their hands back and forth in a short line, head down, feet pushing toward their namesake.

  Anya leaned over and flicked Sky’s ponytail. “If I lived upside down, I’d shave my head completely.”

  Sky’s pale hair flopped from side to side as they shook their head. “Ah, but flipping is so much more dramatic with a mane.” They scrambled to their feet, and the trio backflipped together to prove it.

  Celia didn’t know what to do with any of them. With herself. What was her role here?

  Laughter surrounded them in that muddy field: the horses nickered; a few of the older Mob members kicked a ball around playfully, faces flushed.

  The plague doctor walked by, clutching his hat against the petering rain. As he passed them, he shook his head in a burdened way. Still, he smiled, the curve of his lips always up even when it might have wanted to go down. A gaggle of Kids ran toward him, screaming something like “Oh-be! Oh-beee!” and became a pestering herd, their whines shrill enough to break glass. Would Wallis’s voice sound like that, uninhibited and free? The Rabble Mob had five young ones in the troupe, all named Kid until they chose a name for themselves. Celia wondered if that ever got confusing.

  She wondered about a lot of things. Annoyingly, her eyes kept prickling.

  Anya took a deep breath and pressed her hands to her stomach, as if verifying that there was nothing left to lose. “Why is the plague doctor still in costume?”

  Lilac rolled her eyes. “He’s always in costume. ‘Selling the illusion,’ he calls it. He drives the stage wagon at the front so the people who pass us on the road have the plague doctor to wave at and remember.”

  Cas shook his head, watching the plague doctor diligently ignore the Kids from between Sky’s boots. “He died a year ago.”

  Celia nodded, like, Hmm, yes, clearly that makes sense, and cocked her eyebrow at Anya.

  “He didn’t use to be . . . so—” Cas finished lamely. “Death changed him.”

  Celia nodded again. Yes, it would do that. “So his mask hides decay?”

  The trio laughed at her. Naturally.

  “He died, he’s not dead,” Lilac explained. “He fell, bashed his head, his heart stopped; then something impossible like half an hour later, his heart started again.” She paused, watching him with something like pity. “For half an hour he wasn’t here. So wherever he was, whatever he saw . . .” Hard to tell whether she shrugged or shivered. “He doesn’t talk about it.”

  “You know,” upside-down Sky said, looking over at the spot where the plague doctor and the Kids had turned a corner and disappeared. “I don’t even remember what he looks like under that mask anymore.”

  “Huh,” Lilac mused. “Me neither.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s pretty?” Cas sounded decidedly unsure.

  Distracted by something, Anya cocked her head and Celia followed her gaze. As crooked as a hunchback, a figure swayed as if caught in a strong breeze, her long gray robe fluttering. Celia squinted into the shadowed hood, but a heavy mat of long hair as gray as the robe obscured any facial features. Gray hair, but with sharp streaks of white veined through it, and a tenor that looked much like the one that usually surrounded Kitty Kay.

  Celia’s mouth popped open.

  “That’s Kitty Kay?” Anya said, incredulous.

  Lilac’s explanation for the costume was no explanation. “Kitty Kay’s claws only come out after dark.”

  Celia gestured up the road. “I need a walk.” She felt a burning in her guts, her temples throbbed her heartbeat, her hands wouldn’t stop shaking. A few minutes in the middle of a wonderful new life, and she was panicking as if High Mistico Benedict had just walked around the corner.

  “Come to our wagon after,” Lilac said. “We’ll find space for you.” The stilt walkers’ wagon was the one that looked like the shisha lounge. The biggest, housing the members of the troupe past childhood but not yet into adulthood. Lilac nudged Anya’s shoulder. “You can vomit into one of my pots instead.”

  Trying to calm herself, Celia tucked her umbrella under her arm and left them, walking down the well-worn road, peering over short fences into yards that doubled as tiny farms. Outside the city, people had land enough for gardens, and the lushness of everything took her aback. Her fingers twitched at her sides, wanting every juicy-looking pepper, tomato, and bean she passed. What Teresia could do with fresh ingredients like those!

  It took her a while, but eventually her breathing slowed, her temples stopped thumping.

  She made her way toward a notice board down the road. Despite the efficiency of the mistico, Celia hadn’t really expected to see her face and Anya’s on parchment yet, but two familiar faces watched her approach. She leaped into a run and tore the papers down, moving down the short bank at the side of the road for some measure of concealment as she ripped them into confetti.

  “Bad luck, about Seer’s cards.”

  She jumped and turned in the same motion, almost gutting the plague doctor with the pointy tip of her umbrella as he stood on the higher ground. Damn, she thought, righting herself. I’ll never get used to that. “Or good luck, depending on how you tilt your head.”

  “Yes.” He nodded. “It’s often about how you tilt, isn’t it?” He tilted his head, capturing a sideways view of her. Then his gaze moved down, slowly, obviously, to the ripped paper she’d left behind in the damp grass.

  He’d managed to lose his herd of Kids, so it was just the two of them and silence. “Er, thanks for helping us at the checkpoint last night,” she finally said.

  He nodded. “They said you stole something of value.”

  We did.

  Ourselves.

  “We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  He took a moment, as if weighing whether to believe her. “We’ve run into trouble before,” he said. “You’re not the first to use Seer’s cellar.” Then he held out his
gloved hands, clenched into fists. “I have two things I know you want. Which one first, Celia Sand?” He drew her name out into four distinct notes, turning it into a song.

  She gave his gloved right hand a quick tap, and he opened it to reveal a muddy piece of gingerroot.

  “Ah! Perfect! We all need Anya to have this, so thank you.”

  She tapped his other hand, and in his palm rested a sliver of mirror. “This fell out of your mask as we packed,” he said.

  Stuck in a paralysis that didn’t tell her whether to plead ignorance or brush it off as nothing, Celia hesitated a moment too long.

  His head cocked the other way, assessing.

  She held out her hand, and he dropped the tiny mirror into it. “Thank you.” She put the shard in her pocket, casual-like, tucking away a prop. Not at all as if he’d handled a giant clue that could give away their true identity. “Everyone here must know everyone else’s routine, right?” she said. “Anya and I are all smoke and mirrors, quite literally.” Her light titter sounded much more like a donkey bray. Her mind raced, mapping out exactly where they must be if their hard-fought stint with the troupe was already over. The mistico wouldn’t out them as inklings, but a mirror might? Perfect.

  He nodded slowly, still smiling infuriatingly. “I’ll let you try again.” He leaned closer.

  So she did. Stuttering through the smoke and mirrors explanation of their act. “With subtle body movements, Anya tells me what to do, but everything’s reversed in my mirrors . . .” Holy angeli, does that even make sense? “The crowd can’t see any connection, but she can spell things out or give me orders with this code we developed. There’s a healthy dose of common sense and sleight of hand. We use distraction, so people are looking at me when they should be looking at her—” She cut off her babbling when it skirted too close to the truth.

  He shook his head, the dark hair that had escaped his hair tie brushing his shoulders. “You’re still lying to me.” He sounded honestly put out.

  “If you believe so, then why the hell are you still smiling like that?”

  Because of her sharp tone, he stepped back, and his smile faltered—​something, she already knew, that didn’t happen often.

  “Sorry,” she said. I’ll apologize for my tone, but not the lies. Lies keep everyone, including you, breathing. “Thanks for the mirror and the ginger. You’re right, I want both.” She tried to chuckle without sounding like a braying mule. “The mask makes me nervous.”

  “No one else has a problem with it.”

  There was a big gap between “tolerating” and “not having a problem with,” but she decided to let that go. “If you think we’re hiding so much, why are we still here?”

  He took a deep breath, his chest expanding so it strained against the black fabric of his trench coat. Even the buttons pooled like midnight. He pushed close enough to share breath. “You’re in the Mob now, Celia Sand. It truly isn’t a difficult concept.”

  Unconsciously, she reached to fiddle with Salome’s leather bracelet, instead meeting the fabric one Vincent had given her. She remembered her exact thoughts when Lupita had mentioned the miraculous audition: Rovers are impenetrable. Fiercely tight groups. You’re either in or out, there’s no in-between.

  But with Salome’s leather cord she’d learned that lies protected and truth could slay.

  The plague doctor made it sound simple, but her deception was about more than taking off a mask. Her truth would reveal a hidden world, a dangerous one.

  She nodded. “Got it.”

  Another pause. Then, with a deep exhale, the plague doctor pulled back, adjusting his hat and mask. After dipping into a deep pocket, he pressed a beautiful red tomato into her hands before he left her. Walking backwards, spreading his arms as if waiting for her to run into them, he said one last thing. “I’m baffled why you’re so keen to make me your enemy. I’m a wonderful actor; if that’s the role you cast for me, I’ll perform. But it doesn’t have to be so.”

  She heard, Your move, devil.

  Chapter 11

  After that, the plague doctor visited her in dreams and nightmares, both. Poor choice, Celia . . .

  Anya threw a pillow at her. “If you don’t shut up with those moans, I’m petitioning to have you moved back to Seer’s.”

  “I’m nervous about tonight.” Partly true. Their designated area in Sabazio was smaller than most standard Rover fields, but it would still hold a crowd. After more than a week of constant travel, the caravan had rolled in late the night before. As soon as the gates had clinked closed behind them, the reality that they’d have to perform in front of real live people again hit Celia like a wave.

  “Sure, that’s it, Cece.” Anya flung another pillow. Thanks to Lilac’s ginger teas, Anya’s weak stomach had held steady through multiple six-hour blocks of travel, but stopping for an extended period would still be wholly welcome.

  A faint tapping on the window a moment later, and Celia hauled herself out of bed. She waved at Vincent, trying to push away the remnants of her latest nightmare, then quickly dressed to meet him. Without effort, Vincent and Celia had become friends. He calmed her like a familiar blanket. Better than absinthe even, because his comfort didn’t come with the side effects of nausea and hallucinations. With him, she could start to imagine how the Mob might feel like home.

  Celia tore into the paper bag he handed her, the smell emanating from it some heavenly combination of butter, sugar, and anise. “A Sabazian shirran,” he said as she mashed it into her mouth. “Anise pastries are practically a religion in this region.”

  She swallowed, her eyes watering with bliss. “You’re the best tour guide, Vincent. But I have a hard time believing that the market was open already. Did you steal this from someone’s windowsill?”

  He didn’t smile or laugh (or answer the question). So much like Zuni, where smiles and laughter were as rare as Illinian sun and would shine even brighter if they ever broke through.

  As she devoured the rest of the breakfast roll, they began their slow lap of the field. It wasn’t their first walk together. They’d crossed paths in the dawn light a few times since Asura, both seeking peace and solitude to sort out personal tempests. By some unspoken arrangement, they’d decided they may as well be solitary together.

  “Georgio told me you’re trying a revival of The Severing of Firassus tonight,” Celia said. She couldn’t see how they could make the Palidon fit into the narrative, since Firassus was an ancient Commedia civil war story line that usually involved too much sword work and blood for modern tastes.

  “Yes. But we’ve rewritten it so it’s less about war and more about fashion. There’ll be a lot more costume changes than sword fights.”

  Georgio, who played the insecure and confused Commedia character Fazzi, was the sweetest person alive—​considerate, humble—​and brilliantly creative. If anyone could make this new version of Firassus work, Georgio could.

  Vincent sounded nervous. Celia had never been blessed or cursed with feedback after inking her creations, so she couldn’t relate to his creative anxiety.

  “I’m sure it’ll be great,” she said.

  The shirran fully devoured, Vincent nodded and took Celia’s arm.

  Their conversation lulled, as it tended to do, and Celia’s thoughts wandered from Vincent’s new show to hers and Anya’s. On the road it had been easy enough to forget that they had to keep earning their place here by doing a job. A job that happened to hinge on no one discovering how they did it.

  Anya had analyzed their debut over and over, tweaking and brainstorming and smoothing out the rough edges. Though Kitty Kay had loved the glass-smashing disaster of their first show in terms of novelty, she’d been clear that it needed to be a one-time thing. The Mob might burst with illusion, lust, and revelry, but they still had to work within the dreary realities of budgets.

  Up the stairs of the main stage, pulling the curtain back, Vincent presented her with another Sabazian wonder: a new bell jar. The best s
he could figure was that somewhere in Sabazio lived a baker forty stories tall who put his people-size cakes under display domes.

  As they worked together to polish it to a gleam, the rest of the Mob slowly stirred to life around them. Most had warmly received them—​something Celia still had trouble processing—​but there were still some side-eyes, particularly from Marco and Tanith, the two fire-masters. To block out their whispers, she told Vincent her theory about the Sabazian baker.

  Instead of divulging where the bell jar had truly come from, he gifted her with a small smirk. “I’d love to meet that baker. If you ever see them, be sure to let me know right away.”

  She played along. “I thought Bickland was full of giants. Surely you’ve met your fair share by now.”

  Vincent’s smirk turned into a crooked smile, his light eyes finding hers. “Oh, I have. But a giant baker? I’m imagining those cakes.”

  Such a small smile, barely there, tickling the corners of his mouth, but spectacular. “Oh my,” she heard herself whisper. She dropped her polishing rag and hauled Vincent away by the hand, sitting him in the middle of the grassy field after fetching some supplies.

  With a regular old quill, regular ink, and regular paper, Celia sketched him. The familiar movements took her to another place. She bent over her paper, surprised by how much she’d missed her art, looking up only to get the proper slant of Vincent’s eyebrows or to remind herself of the angle of his lips when he’d grinned. They’d settled back into their original nonsmiling state almost immediately, but she was determined to capture them before the memory faded completely.

  As soon as she completed the first portrait, she started a second.

  Vincent was a prime sitter. He talked more about his new show, didn’t complain when Celia didn’t respond. Eventually Anya and Lilac joined them. Nearby, Cas and Sky lounged on a blanket, talking in hushed whispers and enjoying the temporary pause in the rain.