Chapter Nine Wren #3
A sigh of relief bubbled up my throat. Now to reach the southern side of Andalay. A place I’d never set foot before—easy, right?
I would’ve rolled my eyes at myself if I could.
Pulling my hood low over my head, concealing my dark blond curls, I strode down the avenue, turning left, rather than my usual right to the upscale boutiques and cafés I frequented.
People milled about in groups, socializing and gossiping, their chatter following me long after I passed.
Anxiety wormed its way into my belly, and my chest constricted when an acquaintance from my old circle paused, her flowing skirts swishing to a stop.
I barreled past her, hoping she mistook me for a maid on an errand.
My garments didn’t scream Lady of Ward One.
With my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I swiftly turned right and onto the bustling Serende Avenue.
Beyond the lower-end tailors and pastry shops and jewelers, the beginning of the Void awaited like a black shroud.
I knocked into two people in my haste, my stare lowered to the ground; my peculiar irises might give me away if someone should look too closely.
Find the thief and obtain his aid. And yes, I’d brought my letter opener—I still didn’t trust him.
Its reassuring weight soothed me when the looks I received sent goose bumps rushing down my arms. It might’ve been paranoia, or I had every reason to worry, but something told me I already opened a door that would be impossible to shut.
Locating Damien in the Void had sounded easy in my head. Like he’d magically appear before my eyes the second I crossed the invisible boundary. In reality, it would be akin to searching the beach for one particular shell among hundreds.
Too late now, I thought, pushing ahead. I was here, out of the house after weeks of being treated like a child and locked away in my room.
Weeks of pondering where Dusk had gone, and who, if anyone, had a part in her disappearance.
But mostly, I reflected on the very things I shouldn’t…
like those stolen moments in the interrogation room that pestered me to no end.
A downside to being so sheltered was that it didn’t take much to make my body react. How else could I explain it? I despised Damien and his smirking face. A face that begged to be smacked.
My gut told me that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility in the near future.
The crowds thinned the closer I drew to the Void, the shopfronts boasting bars, laundries, butchers, and run-down secondhand clothing stores with smudged windows.
Clutching at the ties of my cloak, I walked farther, deeper, until the very sun itself seemed to shudder and dim.
The cobblestones beneath my feet vanished, replaced by crumbled black and gray stones, and the smells of fish and something nauseating filled the air.
Shouts rang out, boisterous vendors selling wares from a modest market constructed of rotting wooden stalls.
I lifted my head a little more, taking in the south and its foreignness.
Children wearing ragged clothing rushed by my skirt, giggling.
A rail-thin girl patiently led an elderly woman down the street—her mother or grandmother, perhaps—helping her avoid bumping into one of the many men carrying navy blue satchels with red straps.
I’d seen a few when I visited Father’s offices, and recognized them as messengers.
They were paid next to nothing, which was why the upperclassmen used them.
Above the chaotic market, women leaned out their windows, hanging freshly laundered clothing, some chatting with their neighbors, others simply observing the bedlam.
I ground my teeth, hating how the dwellings were stacked atop one another like too-heavy books, each one seemingly smaller than the last. How could people—no, families—live in such conditions?
Surely, their health would be at risk, with the smell of smoke hanging in the air.
I suspected it came from the Lovetts’ weapons factory by the coast.
Bile rose in my throat. It wasn’t disgust causing the reaction.
It was shame.
Not once had I considered venturing here. Not once had I asked Father about the living conditions I’d heard about through gossip. I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for my ignorance.
I’d wished to please my father to the point that I’d done everything possible to deflect his temper, which bringing up the south would inevitably inflame.
Maybe I should finally realize I’d never gain his approval.
Or I shouldn’t even want it at all.
These people were deemed less than, simply because they didn’t have gifts. Well, except for Damien, which I’d question him about later when I caught him. The northerners despised the south, probably because it made them feel better about themselves. Important.
How very…pathetic.
It would be easier to forget about it all. To pretend I’d never come here and seen the too-thin bodies and the air clogged with gray smoke.
But pretending would just make me complicit.
There were things I could do, namely, speaking with my own flesh and blood. If I could help, then I should at the very least try. Or Callie could use whatever influence she’d earned and we could work together.
“Spare a coin?”
I stopped to peer down at a small child with grime streaking his face. He smiled wide, his teeth on full display. It was a genuine smile, and my heart tugged.
Slipping a hand into my pocket, I retrieved a silver coin and placed it in his waiting palm, wishing I could do more.
His gaze widened. “You sure?” he asked, almost fearfully.
I nodded hastily, expecting him to run off.
Instead, he reached into his pocket and lifted a small trinket.
Taking it from his hands, I beheld a miniature statue of Day, the sun at her back.
The boy broke into a run after I grasped the figurine. He had no coins, yet he gave me a gift. I couldn’t picture anyone in the north doing such a selfless thing. Tucking the treasure into my pocket, I took in more of the forgotten south.
While the buildings needed work, and the people were skin and bones, I noticed interactions here and there—vendors selling below price to an exhausted mother, a man wearing overalls and a Lovett Factory patch across the middle sharing his lunch with a fellow worker. I took in the camaraderie, the unity.
Not that I didn’t notice the darker side, which mainly consisted of obvious pickpockets and menacing men stalking the streets, a couple of them stumbling and clearly drunk.
My ears perked up every time I heard Dusk’s name as I wandered the market, the people of the south just as eager for information as those in the north. They whispered behind their palms, eyes cast to the ground as if they’d get caught by the royal guards, a few of whom I spotted roaming the avenue.
I startled when raucous laughter filtered out from a pub a block ahead, along with a hint of music emanating from some sort of wooden instrument. My attention drifted to the swinging sign above: The Broken Wing Tavern.
If I’d learned anything from the many books I read well into the night, pubs contained a plethora of information. I had a few coins left and I’d use them wisely. The bartender would be the first on my list; Damien looked like the type who enjoyed a decent drink.
Or five.
Picking up my skirt and lifting my chin, I entered the tavern.