Chapter 1 The Saint of Silence #2
“Your face reveals too much,” Margery whispered, almost to herself. “A lie would look foreign on you. Do not attempt it.”
“I won’t.”
The old woman brought a trembling hand to her forehead.
“He’s in the Northern Quarters…” Her thin chest rattled with emotion as she detailed the exact directions.
She huffed another puff of smoke, a tinge of pink appearing on her wrinkled cheeks, before she continued in a hazy voice. “What isn’t learned in the cradle…”
“…will be learned too late. Thank you.” Leena rose to leave, but the old woman’s voice stopped her.
“Do not lie to him, Leena,” Margery warned again.
Once more, Leena’s gaze focused on the corner of the room.
Once more, Margery turned to look. Nothing.
“Mrs. Khalid next door tells me that you’re mad, girlie,” Margery said, peering closely at her. “You have already lost one promising employment due to your…eccentricities. How much further will you allow yourself to fall?”
Leena had been a lady’s companion, back when her future still had promise.
She had fled that life when her circumstances changed and she realized she could not swallow her new oddities.
If the aristos had noticed her strange behavior, they might lock her in the asylum.
Now, rather than an esteemed lady’s companion, she was the gossip of old crones, the shame of their street, a warning to all immigrant parents about the dangers of overeducating a girl.
Leena’s eyes blazed. “Until there is no distance left to fall.”
—
Leena knew the city like the back of her hand, even in twilight.
After Baba was taken, she’d roamed these streets either looking for a job or searching for Rami.
She’d often found her brother in the shadowy corners frequented by the Black Coats.
She passed three of them now on the steps of a well-known brothel, slinking around a tired-eyed woman with painted lips, each smoking cigarettes imported from Algaraa.
The Black Coats stopped their chattering once they saw her, watching Leena as she attempted to move past them as quickly as possible. Rami had once told her that each Black Coat hid a knife in their sleeves, and she kept her head low to avoid attention.
One recognized her anyway, likely from all the times she’d dragged Rami back home, usually by the collar, while they both hollered at each other.
“Your brother all right?” the Black Coat farthest to the left shouted, a tall, freckled boy with a cap pulled low over his ears. “Not seen him in a while.”
Leena didn’t answer, quickening her stride although it caused a stitch in her side.
The boy continued, his voice now taking a jeering edge. “He’s missed one fight. Mr. Orley won’t be pleased if he misses another.” She felt his gaze burn into her. “Perhaps the boss will take you as payment instead. Lucky man.”
Leena swallowed, breaking out in a near-run, leaving the Black Coats’ mocking laughter behind.
She didn’t stop until she’d reached the small abandoned church that straddled the edge of New Algaraa District.
She heaved in lungfuls of air beneath the shattered remains of a stained-glass window, surrounded by the statues of the five Saints, their stone bodies defaced with paint-splattered words: The Saints don’t see us.
The Black Coats’ threat sat heavily on her. She had begged Rami not to fight for the gang, knowing that whatever coins he earned in the process would never guarantee their safety, but as always her brother never listened.
Although her joints ached, she forced herself to keep walking, now more desperate to trade for his medication than ever.
As she continued to weave her way through the claustrophobic district, with its tilting tiled roofs and cobbled streets, she had to stop twice more to rest, frustrated with her own body’s needs.
She was glad for the darkness of the night, which hid the ugliness that was Newtorn Prison—the ominous building that stood staring at her no matter the direction she went.
She did not have money to hail a hackney, and not for the first time Leena silently loathed that her townhouse was situated where it was.
Nearest to the docks and the Old Market, New Algaraa District was not only a constant cacophony of noises and drunken singing, it was also farthest away from the middle-class wealth of the Northern Quarters where Mr. St. Silas’s shop was located.
It took her hours to reach her destination.
Within the Northern Quarters, the townhouses were far more respectable, surrounded by black-painted gates and thick rose bushes.
Raised three stories high, each house held a vestige of glamour.
Leena knew that although the aristos did not reside here, instead situating themselves within the far more exclusive Maybury District, a lot of the middle-class tradesmen built their homes here to mimic the architecture of the nobility.
To Leena, it felt disorienting to see such old styles replicated in such modern ways.
The district might have been charming in the daytime, but at night the lamplight threw tall shadows on the clean streets, distorting shapes and creating faces where there weren’t any.
More than once, Leena halted suddenly, a cold sweat beading her brow, only to find herself staring at a tree or a postbox.
Her heart was galloping in her chest by the time she reached the Saint’s shop.
It was a surprisingly discreet building—too immaculate for such a sordid business.
On either side, the houses were vacant, a “to let” sign creaking and swaying in the wind.
The shop was bereft of any vulgar advertising, the steps swept clean, the door freshly painted.
A single neat sign had been hung, which read: Mr. St. Silas, an inquisitor.
Leena swallowed, her throat dry.
An inquisitor.
He can taste lies.
She pounded at the door.
No answer.
She tried until her knuckles throbbed. Then she rattled the lock.
The shop was closed.
Of course it would be at this time of night. How could she have been so foolish? She had come too late. Fear had stalled her. Now fear would sign her brother’s death certificate.
No. Her eyes jolted to the empty street. Then she cried out, “You have taken everything from me. Give me something back. Lead me to the Saint of Silence.”
Nothing stirred.
“Please,” Leena whispered. Then she tilted her head as if she’d seen a flutter of movement, although anyone peeking through the window at that moment would have seen only a girl standing by herself.
She began walking again, now to the back of the shop. There was a house attached to the rear, complete with a stableyard and a small stone courtyard enclosed with elegantly trimmed trees. Leena knocked once more at the back door, flinching from the ache in her knuckles.
After another minute of tense waiting, the door did swing open.
A woman stood at the threshold, wearing a spotlessly ironed apron over a plain black dress. The candle in her hand flickered, bathing her harshly angled face in light. Leena stepped back—those eyes. For a moment she swore that the woman’s black irises swallowed the whites entirely.
Leena quelled her panicking thoughts, telling herself that she was not mad. The woman’s eyes were now perfectly normal, merely a trick of the shadows.
“I’ve come to see the Saint,” Leena said, more confident than she felt.
The woman’s voice carried no emotion. “What business do you have with him?”
“A secret to share,” she responded, even louder this time.
“The master is unavailable.” The woman moved to shut the door. “Come back during business hours.”
Leena jammed her shoulder into the narrow opening. “He will not forgive you if you let me leave.”
Leena knew it was an odd statement—especially coming from a slip of a girl like her.
Her shawl was too ragged for the cool autumn, and there was a burn hole in her cambric skirt from where she’d stood close to the fire that morning.
Still, the woman seemed to consider her—Leena’s face openly full of hungry hope—and, after a moment of deliberation, bade her to follow.
Leena tried to quiet her rasping breaths as she trailed the woman down a long hallway, the wooden floors gleaming, all the sconces lit as if a party was expected. St. Silas must have money to burn.
The woman stopped in front of a closed door. “Your name, madam?”
“Leena Al-Sayer.”
The woman slipped inside to announce her. Leena only heard muffled words, followed by a harsh reprimand. Without having to be told, Leena knew that she would be thrown back out onto the street.
Desperation built in her throat. Without stopping to think, she burst through the door, pushed past the woman, and tumbled onto the floor.
A hand jerked her backward and Leena twisted her torso to see the servant woman grasping her shoulders.
They both struggled; Leena was not above throwing her entire weight to knock this foreboding lady down and free herself.
Words streamed from her mouth. “You will regret not receiving me, sir. My secret is…is—unhand me!—one you will never hear again—”
A curt word interrupted her ramblings and the woman’s hands released her.
Leena darted toward the back of the room, behind an armchair, clinging to one of the many shelves that lined the walls, but there was no need. The woman had already left.
She was alone with the Saint of Silence.
Black waves receded from her vision, and it took her a moment to compose herself. Her teeth chattered. Why was it so cold in this room? The fireplace roared, but it did nothing to dispel the chill.
Steeling herself, Leena finally turned to face him—Mr. St. Silas.