There’s a sound at the top of the stair, and when I turn, Azelma is there: clothed, hair plaited, looking straight at me. I should be relieved, but her expression is unnerving.
“I’ll finish up here,” she says in a flat voice. “You need to find Femi.”
I should be happy to drop the cleaning, but my fingers tighten around the mop handle, and I frown. Why should I get Femi Vano, the one they call the Messenger? He comes and goes as he pleases, whispering things in my father’s ear. He speaks to Azelma in murmurs and makes her laugh. But it’s not even dawn and the inn stands empty; Father is snoring in his bed. Why must I get Femi now? Can we not clean as we always do, side by side?
Azelma comes down the stairs and takes the mop from me. My sister has a way with words; her voice is soothing, like honey, and the customers like her for that, and because she’s pretty, soft. But now, even hushed, her voice is dagger-sharp.
“Bring him around to the back, and tell no one. Do you hear me?”
I nod, reluctantly heading for the door.
Azelma always asks me if I have a scarf or reminds me I need a coat. She tells me to be careful and not to dawdle. But now she turns away, saying nothing. I don’t know this hard girl. She’s not my sister. She’s something else, a hollow thing wearing my sister’s face.
* * *
I call Femi by whistling the way he taught me, and suddenly he appears, swooping down from nowhere.
“Kitten,” he says with a low bow, but I’ve no time for his gallantries and drag him by the arm to the inn. Azelma looks at us dead-eyed and tells me to scrape the wax from the tables into the pot so we can melt it down for new candles. When she slips out the back door to speak to Femi, I tiptoe to the kitchen and climb onto the tall red stool I sit on to wash the dishes. I can just make out the tops of their heads through the window. They’re standing pressed against the wall.
“He is coming for you,” I hear Femi say.
A long silence follows. When Azelma speaks, her tone is bitter. “Father will bargain. He always does. While they are occupied, you must take her. They will not notice that she is gone.”
“We can run.” Femi’s voice rises in desperation. “We can hide.”
“Who has ever escaped him? How far do you think we’d get before he found us? Even if by some miracle we could escape now, we’d damn her if we brought her, for he will surely find us. And if we leave her behind, then who do you think will taste my father’s rage? Have you thought who he might throw at Kaplan to appease him? Or to punish me?”
Azelma shakes her head, then turns to the window, as if she senses me watching. I duck so she won’t see me.
“Whispers and sweet stories you have given me, Femi Vano,” she says, and I lift my head in time to see her gently touch his cheek. “But words will fade where I am going. If I am lucky, I will not remember anything. Give me your oath in bone and iron that you will find a protector for her.”
Femi raises his hand, and with a single gleaming movement of his knife, his opposite palm is marked by a long, dark line as drops of blood begin to bead like black diamonds.
“My word, my blood,” he says. “I give you my promise in bone and iron.”
She rests her head on his chest, and her voice softens.
“Do you care for me?”
“You know that I do.”
“Then do not cry for me,” she says. “I am already dead.”
“No, not dead. The dead, at least, are free….”
* * *
When Azelma comes back inside, her face is a mask. Femi trails behind her. Like his Maghrebi ancestors, who hailed from northern Africa, he wears his thick hair in coiled braids. No matter the weather, he is always swathed in a heavy brown cloak streaked with rain marks and frayed at the edges, giving him the impression of having large folded wings. His dark skin is like burnished copper, his nose is slightly hooked, and his eyes burn fierce and golden—and right now, they are rimmed in red.
Azelma beckons to me. I take her hand; mine is small and hers is cold as she leads me back up the stairs to our room.
There are some old clothes laid out on the bed: boys’ things, oversized and fifteenth-hand.
Her eyes travel over my thin frame unforgivingly. They pause at my face, studying me, as if looking for something. “Dieu soit loué, at least you’re not pretty.” Her voice catches.
She’s right. Where Azelma is softness and curves, I’m bones and angles. The only thing we have in common is our olive skin, the legacy of the pied-noir woman who birthed us. When I was small and winter winds rattled the panes like vengeful spirits trying to get in, Azelma would put her soft arms around me and tell me stories. “What do you want to hear, little cat?” she would ask.
“Tell me about our mother.”
Father says she was nothing but a rat for leaving us with him.
“The woman who birthed us is not our true mother,” Azelma would say. “Our mother is the City.”
But even I knew it was not the City that had gifted us our olive skin and raven hair.
Now Azelma’s gaze falls to the thick braid that I struggle to plait by myself. She reaches out and I go to her. She unties the braid with deft, gentle fingers and begins to brush.
“Our mother the City is not a merciful mother,” she says as she gathers my hair in one hand. “To be a girl in this city is to be weak. It is to call evil things down upon you. And the City is not kind to weak things. She sends Death the Endless to winnow the frail from the strong. You know this.”
I hear the sound before I realize what is happening: a sharp, shearing scrape. Then I feel a sudden lightness at the back of my neck. My eyes widen, but before I can say a word, a tail of dark hair lands softly at my feet. Azelma takes the shears to the rest of my hair, cropping it close to my scalp.
“Keep it short,” she says, and when she is done: “Take off that dress.”
I wonderingly obey, my hands trembling to undo the buttons she sewed on. She used to force me to stand like a statue, arms outstretched, while she fit one of her old dresses to my frame, her mouth full of bent, rusted pins. I always squeezed my eyes shut, afraid she would draw blood. She would laugh at me through pinched lips. “I’ve not pricked you yet, little kitten.”
I peel off the dress and hand it to her. I stand before her in a much-patched linen shift.
“That too.”
Fear and cold prick my skin.
“Hear my words, for they are all I have left to give. Wrap them around your flesh like armor. You may forget my face and my voice, but never forget the things I am telling you.”