Murrow tipped his hat at a man passing us and the man promptly frowned, edging a step away.
Murrow laughed, clearly amused. “He won’t like it if we’re late.”
“Who?” I looked back at the man, confused.
“Henrik.” Murrow said his name with a finality that made me pause.
My uncle Henrik was the patriarch of a generations-old trade in fake gemstones. He’d inherited the business from his father, Felix, my great-aunt’s brother. When my parents were killed in a scheme gone wrong, Sariah struck a deal with Henrik. If he let her raise me in Nimsmire, away from the dangers of the family business, he could have me back on my eighteenth birthday. He’d kept his end of the deal. Now my great-aunt had kept hers.
“How was the journey?” Murrow picked up his pace.
I hauled up my skirts as we plowed into a puddle, dodging a rickety cart of red plums on the walk. “It was fine.”
I’d been on the ship only one night and hadn’t slept, instead staring at the stars out the window of the private cabin Henrik had paid for. I’d been thinking of Sariah. How she’d pulled me close and kissed me on the cheek before she let me go. It was a rare show of affection that had made my stomach twist with dread. Her soft skin had been cold against mine and fleetingly I had thought, This could be the last time I see her. Even so, I’d parted from her without so much as a single tear. In addition to teaching me how to read, write, and name every gemstone, Sariah had also taught me to behave. And there was no one so unbecoming in her eyes as someone who refused to accept their fate.
“You don’t remember me, do you?” Murrow said suddenly, coming to a stop in the middle of the street.
I stared up into his face, my eyes searching his. I didn’t. There were moments when I thought I remembered the time before Nimsmire. I’d wake from a vivid dream, with distantly familiar images dissolving before my eyes. But they always slipped away just as I reached for them, lost to the past once more.
“No,” I answered. “Do you remember me?”
Murrow’s eyes narrowed, as if he was sifting through his memories. “Maybe.”
Without another word, he turned onto the next street. A half-bewildered laugh escaped my lips before I followed. He might pass for well-bred in appearance, but Murrow was a different creature than the ones I’d been brought up with. There was a sly humor about him, and I wasn’t sure if I found it a relief or an irritation.
I followed him beyond the iron archway ahead, where a knot of tangled streets lay between the rows of buildings. The filtered light cast a glow over the rooftops, reflecting on the hazy glass windows. In every direction, the walkways were filled with people, and the smell of seawater and baking bread was thick in the cold air.
It was nothing like the small, quaint city of Nimsmire, with its well-groomed thoroughfare and small harbor. And for the slightest, fractured moment, I had the feeling that I could remember this place. As if I could see myself standing there at four years old, pulled along by Sariah’s hand, toward the docks. But again, the threads of the image were frayed, unraveling each time I tried to hold them in my mind.
Ahead, Bastian unfolded like a book and a small smile lifted on my lips. It was a city of stories. But not all of them had happy endings.
TWO
The house wasn’t a house at all. Not the kind I was used to, anyway.
Murrow stood before the narrow slab of brick wedged between two other buildings down an alley paved with cracked cobblestones. The rain had finally stopped, but it still dripped from the corners of the roof overhead, where three rows of windows looked out over the street. It was the ancestral home of the family, first inhabited by my great-grandfather Sawyer Roth. According to Sariah, there would never come a time when the Roths didn’t live beneath its roof, but compared to the estate in Nimsmire I’d grown up in, this was a hovel.
My hands fisted in my skirts as I studied the face of the dark row house. It was the subtle shift of a curtain in one of the windows that drew my eye. But behind the glass, there was only darkness.
Murrow drew a key from his pocket and it clicked as he turned it in the lock. My trunk had been waiting beside the steps when we turned the corner and I’d instantly frowned, disappointed that it hadn’t been carried off to the market. Its contents were like a chain around my ankle, keeping me from venturing too far from the role I’d been born to play.
This end of the alley was empty, tucked away from the busy main street of Lower Vale, and the mud wasn’t pocked with footprints. It was apparent that there weren’t many who passed by this way, and there wouldn’t be. Those who had business with the Roths weren’t the kind of people who’d knock on this door in the daylight.
It opened with a sharp creak and a small, scowling face peered out of the darkness. A smile broke onto the boy’s lips when he laid eyes on Murrow and he opened the door wider. But my brow furrowed as I looked him over. He couldn’t be any older than ten years, but he was dressed in the same tailored jacket and trousers that Murrow wore, his made of a deep blue tweed instead of gray. Even the boy’s white shirt was spotless and unwrinkled.
“Is this her?” His wide eyes moved over me from head to toe, like I was a tea cake waiting to be eaten.
“Yep,” Murrow answered, mussing the boy’s perfectly combed hair as he pushed inside.
The boy groaned, pushing him off, and I hesitated before I took the steps. With the door hanging open, the house looked like a beast, mouth open and tongue unrolled.
“You coming?” Murrow didn’t wait for a response, disappearing into the shadowed hall.
I glanced up and down the alley again. For what, I didn’t know. The Roths weren’t just residents of Lower Vale, they were its keepers. There probably wasn’t a safer place in this part of the city than under this roof. So why did I feel like I was crossing a dangerous threshold?
The boy closed the door behind me as I stepped inside and I unclasped my cloak, letting it slide off my shoulders.
“I’m Tru.” He watched me with a bright grin, thumbs hooked into his suspenders. Aside from the playful twinkle in his eyes, he looked like a miniature man.
Tru. I found the name in the mental register I kept of the family. He was the eldest son of my uncle Noel. “I’m Bryn. Nice to meet you.”
“Don’t you have work to do?” Murrow arched an eyebrow at him, unbuttoning his jacket so that it fell open more comfortably.
Tru gave a sigh before he turned on his heel and reluctantly went up the stairs. They curved as they rose and he disappeared, leaving only the sound of his footsteps beating behind the walls.
The house was cold, pricking over my flushed skin as my eyes trailed across the entry. Old wood paneling reached up the walls like the cabin in a ship, but the hallway was papered in a rich garnet. It rippled with the damp and curled at some of the edges along the ceiling, where a few oil lamps were lit on brass mounts. They badly needed polishing.
“You’re the same, you know,” Murrow said, suddenly. He held out a hand for my cloak.
I gave it to him, feeling the heat come up into my cheeks. “So, you do remember me?”
“Oh, I remember you.” He gave me another wry grin, hanging the cloak on one of the pegs in the wall. “Remember that temper, too.”