“I trained with my aunt,” she said softly, “in secret. She came to live with us when I was ten. Just appeared one day with her bags, but my parents were happy to have her. Mom said she was in the army for years—high-ranked after so long, but discharged after the Dorodad Border Wars. She got work as a teacher right away, educated as she was. I happened to be old enough to be in her class.” Anji’s lip twitched. “Her name was Belle, and she seemed to know everything. My parents taught me some about Yem’s history, but Belle filled in the gaps for the whole class; and she never read from Senate-approved books. She slept in our house, on the floor … her pay wasn’t much, but she made enough to get us by while my parents—” Anji caught herself. It wouldn’t have mattered anymore to say what they’d done, but something made her pause. The years of keeping secret her mother’s maxial abilities. The silent oaths she’d kept to hold their late-night conspiracies close. She’d been so used to never bringing them up even when they were alive. She took a breath and went on, “Soon enough my aunt had saved enough to afford an apartment over the classroom. She had a pallet set aside for me. I slept there sometimes … and trained with her, eventually—after hours, of course.”

While my parents plotted their revolt.

The memories returned with such fierce clarity Anji had to pause. She could see the classroom, the rickety desks, the lone molding bookcase. Her heart ached to return, to run into her aunt’s wiry arms. She wiped at a tear and rubbed it against her filthy pants.

“Home was with my parents. A basement apartment—in Mudtown. We lived below a chandler who liked to experiment. Lots of different smells, of course, and sometimes they’d mix in terrible ways. Funny how a combination of sweet scents can make for something so foul.”

The Hawk said nothing, but her eyes were open now, glassy and unfocused. She pushed her mask away and tucked her knees tight against her slender chest.

“As often as the bad smells came though, good ones always won out,” Anji continued. “The owner would let me help when custom was slow, which it nearly always was. His name was Dannet.” Anji pictured the brusque little man with his silver goatee fussing over his invoices, his wax stores and ingredients. “I’d spend hours there, sifting through the drawers. He put out a stool for me to watch him work, and after a while I started helping with customers. My parents never complained, though I imagine they worried I was a nuisance. If I was, Dannet never said so.