“What are ya talkin’ about?” I flail, two of the lawguards having to hold me back at this point. “That’s him!” I point at a random man in the line, a barrel clutched to his chest. “What in Kavar’s name are you doin’ out here workin’? What about the kids? You’re just gonna leave them to rot in there?”

The man’s face goes slack and white, his mouth gaping like a fish. “Wha— What are you—?”

I cling to the lawguard, the pain of the food twisting my insides. Kavar’s tit. I don’t have much time.

“Is this your wife?” one of the lawguards asks. The man starts to shake his head, and I lunge for his shirt.

“How could ya, ya oily sack of horse dung!” I scream. “How could ya leave them alone in there—?”

“I have no idea what she’s talking about!” the man protests. “I’ve never seen her in my—”

The pain is piercing now, drilling through my skull. I make a lurch and a gurgling noise not entirely within my control, and the man instantly tries to pull away. I keep my grip hard, and he flounders, the two of us sprawling backward into the line of working men. Barrels go flying, swears and limbs whizzing past my ear. The scrambling commotion bleeds chaos—enough chaos that I hope Lucien can steal what he needs to. There’s a moment where the lawguards try to drag me off toward the back of the carriage, but it’s that same moment my eyes tear up, hot with blood. I can’t let them see that, but I have to keep the distraction up.

I do the only thing I excel at—make believe. I make a lurching gulp and then the wettest, most convincing retching noises anyone’s ever heard. I’ll be the first to admit—not my most elegant moment, but perhaps my most successful, because the lawguards recoil in disgust even though nothing’s there, bouncing off one another as they try to avoid what they think is potential vomit. The man I accused of being my husband—Kavar bless his heart—is a sensitive thing, and starts vomiting for real, right onto the nearest lawguard. His friends try to console him, the lawguards try to get to their own feet again without touching him unduly, and I take the moment and slip back out of the alley as fast as my bleeding eyes allow.

Five streets, four squares—I run until I’m out of breath, until they’d have to sprint to find me, and duck behind a hefty cluster of dye vats. The smell is horrible, like aged mulch and rot. No one will come looking for me here.

“I asked for a distraction, not a mistake.”