“But he’s alive. Longsight died and now he’s alive. I’ve seen the wound – it’s like a fresh injury and a healed scar all at once. And the people watched him die – they paraded around his body to pay respects. So, if that happened, then why aren’t the ancestors telling you that story? Why aren’t they vindicating it?” I rub my forehead. “There are no teachings which indicate that such a thing is possible. The ancestors speak to a storyteller for the first time in centuries, and they do not tell of this amazing resurrection, but of the sisters. Why?”

She looks troubled. “He was dead, Leora. I attended when they let the townspeople come to see his body. For one hour a day they were allowed into the government building and trooped past, his still form on a high platform. I remember thinking he was like the statue of Saint: cold and lifted up for us to remember. And yet, within days he walked with us, like a ghost. I don’t know how it happened, but I can’t deny it.”

I shake my head stubbornly. “No. The ancestors could have told that story, but instead they spoke of a message left in the preserved skin and my mark appears. That is the story that is real. Mel, I don’t know how it happened, but Longsight tricked us.”

She shakes her head, but I know she thinks the same. We just don’t know how he did it.

“What do we do?” she says helplessly. “I am the storyteller and I have a story… I should tell it to my people. It is my duty.”

I look at her, at the anguish on her face. “I don’t think you should yet,” I say. “I think we wait. The ancestors are trying to tell you something and they’ve already shown that they are willing to repeat themselves until they get your attention. I don’t think they will leave you now.” I squeeze her arm. “Let’s be patient. We watch.”

Chapter Eighteen

Be patient.

Such an easy thing to say, but I had forgotten that as soon as you have to be patient, time slows down.

Mel gives me freedom to wander, as long as I don’t go outdoors. This means I have the run of the museum and, once I’ve remembered the winding route of the underground access, I can access the jail too.

I visit Obel often. I have to sit on the floor in the walkway in order to speak to him. He smiles when he sees me. He is clean, well fed and no beatings have marred his painted ink.

“They still have plans for you, then,” I say one day.

“Looks like it.” He shrugs. “Not that they tell me anything.”

A husky voice comes from behind me.

“Ah, they tell you enough, Obel.” It’s Connor. His dark skin has no shine and his eyes are glassy, but there is playfulness and cunning in his voice.