I sat bolt upright in bed, breathing hard. My nightclothes were soaked in sweat. I panted, my heart pounding, and waited for the fear to subside. It must have been an hour before dawn; the streetlamp outside had burned out, and the sky had turned a dull shade of navy. My throat was parched. I got up and walked to the bathroom, where I drank straight from the tap. My cracked reflection shivered in the early morning chill.

Just bad dreams. I washed my face, letting the water drip from my neck. The worst since my mother’s martyrdom, but still. Just bad dreams.

I returned to my bedroom. The sun had appeared above the hills to the east. The light caught on my windowsill, and it was only then that I saw the lines. Dark, straight, running along each side of the frame.

I touched them and my fingers came away coated in black powder. Charcoal.

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

I was at my desk in Food Management when I heard the news. Acolyte Tahen walked in holding a copy of the Resounder. She set it down on the meeting table and smoothed out the pages.

“It … it happened again,” she said.

According to the article, the carriage driver had escaped from the incident unharmed. Masked attackers had jumped into the path of the horses and, when the driver stopped the vehicle, threatened him at knifepoint. While he protested, the assailants dragged Ilva out the back. Drunk, half-asleep, disoriented Ilva. The Herald had put up no defence.

More enquiries. More Council meetings. I carried a grey, leaden feeling in my stomach for days. I remembered Ilva storming out of the dining room and the uneasy laughter that followed after her. Why hadn’t I offered to help? It would have been easy. But instead I watched as she stumbled—drunk and angry and alone—out the door.

“You can’t blame yourself,” said Millie, later. “How could you have known?”

But the difference was that Millie had jumped in to assist Ilva. She had scarcely even hesitated. Unlike me.

And a small, dark voice whispered: Should I feel pleased? It seemed very likely that Ilva had sent my mother to the Martyrium. If that was the case, then wasn’t this a kind of justice? It didn’t feel like justice. It felt like I had wished harm on her, and then someone had immediately butchered her in the street.

Food rationing came into effect two days after the murder. We could not afford to delay any longer. According to our projections, Aytrium had enough resources to keep the city fed for the next four months, assuming that food was distributed equitably. I knew that was optimistic; two months was more likely.

Unless it rained. If it rained, we might be able to salvage some of the harvest.