“You have books all about illusion-work, though. You said you know everything about it.”
“I’m sure I do, but we’re investigating it, just in case,” he says. “I’m not suggesting you do nothing. I’ve known you for thirteen years—you’re hardly the type of girl to sit still. So perform in your show. Go out and meet more people who aren’t illusions. You need to keep yourself busy. But not with this. This won’t help you move on. I’m worried about you.”
I only half listen and browse through his encyclopedias on jynx-work, most of which are on the floor. They’re massive volumes, each bound in quality leather with golden tabs on the side, marking places where Villiam has taken notes. They chronicle the types of jynx-work that have come and gone over the past few centuries. Many abilities cycle. Some die out. Occasionally one never seen before becomes common.
“Could I read through these books, as well?” I ask.
“I assure you that I’ve read them all multiple times. There won’t be any answers for us in there.”
“But still. I’d like to read them. You’re always telling me to read more. This would give me something to do.” I pluck a volume of jynx-work from the Eastern Kingdoms in the last century. On the cover is a sea dragon curled into a spiral, its scales embellished with a glistening glaze. “And if you’re not using books, how are you investigating illusion-work?”
“I keep detailed records on the jynx-work of everyone here, especially you.” Beneath the shelves sits a trunk large enough to fit a person, which contains the records of everyone living in Gomorrah. We are not an easy people to track. Some have lineages that trace back to the earliest days of Gomorrah, but more often, our members are misfits who joined on a whim. We have Down-Mountainers escaping criminal charges. Up-Mountainers persecuted for their jynx-work. People attracted to a nomadic lifestyle, to performance, to the magic of the Festival. Gomorrah is as large as many of the city-states we visit, so the role of the proprietor is no easy task.
“There may be something I’ve forgotten,” Villiam says. “Maybe you should revisit your original sketches for the illusions. Perhaps there was a fault in your blueprints.”
“Gill’s death isn’t my fault,” I snap, loud enough to startle him and also myself. I won’t let myself think like that. The only person to blame is the killer.
“No. Of course not, Sorina. It’s not your fault.” He stands and gives me another hug, and even though I’m upset about not being part of his investigation, I can’t help but give in to the comfort my father offers.
After he kisses my forehead and pulls away, I slide the volume back onto the shelf. There couldn’t possibly be a fault in the blueprints for my illusions. If it was a building that had burned down, the question would not be whether the structural integrity was compromised but rather the identity of the arsonist. Except...these buildings were supposed to be indestructible.
Maybe it doesn’t have anything to do with my illusion-work at all. Maybe the killer is the one with unusual powers. That must be how they managed to kill one of my illusions.
This idea sits well with me, easing the guilt and instead channeling it into anger. I trace my fingers along the leather bindings of the volumes, scratching them with my fingernails.
I don’t mention my idea to Villiam. He already berated me about not focusing on revenge. I need to focus on “healing.” But what if revenge is the path to healing? To closure? I’m not just going to sit back and go about life normally when a piece of it was ripped away.
And if Villiam isn’t willing to help me, I’ll just find someone else who is.
The performance of the Gomorrah Festival Freak Show our first night in Cartona was less than spectacular. Nicoleta forgot her lines halfway through the show, accidentally snapped her metal performance cane in two and had to apologize to the audience for her stuttering. Tree tore out one of his branches and sprayed red, bloody sap all over the floor, which Unu and Du slipped on during their dancing routine. And my illusion of giant red-horned beetles scared the audience out of their seats and out of the tent, but it was the only thing that popped into my head.
To make it worse, Villiam was there, as he’d promised. And by the end of it, he was the only person remaining, once I accidentally chased the others out. He sighed and shook his head the entire time.
It’s obvious we’re all a wreck.
I enter the dressing room and am immediately greeted by Blister, who gives everyone his usual round of high fives. I smile as much as I can manage. He scampers back to Crown on the other side of the divider, who beams at him and runs his hand through Blister’s tight curls. Despite originally being hesitant almost two years ago when I told everyone I intended to create an illusion of a baby, Crown adores Blister, and Blister certainly loves him.
I change out of my show robes into plain black ones. No fancy shoulder pads or glittery fasteners. And I fish out my purple-striped mask, which is sequinless and the least fun—though it does have a few feathers. I’m not really in the mood to make a statement.
“Why are you dressed more somber than a nun?” Venera asks. She’s applying some of her most festive makeup—red lipstick and fake eyelashes as long as her fingers. She prefers to party away her problems. It seems like she disappears to a different event every night, only to stumble in exhausted and still tipsy at eight in the morning, well after sunrise.
I worry about her.
“Just not feeling particularly fabulous.” Not entirely false. No, I’m not feeling fabulous. “And I don’t think nuns wear feathered masks.”
The real reason for my attire is my planned trip to the Downhill tonight. I need to find someone to help me uncover Gill’s killer. I don’t know who I’m going to find, or how I’ll find them, but I’m going to try. And the Downhill seems like the place to go. I don’t know anyone in the Uphill who would know how to track down a murderer.
It’s been four days since I dined with Villiam. Four days, and all I’ve wanted was to find the killer, but I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed at any point before our performance tonight. I ate only the butterscotch cashews Nicoleta grabbed from a vendor. I’d often wake to find Venera at my side, her makeup smeared from her nightly activities, her long black hair tangled and damp with sweat. We’d barely speak, and if we did, it was about frivolities: romantic interests, the bleak city of Cartona, the knots growing in our hair.
All I want is answers, but somehow that wasn’t enough to get me out of bed. If I let myself sit down again, I probably won’t go out at all. I hate myself for it.
“Here.” Venera tosses me a tube of blood-red lipstick. “To keep your strength up.”
I smile and then apply some in the mirror. It doesn’t look as good on me as it does Venera—does anything?—but I still look pretty, nonetheless. I haven’t bothered with lipstick in a while, and I rub my lips together, feeling its smoothness, and almost smile. Feels familiar. Like my life before Gill died.
