is terrible. Today was terrible. And tomorrow will be terrible, too.
I muster up my strength to force on a smile. “You’re the best.” I kiss Venera on the cheek, careful not to leave a smudge of red. “Don’t go too wild tonight.”
She grabs at her corset and hoists it up, boosting her cleavage about five inches. “Do I ever?”
I laugh but quickly stop myself. Even if it’s a genuine response, it still feels wrong to laugh.
Blister reappears at my side, no longer in his performance clothes. “Boom,” he says seriously.
“You’re leaving to see the fireworks?” I ask him. Crown takes Blister to see them every night.
He nods. “Boom.”
Crown grabs Blister’s hand. “Do you want some cotton candy?”
“Yeah.”
“Then we better hurry. We don’t want to miss the booms.”
I smile as I watch them leave, hand in hand. At least some things still feel normal.
Several minutes later, with my fresh coat of lipstick and a handful of butterscotch cashews, I head toward the Downhill. It’s safer at night, mostly due to the large crowds. But I rarely venture there, even at times like this. I’m not into partying. And I’m definitely not into prettyworkers. I never have much of a reason to pay this part of Gomorrah a visit, other than to see Jiafu.
The dirt here outside Cartona is golden, same as the bricks used to construct the great wall that encircles the city and, even from here, towers in the distance. Because of the dense forests around Cartona, Gomorrah was forced to set up among trees, so the Festival feels twice as dark as usual. The leaves above are half-hidden among the smoke.
The torches in the Downhill do not burn red like regular fire. There’s some kind of charm-work on them so they burn green, making everyone look a little sickly. I pass a massive tent of prettymen on my right—two stories high, created by a mess of platforms, beams and rapid reconstruction at each new destination—and a hookah and pipe vendor on my left. The air here smells sweet, almost inviting, from all the opium.
Who is going to help me? I don’t have much to pay, and I doubt anyone here is willing to help me out of the goodness of their hearts. So I’ll have to find something to offer. Maybe my status as Gomorrah’s princess will hold some sway.
Doubtful, but maybe.
I wander around for half an hour. Past gambling dens, vendors smuggling rare animals, bars, feasts, pawnshops and fighting cages. I have no idea what I’m looking for. The Downhill is even more of a maze than the rest of Gomorrah. As I walk, my sandals crunch on broken bones from whatever meat the food stands are selling roasted on sticks, as well as syrup from coated apples and their leftover cores. The patrons in this section do not wear the usual apricot- and peach-colored dresses, arms linked with their lovers with matching bow ties. They are not here to laugh and have their palms read and buy candied pineapple. Whether the patrons in the Downhill are wealthy or not, they have a hungry look in their eyes, like animals deciding whether to attack or flee. Each one walks with a sharpness to their step, looks over their shoulders with a glimmer of fear and excitement. They’re interested in the darkest of desires Gomorrah has to offer, and they’ve come to the right place.
What was I thinking? No one is going to help me here.
It’s not as if I can do this on my own. I barely rolled myself out of bed to come here. I need someone to be objective when I—clearly—cannot. And I’m not smart, not like Gill was smart or Nicoleta is smart. Altogether proven by thinking I’d ever find someone to help me in the Downhill, or anywhere.
I stop at a strange tent on a side path, striped with vibrant Gomorrah red and purple. The fabric of the tent looks new, not yet faded from years of rain and travels. A wooden sign sticks out of the dirt by the entrance:
Gossip-worker.
Tell me your secrets and your troubles.
I’ve certainly got troubles. Lots of them. But I’ve never heard of a gossip-worker. I don’t think there is such a thing. I look around to see if anyone else is venturing inside. To the right stands a small, empty outdoor stage, and to the left, a vendor selling apples soaked in bourbon or peaches soaked in sake. Somewhere ahead, in a massive tent of reds, purples and pinks, music plays—the kind meant for dancing, certainly not for telling someone your secrets and troubles.
But I’m curious, I have nothing better to go on and I also think I’m lost, so I duck inside the gossip-worker’s tent.
The inside is stark, empty of nearly all decoration. A table with porcelain teacups takes up most of the room, along with a bookshelf to its right. The floor is made of bamboo shoots woven together, similar to the one in our tent, which we roll up for travel and unroll at each new city.
There is a flap in the back corner that I assume leads to another tent, probably a sleeping area.
This doesn’t feel like a place for visitors. It feels like someone’s home. Someone with very few belongings but, still, a home.
At the table with the empty teacups sits Luca, the boy who almost got himself killed by Frician officials in Villiam’s tent. He looks up, and I know he recognizes me. Beside him is a prettywoman, with deep brown skin and black hair braided down to her knees. All she wears on top is a shawl tied into some sort of covering. They appear to be—other than the fact that she is half-clothed—simply having tea.
“You’re Sorina Gomorrah,” he says.
“You’re the gossip-worker?”
“Among other things.”
He stands up, adjusts his clothes and walks over. He wears the same hideous velvet vest with clockwork stitching and the same belt full of vials. He also has that black, silver-tipped walking stick leaning against the table, as if his rich-boy getup needed a finishing touch.
He holds out his hand for me to shake.
“I don’t remember giving you my name when we first met,” I say.
He smiles. He has dimples. I realize, in that moment, that I really like dimples. I also realize that I’ve been holding his hand for too long, and I’m acting like a complete fool.
I wrench my hand away. This is business. Not the time for flings. Besides, he has a beautiful prettywoman sitting right beside him, so beautiful that I try not to gape at her slender neck, gorgeously full lips and the curves of her chest. Between her perfect complexion and my lack of eyes, it’s not difficult to determine who would be Luca’s choice. And with Luca’s dimples, it’s easy to see who hers would be, as well.
Their loss, I try to tell myself.
Luca has very nice brown eyes. Bedroom brown eyes, an embarrassing voice in my head giggles. A voice that sounds an awful lot like Venera. I tell that voice to shut it.
“You’re that boy whose life I saved, right?” I ask. Playing it smooth. Pretending I barely remember him—not that I did, until this moment. I’ve actively tried to forget most of the details of that night.
“I hardly think I’d say
