Thornfruit (The Gardener's Hand Book 1) Page 2

  “Evreyet.”

  Her full name came so often at the end of sentences like stop bringing animals into the house, Evreyet or stop climbing trees in your nice clothes, Evreyet that her parents no longer needed to say anything but her name. Papa and Mama said “Evreyet,” and Ev heard, Don’t sneak out of school with Ajee, Evreyet. Don’t read novels all shift after we send you to bed, Evreyet. Don’t start fights, Evreyet.

  Her parents had said that last one plenty of times and it wasn’t even true. Ev never started fights. She only finished them.

  While Ev’s father was holding her back, the girl from the market scurried up a second ladder.

  Ev’s nails were biting into her palms. The girl shouldn’t have gone up. The street was narrow and crowded, but now she’d made a scene. She couldn’t hide. She was trapped. Any second now, someone was going to catch her. The men from the market were still pulling each other up from the ground, dusting themselves off, but they were shouting at people in the street to stop her.

  Above Ev, a bridge was creaking. The girl had dashed to the middle of it.

  People waited for her on either side. The bridges were sturdy but small, meant for one person to cross at a time. But no one needed to step onto the bridge to catch her. She had nowhere to go.

  The girl clambered to the top of the wooden railing, gripping it with her bare feet, holding her arms wide for balance. Then she raised her arms above her head, placed her palms flat against each other, and dove.

  Her tiny form sailed down, slicing into the air between the two cliffs, and cut smoothly into the water.

  The ocean resumed its calm sway to and fro.

  Ev’s heart rattled against her ribcage. She bit her lip. The girl didn’t come up for air.

  What if it really is poison? Ev thought, and then forced the thought away. That wasn’t true. There weren’t any medusas in Arishdenan inlet. They lived in farthest depths of the sea.

  Behind Ev, the market returned to business. People righted their overturned crates and carts. The men who’d chased her began to make their way back down to the lower city. People grumbled, but life had to go on. There was work to be done.

  “She’ll be alright,” Papa said, and patted Ev’s shoulder. “You, on the other hand, have a mess to clean up.”

  Ev nodded but didn’t look at him. Nothing broke the surface of the water. It was only when her father tapped her on the shoulder that she came back to herself. Ev glanced down at her hand, hanging limp at her side, her palm sticky with the pulp of crushed red fruit.

  Half a shift dripped by, four hours heavy with the odors of the market and the ocean. Ev waited patiently while customers came by and inspected their cart, lifting the melons to see how ripe they were and picking through the thornfruit. She counted their coins afterward.

  When no one was buying anything from her, Ev watched the painted boats bob in the harbor. It had been too long now, and the girl wasn’t going to burst through the glassy surface of the water. Ev was disappointed not to see her again. She nurtured a secret hope that the girl had slipped away unseen. The alternative was too awful to contemplate.

  Ev had seen animals die at the farm. And all her grandparents were gone—Mama’s parents had both died when she was little, and Papa’s parents had died before she was born. She knew about death. But she’d never seen a person die. She shuddered.

  The low chatter of the market crescendoed into chaos and then went silent. A group of guards in grey uniforms forced their way into the crowd, pausing to interrogate people. The crowd split in two suddenly, as if answering an unheard order.

  A woman strode into view. Ev’s first impression was a swishing whirl of fabric. The woman was wearing the same type of loose trousers and long tunic as Ev, but the similarities ended there.

  Ev’s clothes were sewn from plain blue cotton. There was a little scroll of pink-and-green floral embroidery decorating the sleeves and the open V of her collar, because Mama always wanted everything to be beautiful and she was willing to spend hours hunched over her needle and thread to make that happen. The rest of Ev’s tunic was simple. It fell straight from her shoulders, short-sleeved and knee-length so as not to get in her way. Like the rest of her, it was damp with sweat. She’d wiped thornfruit pulp on the thigh of her trousers earlier, right under where her tunic had a split seam at the side to allow her to move freely.

  Ev didn’t usually spend any time thinking about what she was wearing, but just being in the woman’s presence made her feel scruffy.

  Ev had never seen anyone wear so much fabric—she didn’t even know what kind it was. Not cotton. Not even the finest wool. It whispered and glinted in layers of lavender, shot through with strands of silver. The woman’s tunic went all the way down to her ankles, flaring out like a dress, and its bottom edge swung with a heavy band of embroidery. The cuffs of her trousers, barely even visible underneath her tunic, had matching embroidery. Ev thought of her mother’s painstaking work and wondered how many shifts had gone into these clothes. To wear something so luxurious down into the harbor, this woman must be very, very rich.

  She must be a member of the Council of Nine that ruled the city. The Council had a representative from each of the nine richest Houses in the city. Of these, there were four Great Houses and five Lesser, and the wealthy scions of the Great Houses lived in mansions up on the tips of Laal’s fingers.

  Which of the Great Houses would have guards with grey uniforms? Mama would know. Papa, fiercely suspicious of Laalvur’s rulers and upper class, considered it a waste of time to talk of such details. But Ev knew the names of the four Great Houses despite him: Solor, Katav, Garatsin, and Varenx.

  Varenx House was the only one ruled by a pale-skinned woman of Nalitzvan descent. A legendary beauty.

  Was the woman really Iriyat ha-Varensi?

  How could she be anyone else?

  She moved smoothly through the market. Her guards—clearly, the guards belonged to her—held the crowd back. She stopped occasionally to speak to someone, and when her brief conversation ended, she walked forward unimpeded. Even if she’d been dressed in rags, she would still have been commanding—enchanting, even. It was more than her stride, and more than the cleared path in front of her. She seemed to own even the empty air around herself, changing it with her presence.

  The woman was covered from head to toe. Ev’s mother had told her that this was the latest fashion among wealthy women, supposedly for modesty and protection of their delicate skin. Ev recalled her mother gushing about how Iriyat ha-Varensi had started the trend herself, with her devotion to charitable work at the Temple of the Balance. She helped care for the orphans who were left at the door.

  Iriyat ha-Varensi might be religious, but there was nothing modest about the wealth on display in this woman’s outfit. All that cloth, and so much of it embroidered so delicately. The woman had even covered her hair and her face, leaving only a strip for her eyes.

  When Mama talked about fashions, Papa liked to say that rich people covered their faces so no one could recognize them when they were committing crimes. After taking in the sight of this woman, Ev didn’t think that was very likely. She would never forget this.

  The woman had eyes the color of an ash plume on the horizon. A warning in smoke from the distant peak of Adap. A dangerous grey.

  “Excuse me, young man,” she said, and the fall of fabric over her face fluttered as she tilted her head at Ev.

  Ev stiffened. “I’m not a boy.” Ever since she’d cut off all her hair—braiding and washing it was such a waste of time and boys were always grabbing it in fights—people made this mistake. Usually, when she corrected them, they frowned in disapproval. No one seemed to care that the first snip of the scissors had made Ev lighter and happier.

  Iriyat examined Ev again, and then Ev’s father. Ev bit her lip, acutely aware of their difference. Ev had grown up on a farm an hour’s walk from the city, but she took after her Adpri father instead of her Laalvuri mother, so sometimes
people treated her like she didn’t belong.

  Laalvur was a port city that welcomed everyone. Only sometimes it didn’t feel very welcoming. When Iriyat looked at Ev and her father, was she thinking the same things that the Orzatvur village school kids said to Ev? They say Adappyr’s a paradise, and the only people who leave are the ones who get kicked out. The criminals. I bet your father’s a murderer!

  But Iriyat’s gaze softened. She held up a hand in apology to Ev, then touched it to her heart. Unlike the rest of her, her hands were bare. Her pale skin surprised Ev. Not only because that color, faint peach-pink like the inside of an unripe melon, was rare in Laalvur, but also because it made no sense. Whether Iriyat was covering herself for modesty or sun protection, she ought to include her hands. Where were her gloves?

  No other part of her was exposed. She was even wearing leather boots. Her tunic had long, tight sleeves, and the fabric at her neck went right up to her chin. An imposing silver collar ringed her neck. All those layers with all that jewelry on top. Ev was hot and tired in her own clothes, built to be practical in the heat.

  Iriyat ha-Varensi showed no sign of discomfort. It was only Ev who was sweating, burning under the gaze of those eyes. Iriyat was no taller than her, but Ev felt as if the woman towered over her. She’d breathe easier if Papa came over. He was taller than everyone.

  “I hope you can help me. I’m looking for a girl,” she said. “A tiny little one. Black hair. About nine years old. She might be dressed in rags, the poor thing. I had word that she was here earlier this shift, causing trouble.”

  What was her connection to the girl? Did she want to help her? That would make sense. Someone should help her.

  Ev’s father came to stand behind Ev. He put a hand on her shoulder. Ev didn’t look up at his face, but she guessed he was scowling.

  Iriyat wasn’t intimidated. “Oh,” she said. She had a beautiful laugh. Her jewelry jangled. “You must think me very rude. I’m so sorry not to have introduced myself. Iriyat ha-Varensi,” she said, as if it were funny to have to state her own name. Her voice was not unkind.

  No wonder the whole market had stopped for her. Ev tried to keep her eyes from widening. It was like meeting a real-life queen. She could have been in a character in one of Ev’s novels, or one of the goddesses from the old religion. Varenx House had been founded two hundred years ago by Nalitzvan aristocrats who’d fled religious persecution in their home and established themselves as cloth merchants in Laalvur. Iriyat had come to power at the age of eighteen, after suffering the tragic deaths of both her parents in the wave that hit the city when Ev was three.

  None of that impressed Papa. “I know who you are.”

  Mama would be mortified to hear that he spoke to Iriyat ha-Varensi like that, but Papa was from Adappyr, where no one was richer or more powerful or more important than anyone else. He did not like rich people, and he was not afraid.

  Mama always said that was because he had no sense.

  Iriyat inclined her head. To Ev’s amazement, she unpinned one side of her veil and moved it away from her face.

  Revealing her face made her even more imposing. She wore a pleading expression that matched her huge, sad eyes as well as her clothes. Age had hardly touched her smooth, unmarked skin and full lips. “Can you tell me anything of the girl?”

  “There was a girl,” Papa said. “Looked like she hadn’t had enough to eat.”

  Iriyat’s lovely face crumpled, and she touched her hand to her heart again. “Poor thing,” she said. “She’s an orphan, you see. I took her in, but she’s a curious creature, given to wild flights of imagination. Sometimes she likes to run away. I doubt she’s been able to find much to eat in the past few triads. Can you tell me where she went?”

  Papa tilted his head toward the water, and Iriyat’s eyes went wide.

  “She jumped,” Ev volunteered, dissatisfied with her father’s silence. He didn’t seem to like Iriyat, but she looked so sad and worried. “From all the way up there.” Ev pointed to the bridge above them. “I watched for a long time, but I never saw her come up. Do you think she’s okay? Does she know how to swim?”

  “I couldn’t say,” said Iriyat, even paler than usual.

  “What exactly,” Papa said, “does a girl like that do in your household?”

  “Oh,” Iriyat said. “I know she probably looked terribly ragged when you saw her. I’ve tried my best to keep her fed and clothed since she’s been in my care but she’s—” Iriyat paused, searching for a word. “Difficult.”

  “But you want her back,” Obin observed.

  “She’s in my care,” Iriyat said, and there was a hard edge in her voice.

  She didn’t seem to like being questioned. Ev wished her father would be more cooperative. He was treating Iriyat like she’d done something wrong. All Iriyat wanted was to help the girl, which was what Ev wanted, too.

  The slight change in Iriyat’s tone had no effect on Ev’s father. Obin remained stonily silent.

  “I’m sorry to keep you from your affairs. I’ll take my leave,” Iriyat said, and she reached out toward Obin with one slender, bare hand.

  She obviously expected him to clasp her hand in his. He didn’t.

  Ev stared at her father, mortified. She turned back to Iriyat and said, “What if we see her again?”

  Iriyat took a shuddering breath, straightened her shoulders, and smoothed her unwrinkled skirts to calm herself. Then she pulled her veil over her face again, pinning it to the cloth that covered her hair. “Please send word to Varenx House if you do.”

  Ev nodded, too stunned by the possibility of visiting Varenx House to say anything at all. That girl would get the help she needed, and more. The house sat at the tip of Dar, the lowest of the four fingers, but it was still high above the city. Situated at the tip like that, anyone in the house would be able to see for ages. All that ocean. It must be so beautiful.

  The Great Houses sat like glittering gems at the tip of each point, with their thin red stone towers catching the light. Or at least that was what Mama said. Ev had been disappointed that the houses had been so far away early this shift when she and Papa had arrived, and now they were too low down in the harbor to get a good view. But she’d been invited to see one up close! Maybe even to go inside! All she had to do was catch sight of the girl.

  Mama said the Great Houses were all dug deep into the cliffs, with their lower floors hollowed into the rock. The richest of the houses, Solor, had more floors than anybody knew, and the lowest ones were all vaults filled with treasure.

  Iriyat ha-Varensi left in a bloom of silvery lavender skirts. She parted the crowds just as she had before, and Ev’s father watched her go out of sight before swearing, “Smoke and fire.”

  Papa had grown up with the smoking peak of Adap looming over his home, and he always swore like that. Mama scolded him when he did it in front of Ev. Once, he’d even said smoke and fucking fire while Ev was standing right there. But at least he hadn’t said it in front of Iriyat ha-Varensi.

  “You were so rude to her, Papa,” Ev said with quiet horror. She crossed her arms over her chest. They’d met a famous person, an important person, and Papa had been even grouchier with her than he was with everybody else. And she’d been so beautiful, and so sad. “We should’ve helped her more. She was upset.”

  “If she was so sad about that girl, why wasn’t she treating her better?” Papa said. “That girl was desperate to get away from something.”

  “She said the girl was an orphan! The girl ran away!” In fact, Iriyat had said she’d taken the girl in—meaning the girl must have run from Varenx House. But why would she do that?

  “People say all kinds of things,” Papa said. “Doesn’t mean they’re telling the truth.”

  “But how can you know if somebody is lying?”

  Papa shrugged.

  “So you might be wrong,” Ev said. Iriyat had been on the verge of tears. She had a reputation for helping orphans. Why wouldn’t the girl want t
o go back to Varenx House, where she wouldn’t have to hide under carts and eat thornfruit off the ground? “She could be telling the truth.”

  He shrugged again. Ev spent the rest of the shift carefully scanning the harbor, the market, the streets. She did not see the girl again.

  2

  Little Ghost

  THE PRESENT

  THERE WERE TWO secrets in Varenx House, and Alizhan was one of them.

  She didn’t have to stay hidden away in a locked room upstairs. She could hover at the edges of Iriyat’s parties, dressed as a serving girl, perfectly visible. Anyone who wanted to look at her could look at her.

  Most people didn’t want to.

  It was the secret that made them look away, although none of them knew that. People glanced at Alizhan, gathered a vague impression of small-fragile-feminine-delicate and long black hair, and then just as they were on the verge of musing pretty little girl and setting her aside as harmless, something about her jarred their thoughts in a different direction: what’s wrong with her?

  Some people averted their eyes, and some people covered their reaction, but everyone thought it. Alizhan was accustomed to it.

  People were unsettled by the way she carried herself. She fidgeted and trembled in company, or she held herself apart from people, stone-still. She never looked into people’s eyes when she spoke to them—or if she did look into their eyes, it overwhelmed them. She talked far too much or not at all. She answered questions that no one had asked.

  Alizhan knew all of these things because people were always thinking them so loudly and clearly. She also knew that Yiran, the other person in the kitchen right now, was concentrating hard on pitting olives so she could pretend Alizhan wasn’t in the room with her. A slimy curl of resentment was winding through Yiran’s thoughts: Why was Alizhan even in the kitchen, if she wasn’t going to help? Why did Iriyat let that horrid little monster lurk around the house? And why was Iriyat always talking to Alizhan and spending time with her? Iriyat never paid any attention to Yiran, and Yiran was actually useful. Yiran was prettier, too. And nobody got chills when Yiran walked by them.