The Hidden Twin Read online

  My glance falls across the top corner of a page, where the date is printed. I frown. That can’t be right.

  I was asleep for three days?

  Three days?

  That explains why I’m hungry. I toss the Bulletin back onto the wooden bench and hurry to the pot of snaproots hung over the hearth fire, but before I have the lid off, I hear footsteps clacking down the stairs nearby. Damn.

  I run for the pantry, but pause, half in shadows, when I hear voices floating in through the open window. Double damn.

  Are there any other ways out? A skinny door over next to the coal stove could easily be a cupboard, but I try it anyway. Back stairs, praise Ver. I pull the little door shut behind me just as I hear the main door opening and the cook returning with her cabbages. Hopefully she will be too distracted to notice immediately that the robes are missing.

  The stairway is dark except for the yellow outline of a doorway one flight up. I could wait here for my chance to escape out the pantry window, but that may be a bit more complicated now that the vegetable woman is back and this Mr. Gore will be coming soon. I might be better off climbing the stairs to see where they lead.

  At least I know they won’t lead to the Onyx Staff. This is a utilitarian staircase. It’s possible he doesn’t even know about it. Servants are meant to appear and disappear like magic, without clogging up the real staircases. In fact, as I stand here listening to the clanking of pots, I feel a sort of kindred spirit with the servants of the Temple of Rasus. Up it is, then.

  On the next floor, I creak the door open a few inches and put my eye to the crack. This is clearly the upper kitchen, buzzing with activity as the cooks and servants prepare for the evening meal. I close the door carefully and tiptoe up another flight, scratching at the bugs on my head.

  This door opens onto heavy golden curtains edged in blue. I sense a cavernous space behind them—apparently the curtains’ purpose is to hide this door—and when I venture a peek beyond, I find the vast vestibule of the temple, with its gleaming marble floor and flared sandstone pillars. Priests, aristocrats, and common citizens come and go through the large arched doors. I might be able to slip out this way once I put on the robes.

  But my spirits sink when I catch sight of Bonner, the little menace, across the way, in thick with a knot of priests. I can’t risk him seeing me. I’ll have to wait.

  It isn’t wise to linger, so I ascend again, hoping to find temporary refuge above. On the next landing, I open the little door onto a low, white hallway, probably the servants’ quarters. At this time of day, this area of the temple should be all but deserted, and I encounter not a soul as I take a few timid steps out from the shelter of the undersized stairwell. I press my good ear to the first door I come to, a simple tin design, and hear loud snores within.

  A few more careful steps and I come to another door. I hold my breath and put my ear to it, just as crisp footfalls echo through the white hallway. Someone heading this way. There is nothing to do but dash inside, pushing the door closed behind me.

  I’m met by a beautiful sight.

  There is a kind of beauty that arrests all who encounter it—the Jade Bridge at sunset, the play of light in the Empress’s garden. But there is another type of beauty that is the mundane made exquisite by the desires of the beholder. That is the beauty of the bathroom I now gaze upon.

  I slide the bolt on the door, confident this is the one room that will not arouse suspicions if it is locked.

  The white enamel bathtub—a bathtub! With its own tap!—gleams in the clean light from a tall, frosted window, and a small table nearby is set with an array of brushes and a rainbow of jars of soap powder. Along one wall, a little fireplace sports a perky midday blaze and towels puff out from a shelf next to the sink. I cross the room, entranced, to touch one of them. But I catch myself in a mirror.

  Holy Mother of Mol. It is clear I have been sleeping in garbage for three days. I’m completely unrecognizable. My skin, ragged clothing, and hair are covered with slime and debris. I twist around, finding my back as unpresentable as my front; the reason the pumpmen didn’t notice my scars is that they are concealed by filth. I can see the tiny bugs and worms now, crawling and sliding, enjoying the layer of grime that coats my entire body. I never thought to disguise myself with muck before, but it seems to have been quite effective.

  And then there’s my poor ear. It is sliced through, a huge gash extending from the outer edge almost to the center. Black blood coats the whole area, sticking to my hair and neck. Surprisingly, the place on my arm where the priest sliced me with the ceremonial dagger is completely healed.

  It is definitely time for a bath.

  But first I turn on the tap at the sink and take a long drink of the fresh, warm water that rushes out. My stomach stretches and my insides prickle all the way to my fingertips.

  Then I run the bath. As I wait for the tub to fill, I peel off the old green jumpsuit, observe a brief moment of silence in recognition of its honorable service, and toss it into the fire. When the tub is full, I lower my frazzled body into the water. No soap right now, this is just to rinse off the major dirt, blood, and stowaways. After a few minutes, I drain the murky water and fill the tub again, this time with a few handfuls of pleasant-smelling lavender powder. Now I linger, brushing the soapy water over my skin, ducking my head under for as long as I can stand the sharp pain that splits my ear as the clean foam works its way through the laceration.

  I could stay longer. I could stay all night, according to my aching body. Forever. But I know I must leave the fragrant water, dry off with a fluffy towel, and put on the detestable blue robes of the Temple of Rasus.

  It takes a few minutes to work out what drapes and ties where. But after a bit of trial and error, an unremarkable sister stares out at me from the mirror. I am new.

  I step out into the white hallway just as three priests in purple turn the corner and head in my direction. I pause, my hand on the door handle. I don’t want to jump back into the bathroom they must have just seen me emerge from, but I don’t know whether I should really be seen taking the servants’ stairs, either. So I inhale and turn to face the priests, keeping my head down as I stride away from the stairway door. I pass them without a word, and they take no notice, carrying on their own low conversation.

  Around the corner, I stop and lean against the wall, letting out an uneasy breath. More hallway, more doors. I listen; the priests are still speaking in the white hallway by the stairs. I wait, hoping they will disperse.

  A door to my left opens abruptly, and a priest in blue emerges. I tilt my head down, examine my belt.

  The priest pulls the door closed behind him and says, “I’m sorry, were you waiting for this room?”

  The voice is familiar. I look up.

  “Jey?” The blue of Zahi Zan’s temple robes matches his eyes, which are wide with astonishment.

  “Mol’s cursed undies,” I say.

  He laughs. “I had no idea you were studying in the Temple.” At least he doesn’t seem to know I’m meant to be dead.

  My mind sizzles. Be Jey, be Jey. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I should really be—um—pruning something. I mean, praying something. Shit. I thought I was a gardener.”

  “I thought you were a gardener, too,” he says easily.

  “Actually,” I say, trying to hide the quaver in my voice, “I thought you were a gardener.” He gives me a puzzled look. “Cutting the lawn?” I venture.

  “Oh!” He chuckles. “Well, they thought I was a little high profile to be sweeping High Ra Square. The high priests gave me permission to do comparable meditative exercises someplace a little more private. It’s a glamorous life, isn’t it?” Zahi tilts his head. “I must say … you look lovely in this color.”

  I freeze. “Lovely?” Why did I say that?

  “Of course.” He gestures. “Even here, in the same uniform as everyone else, you are a flower among weeds.”

  It’s just like a line from a romance novel. It
may actually be a line from a romance novel. But I hear myself stammering, “Thanks. You’re—lovely, too.” His eyes crinkle in a grin.

  What the hell is going on? I’m not lovely. I’m not even human. And Zahi Zan isn’t lovely, either. Handsome, yes, sweet Rasus, he’s handsome. And a bit too aware of it. My temples ache.

  “I shouldn’t say such things to you,” he says, not meaning it in the slightest. “What would your young man think?”

  “My—Bonner?” I had forgotten. Oh, what to say about Bonner? My mouth answers before my brain can get a word in. “He’s—dead.”

  “Dead?”

  “No, not dead.” I frown. “He just … he looks like a turnip and I hate him.”

  Zahi laughs, looking pleased. “I see! Well, were you waiting for the meditation room?” He is very close to me now. I can see the fibers of his robes, the stubble on his cheek. I should step back, but I don’t want to. He smells like flowers. Or is that me? I may have overdone it with the lavender bath powder.

  “Yes,” I say. “I mean, yes, I was waiting for the meditation room. Uh … thank you.”

  He smiles and reaches behind me, twisting the door handle. I don’t move as he leans in even closer to push the door open. “Your meditations await,” he says, and gestures to the little room behind us. “I’ve never found much in there except the memories of bored priests, but you never know.”

  I peep inside. The room is clean and lined with candles, and holds no furniture except a grass mat. “The memories of priests?” I ask.

  Zahi nods. “Just how new at this are you?”

  “I’m not new at all,” I say, sticking out my chin a little bit. “I just don’t meditate very often, that’s all.”

  “I see,” he says. “Well, in that case, I’d be happy to help you get started. I mean, refresh your memory, of course.” And he smiles. Generations of aristocratic breeding come together in that smile, a perfect combination of serenity and confidence. Directed at me.

  What I should say is, Perhaps some other time. What I should do is get rid of him as quickly as possible.

  But maybe he could be an ally. He isn’t one of the Beautiful Ones, so he must be as much an enemy of theirs as any sane citizen. And unlike most of the rest of Caldaras City, he has the ears of the Commandant and the Empress. Maybe we could help each other. Maybe he would even tell me where the bonescorch orchis is being kept.

  It is a lot to hope for. But I take his hand anyway, step back into the little room, and push the door closed behind us. And I say, “Very well, refresh my memory.”

  Zahi sits on the grass mat amid the candles, and I join him. “Everything that happens is remembered. It takes up a space. When we meditate, we call upon the world to remember its past, and in doing so, we strengthen our connection to all times, places, and beings.”

  I think of the glowing shapes in the fog of High Ra Square during morning meditation. “So the visions the priests call forth are—memories?”

  Zahi nods. “In a sense. They’re really more like records. They are what has taken place.” He straightens his spine. “You must get your own identity out of the way. Just feel.”

  He closes his eyes, dark lashes over his skin. His breathing slows. The high thin windows of this white room drape us in clean light as I watch his chest rising and falling peacefully under blue fabric.

  After a few minutes, he cracks open one eye. “You could try this yourself, you know.”

  I give him what I hope is a pleasant smile. “I’d rather watch you.”

  He gives me a cheeky look and goes back to his meditations. “I can sense some old joy in this room,” he says, eyes closed. “Here.”

  The air in front of us seems to take on a gleam all its own, separate from the yellow dots of the candles or the pink beams from the windows. It isn’t strong, but I can definitely see something there, growing and shining. It lasts for a few moments, getting a little brighter as it fills the room. Then it is gone.

  Zahi opens his eyes. “Did you see it?”

  My voice is thin with wonder. “That was a spirit of joy?”

  He turns toward me. “It was the memory of something joyful that happened here.” He shrugs. “I don’t know what it was. Some of the high priests can call forth very specific visions—people moving, their clothes, their faces—as though we are actually watching what occurred. But most of us are lucky to get a floating blob of some long-dead feeling.”

  The warmth of the room blankets my skin. “I like the idea that there was joy here in the past.”

  He leans closer. “There could be joy here now.”

  Mol’s blisters, he’s looking at my lips. Could he be considering kissing me? My mouth is dry. Is it possible? Has a human being ever kissed a redwing before?

  “I—” I start. “Are you going to kiss me?”

  He doesn’t blink. “I was thinking about it. Would that be all right with you?”

  I swallow. “I might burst into flames.”

  “Is that supposed to dissuade me?”

  “Is it allowed?” I glance toward the closed door. “Haven’t you taken a—a vow of—?”

  He rests his mouth against my cheek. “Have you?”

  “Holy Rasus,” I say.

  Zahi whispers into my good ear. “You don’t have to take that vow until they give you the purple robes. You know that, right?”

  I tingle, my mind in disarray. I shouldn’t be here. He thinks I’m Jey. What will I do if he finds the real Jey Fairweather, out there in the world, wearing her elegant clothes? My stomach twists.

  And then growls with the ferocity of a territorial raptor. I feel the color drain from my face. In all the penny pulps I’ve read, the sweeping romantic scene has never once been preceded by the heroine’s stomach growling.

  Zahi bursts into laughter. “Sweet Ver, are you hungry?”

  I bark out an awkward laugh. “I suppose I am.”

  He throws his head backwards and slaps his thighs. “Why didn’t you say so? Come on.” He rises, fiddling with the belt of his robe. “Forget meditation. Let’s get some food.”

  “I—” I get to my feet. “Well—”

  “We’re surely late for the evening meal,” he says. “We’ll just have to go elsewhere. Are you up for venturing out into the wide world?”

  My mind fizzes. If the evening meal is under way, Bonner is no longer lurking in the vestibule. Leaving the temple with Zahi might be my best chance at remaining undetected. My stomach growls again.

  “All right.” And it’s not just my stomach or my nerves; right now, I want to follow Zahi Zan into the outside world. To eat food with him. To—

  Mol’s butt, he’s taking off his robe. And … he’s wearing clothes under there. The rust-colored waistcoat I can still picture against a backdrop of impossible green.

  I blink. “You’ve got your regular clothes on,” I point out helpfully.

  “Yes, you can hang your robe in here.” He shakes the creases out of the blue fabric. “I promise no one will take it.” Now he sees my face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, I just—this place we’re going—could I just wear this? Do they allow priests?”

  Some of the candles have nearly burned down, their guttering casting sparks in the shadows. Zahi gives me that puzzled look I remember from the gardens on Roet Island. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a tavern displaying a ‘No Priests Allowed’ sign,” he says. “But just leave your robe here and wear what you’ve got on under—”

  I shift uncomfortably.

  “Under—” He swallows. I wonder if he can see how red my face is in the low light. “Yes.” He clears his throat. “I, uh, I see. I mean, I don’t see, I—” He opens the door, wiping his hands on his thighs. “It’s fine. Just wear that.”

  * * *

  The Feather & Scuttle must, in some way, be a tavern. The bodies in the shadows—leaning, laughing, raising glass to mouth—are familiar. But it all seems just a little off. A furtiveness to the shiny eyes, a
jagged edge to the music, the flutter of the nearly invisible in the veiled corners of the room.

  We descend. Outside, twilight lingers, but in here, it is already night, black walls glittering in a strange orange light that pulses between fan blades on the ceiling.

  I adjust my folds of blue fabric. I am certainly disguised, but that doesn’t mean I don’t stick out. The scars on my back itch. I mustn’t stay long.

  I follow Zahi to the bar, where he leans on his elbows, twisting his head toward me. “Snowflake?”

  I raise one eyebrow. “Yes, darling?”

  He laughs and turns back to the pale, stooped man wiping glasses with a rag. “Two snowflakes,” he says. “And a private room, please. And food. Dear Rasus, get us something to eat.”

  “Your Excellency.” The man nods. I lean back against the counter, watching hair, shoulders, arms, teeth, all pulsing in the orange light. Someone shrieks and spills a drink. A cluster of people laughs. Fashion here mimics the streets above with a sneer. Collars are high, necklines are low, and more than one person sports gauzy wings with wire frames and a naked back streaked with red.

  “Are they … are they dressed as redwings?”

  Zahi snorts, casting a dismissive eye. “Real rebels, aren’t they? This place attracts them. Dark, low, hidden. Never doing anything real for this city. They’re like bugs.”

  I breathe, flexing my nervousness out through my fingers. “So now would not be a good time to show you my antennae?”

  He looks at me incredulously as the bartender pushes two slender blue glasses toward us. “You’re not going to lecture me on how beneficial bugs are for our soil? You’re flirting instead?”

  “My mistake. I thought lecturing about soil health was how one flirted. I was trying to avoid it.”

  He laughs and hands me a glass. It’s cold.

  I feel eyes, orange in the light, follow us as we cross the room. Zahi pushes aside a generous curtain to reveal a bare table, clean, and a curved, cushioned bench against the wall. A woman with long, spidery lace cuffs follows us and leaves a tray of bread and pickled vegetables.