Daughter Of The Burning City. Amanda Foody
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Название: Daughter Of The Burning City
Автор: Amanda Foody
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Детская фантастика
Серия: HQ Young Adult eBook
isbn: 9781474055512
isbn:
Would it get better? I don’t have any friends to see—the only people I spend time with are my illusions, Kahina and Villiam. Most people in Gomorrah avoid me because my face makes them uneasy. Even with my mask on, people have complained because they can’t see my expression or tell if I’m looking at them. Around me, they cannot trust their own senses. I make everyone uncomfortable. It’s easier to be among other misfits.
“I promised Villiam I’d go see him tonight,” I say.
She purses her lips, and I prepare myself for another speech about not getting involved in the investigation.
She must know I won’t take her advice. Not on this.
“Then, after tonight,” she says. “You take time to yourself, okay?”
“Okay. But can you do a reading for me before I go?” Kahina often does fortune-work for me. I may have given up on aspirations of beauty, but my fantasies of romance have been kindling since Kahina told me fairy tales as a child. So I usually ask if she sees anything remotely romantic in my future. She never does.
“Of course,” Kahina says. “Maybe there’s a mystery man.”
“Or lady,” I add. When I imagine myself in Kahina’s fairy tales, I tend to prefer princes and princesses equally. “I was hoping you could read for anyone connected to what happened to Gill. Through me.” I sit up, my hair brushing against the leaves of a palm potted behind me.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sorina.” She only uses my name when aggravated.
“I just want to make sure that everyone else is safe,” I say. “Please. It would make me feel better.”
“Fine. But only this once.”
She grabs a black clay jug from her table. Inside are hundreds of coins, each with a different symbol. I take the jug and shake it until one coin falls out from the opening underneath. It’s a gold piece with a menace on it—a type of demon believed to live in the Great Mountains, the region between the two continents. Not a good sign.
She turns it over in her hand. “You are surrounded by confusion,” she says. “It’s strange. Difficult to see through. As if you’re surrounded by the same smoke as Gomorrah.”
I’m not sure what to make of that, but I’ve grown used to Kahina’s vagueness after hundreds of readings.
“You can’t see anything?” I ask.
“There’s only the negative energy in your aura.”
“What about any positive energy with a good jawline and broad shoulders? Or doe eyes and silky hair?” I ask it with a teasing smile, so Kahina doesn’t suspect I’m thinking “ugly thoughts.”
She laughs and then shakes her head. “I don’t see any good jawlines or doe eyes, but, then again, I don’t usually do those sort of readings with the coins. Do you want some tea leaves?”
“That’s okay.” Not like the tea leaves have foretold anything before, and I don’t have much desire to finish my cold mug of chamomile. “I’m going back to sleep until I see Villiam.”
“That’s a good idea, sweetbug.” She squeezes my hand. “Sleep as much as you’d like.”
I yank one foot after another out of the mud as I trudge my way to Villiam’s caravan. This Up-Mountain road wasn’t made for heavy travel in the rain. Especially not with hundreds of mules, horses and caravans ahead, tearing the ground apart and leaving a mess in their trail. With each step, I sink into the earth halfway up my shins.
The red tent usually outside Villiam’s caravan is currently packed away, so the whole caravan is visible. It was painted black about thirty years ago, so now it’s merely speckled with the remaining paint, revealing pale wood beneath. Fresher coats of red, pink and purple spell out the swirling letters of The Gomorrah Festival. I knock on the door, walking to keep up with the two enormous stallions that pull it.
Villiam answers. As usual, he wears neatly pressed business clothes, though I doubt he’s seen anyone today, as it’s barely four o’clock in the afternoon. He extends his hand out to help me up and then embraces me once I climb inside. “Dismal outside, isn’t it?” he says.
“It’s appropriate,” I answer.
Agni is in the process of setting out a full four-course meal. In Gomorrah, breakfast is our typical supper, with the heartiest foods eaten before guests arrive. He reaches out every few moments to catch an empty wineglass knocked over by the bumps of the caravan. “Maybe the breakfast wine should be skipped today, sir,” Agni says.
“Nonsense. Wine is an important component of a meal,” Villiam says, ever the gourmet. “And without all the pieces, a whole structure could collapse.”
Agni rolls his eyes and lets the pepper shaker tumble to the floor, spilling out onto the fur carpet.
“I didn’t realize I was coming for breakfast,” I say. “You just said you wanted to speak with me.”
“Why? Have you already eaten?”
“I’m not hungry.” Eating doesn’t have much appeal. The only things that have gotten me out of bed since I spoke to Kahina this morning are Villiam’s mandatory invitation to meet with him and the need to relieve myself.
“I know it’s difficult, but you need to keep your spirits up,” he says. “And take off your mask. Make yourself comfortable.”
Difficult is hardly the word. More like impossible. Even if I wasn’t hating myself for the way I last spoke to Gill, I’m surrounded by seven others who are grieving. The only one attempting to pull us together is Nicoleta, who brought us candied pecans and cashews, but the bag is lying untouched in the corner of our caravan, and I’m sure it was the same in the boys’ cart, especially now that one of their riders is gone.
“I chose some of your favorite dishes,” Villiam says, drawing me out of my morose thoughts.
With my mask off, I sit down at the table and eye the plates. Herbed lamb legs; some kind of mix of butternut squash, peas and beets; a huge dish of steaming yellow rice; and a cream curry sauce with mint. It’s very colorful. And it looks delicious. But the table keeps shaking as the bumps on the road jolt the caravan. Agni runs past me—reeking of smoke, as usual—and stabilizes one of the many bookshelves.
Still, it’s a nice gesture. Condolences and empathy are not my father’s strengths, but he always manages to reach out to me in smaller ways. Particularly ways that involve candies or aged cheese.
Villiam sits opposite me and places his napkin on his lap, ignoring the disorder around him, even when someone knocks on the door. Agni ducks outside to answer it. It’s not like Villiam to set his proprietor duties aside, even for me. He must feel guilty about not being able to help me last night.
“Will the Freak Show be performing while we’re in СКАЧАТЬ