Page 18 of City of Stone and Silence

“You rotting horrible old bitch,” the younger sister hisses. “I’m—”

“Meri, don’t,” the boy says.

After a dangerous moment, she closes her hands, flames disappearing with a hiss and a trail of black smoke. The girl shoots me a murderous look as she pushes past, stomping up the stairs.

“You two are welcome,” Grandma says, as though nothing untoward had happened. “If you’re still interested.”

“I’m not leaving Meri,” the boy says. He glances at the older sister, as though he expects her to agree at once. But she’s looking down, toying with the end of her braid, and I don’t need to peek into her mind to see what she’s going to say.

“I’m staying,” she mutters.

“But—”

“Meri made her choice.” The older sister takes a deep breath. “Just like she always does.”

The boy hesitates for a moment, then runs after his lover. Grandma stands aside to let him go, then gives a slight bow to the older sister, who refuses to meet her gaze.

“Welcome to the sanctuary,” she says.

The girl—she’d finally given her name as Giniva—had still looked half-stunned when Braggi had led her away. I made a mental note to visit her, though I wasn’t looking forward to it. The anguish pouring off her mind had been practically palpable, like stumbling through a foul-tasting fog.

“I didn’t think she’d stay,” I say.

“There’s history there,” Grandma says. “There always is, with families. You can never tell.”

“Her sister, Meri,” I say. “You’re not worried she’s going to go to the guards now?”

“I expect she will,” Grandma says. “But they’ve heard that song before, I dare say. And I have a few friends spread around.”

“It still seems like a risk.”

“What would you like me to do?” She gives me a sharp look. “Slit her throat?”

Isoka would have slit her throat. I push that thought down. Isoka lives in a different world, with different rules.

We’re walking back to the hospital from Braggi’s. The street is dark and webbed with shadows, lit only by lanterns hanging from a few late-night winesinks. At this hour, the Second Ward would be silent and empty except for patrolling night watchmen, but the Eleventh is never really deserted. Parties of drunken revelers stumble along, slurring their way through lewd songs, avoiding the dungmen with their covered carts. Streetwalkers wait at the intersections, cheap, gaudy robes hanging half-open, while discreet signs in a few windows indicate nighttime entertainment for the better-heeled.

Ofalo and Narago would be horrified by this place, but it doesn’t feel dangerous. Partly, of course, that’s because I’m with Grandma Tadeka. A drunkard lurches up to her, does a double take, then straightens up and gives a deep bow. Even the prostitutes incline their heads respectfully as she passes, and no wonder.

“Something’s bothering you,” Grandma says.

I look up at her. Sometimes I think Grandma has a touch of Kindre herself.

“Out with it,” she orders. “I can’t abide sulking.”

“What I do.” I glance around to make sure no one is close enough to overhear. “Touching their minds. It’s not right. A person’s thoughts should be their own.”

Grandma is silent for a moment. “No, it’s not right.”

I bite my lip. “Then—”

“Would it be better if we’d taken that girl in, and she’d brought the Immortals down on us?”

“No.” I shake my head. “Of course not.”

“Or if I turned everyone away because I didn’t know who to trust?”

“No.”