Page 31 of City of Stone and Silence

Kosura rolls her eyes. “Is he handsome?”

“I don’t remember,” I say, exasperated. “Maybe. I suppose.”

“You liar.” She grins. “You have to go and meet him.”

“And say what?” I cross my arms. “I have no plans to fall madly in love with anyone, so if that’s what he wants he’s going to be disappointed.”

“He says he wants to help people.” Kosura’s tone sobers. “Which is the same reason you and I are here, isn’t it?”

I give a reluctant nod.

“And if he really is the heir to the Marka family, he might be able to.” She cocks her head. “You know Grandma always says we can use more of everything.”

That’s true, now more than ever. In treating the victims of the riots, the hospital is running short of everything from bedclothes to bandages.

“If he’s sneaking out like I am, I doubt he’s going to be able to hand over a big purse,” I say.

“You never know. It’s worth the meeting, anyway.” Kosura claps me on the shoulder. “Just set it up somewhere nice and public. You’ll be fine.”

I let out a long sigh and look down at the letter.

“I’m going to have to do this, aren’t I?”

“Make sure to wear something slinky,” Kosura says, then runs away, laughing, as I look for something to throw at her.

A few days later, I’m sitting at a low table in Takabo’s dumpling shop, off the High Market.

I’ve been in Takabo’s many times, but only on the bottom floor, where you order your dumplings from sweating men working behind the counter and eat them standing up, pulling them off the wooden skewers as soon as they’re cool enough to stomach. The upper floor is more refined, with individual tables, and correspondingly more expensive. Since my only way of getting spending money involves selling things from home—which always carries the risk that Ofalo will notice and accuse someone of the theft—I’ve always stayed down below.

For today, though, this place has several advantages. It’s above the draft checkpoints, so there’s no danger of Garo running into trouble again before he even gets here. And while the second floor is higher class than the first, it’s still a dumpling house, with no privacy screens or curtained-off nooks. Takabo and his staff are no strangers to altercations, and if Garo has anything ugly planned, I’ll be able to summon help easily.

So I hope, anyway. If someone with the resources of the Marka family wanted to prepare a trap, I’m sure he could manage it. Whatever Kosura says, this meeting is a risk. The only reason I’m willing to chance it is that my Kindre power should warn me well in advance of any ill intentions. Right now, the restaurant is the usual mix of everyday emotion, happiness and sadness, pleasant food, liquor, and conversation.

I’m wearing a colorful linen robe, sleeves rolled up, less formal by far than a kizen but still more obviously feminine than my usual disguise. No point in trying to confuse Garo on that score, and the thought makes me blush again. I try to fight it, but I realize I’m nervous, in spite of the tranquility of the minds around me.

It’s not just fear of some kind of trap. This whole situation isn’t something I’m comfortable with. Kosura is practically the only person close to my age I know well—most of the hospital assistants are much older, and I’ve never let myself get close with many of the patients.

What if Kosura’s right, and Garo has fallen in love with me? His note was certainly … intense. It’s all well and good to sigh about, but what do I actually do?

My fingers beat a fast tattoo on the table. One of the servers comes over, clearing his throat, but I wave him off.

I’m still trying to think when Garo arrives, coming up the stairs and looking hesitantly around the room. He’s wearing the same simple clothing as the last time I saw him, subtly too well-cut to actually belong to a member of the lower classes. His dark brown curls are a little more pronounced, and I wonder if he’s put some effort into them. When he sees me, his eyes go wide for a moment, and he nearly crashes into a server with a tray full of dumplings.

“You came,” he says.

“I said I would, didn’t I?” I say, trying for confidence.

“I wasn’t sure.” I don’t need Kindre to feel the relief pouring off him. “I wasn’t even sure I’d written to the right place.”

“Sit down, would you?” I glance at the surrounding diners. “We don’t need to make a spectacle.”

“Of course.” He sits, with the unconscious grace of someone trained from childhood in formal etiquette. “You look … different. If I’d seen you like this I wouldn’t have thought you were a boy—I mean, until you—that is, I—”

“Please stop.” I can’t help but smile a little. “Relax.”

“All right.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just … you don’t know how much I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Thinking about me?” Now it’s my turn to look flustered.