Page 9 of City of Stone and Silence

“—sure he went this way?”

“I saw something moving. He’s a quick little rotscum.”

“Blessed above, it rotting stinks.”

One of the pair raises his voice. “Hey! Get out here!”

The boy stares at me, eyes wide. He has a broad, honest face and unruly hair with a hint of curls. His clothes are odd, though—he has a worker’s leather vest like mine, but I’d swear the shirt underneath is silk.

Still, it’s obvious enough what’s happening. He must not have his draft papers, and so the Ward Guard are after him. That’s … not good. If they come after him, they’ll find me, too.

“Listen, kid,” one of the guards says. “If I have to come back there and get shit all over my boots, you might have a little bit of an accident on the way back to the cells, you understand? Just rotting come out already.”

Moving slowly, the boy slides away from the crates, coming closer to me. I shuffle backward, keeping my distance, but he’s just trying the door handle behind me. It’s locked, of course. I see him spit a silent curse.

Footsteps echo down the alley, and the light is coming closer. There’s no chance of us staying hidden once they round the crates.

Rot. If you’re going to move, move quickly, right?

I push the boy into the doorway, shush him, then hand him my cap, letting my hair tumble down my back. He watches, openmouthed, as I shrug off the vest and hand him that, too. This idea is sounding worse and worse the more I think about it, but there’s no time to change now. I tug the first few buttons of my shirt open, then one more, fighting a blush. I may not be able to pass for a boy but I’m still not … generously shaped. Not much to be done.

I step out from behind the crates. My heart is beating harder now than when I thought someone was going to attack me. I hope they’ll take the red in my cheeks for paint.

“There he—Hold on.” The two Ward Guards come to a halt and raise the lantern. I resist the urge to flinch. “What’re you doing here?”

“Looking for a little rotting privacy.” I try to let the cultured accent I’ve spent the last few years perfecting slip away, putting on a Sixteenth District drawl. “Do you mind?”

The guard’s lip twists skeptically. I wouldn’t believe me, either. I’ve met streetwalkers at the hospital younger than I am, but …

“It’s just that you’re making my gentleman … nervous.” I give them a raised eyebrow that I hope conveys weary amusement, but probably just looks like a facial spasm. Oh, rot. “And I wouldn’t want him to catch cold.”

“Did you see anyone run through here?” the other guard says.

“Nobody. It’s a dead end.” I nod to the fence.

“Rot.” The guard looks at his partner. “You were supposed to keep your eye on him.”

“How was I supposed to know he’d take off?” The other guard shakes his head as they both turn away. “Sergeant’s not going to like it.”

“We’ll just tell him the records got mixed up…”

Their voices fade as they rejoin the crowd. I lean against the pile of crates for a moment, breathing hard, skin feeling very warm.

It worked. I can’t believe that worked. I try to picture Ofalo’s face, if he saw me, and nearly laugh out loud. Who’s an innocent child now?

“Have they gone?” the boy says, in a whisper.

I spin to face him. I’d almost forgotten he was there. He’s still clutching my cap and vest to his chest, and at the sight of me his cheeks go crimson, and he looks firmly at the ground. I hurriedly do up my shirt, then clear my throat.

“Can I have my things?”

“Oh! Of course.” He hands the cap and vest over, and I work on fixing my hair back in place. “That was brilliant. Brave. Both. I never would have … I mean, you…”

“Thanks. I wanted to make sure they didn’t think I was a boy.”

“They might—I mean, you’re not—” He seemed to be having some difficulty, and took a deep breath. “Obviously you’re not a prostitute.”

“I know.”