“The funeral service begins at five this evening,” Father Ken announced at morning prayers. “I encourage everyone to be here by four-thirty.” Today, they weren’t dressed in blacks and browns because it was the only clothing they owned, but because they were mourning the loss of one of their own.

  Aunt Gertrude sat at the front with her husband, weeping along with her sisters and nieces who had all known and loved Jude. She cursed anyone who had played a part in his unfair death, swearing she would spit on Franka’s grave when his time came.

  Morning prayers ended, yet no one seemed prepared to return to work. A few turned to face their friends, conversations rising until the church sounded more like a marketplace than a sanctuary. The Shepherds left quietly, heading to the Ring. Alone. Not a single Blacken besides them waited for the portal to open.

  “Is there some protest we’re not aware of?” Maselli asked his parents. “Why is no one else heading to the Ring?”

  “We’re preparing for Jude’s funeral,” Mari said. “I wish we could join, but we don’t have the time.”

  “That’s not the only reason,” Aron added. “No one’s leaving for the Farms because there’s no point. The banks are still closed. Yesterday’s disaster scared plenty of folk away from returning so soon.”

  “Then what are we going for?” Maselli asked.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” Aron said. “You and your mother are.”

  “You and I are going to take whatever job is available on the Third,” Mari told him.

  “What?” Jeromy cut in. “What about me?”

  “We’ll be trying some homemade remedies for Ezra,” said Aron, though even he didn’t sound convinced. “If those don’t work, we’ll visit the tunnels and see if there’s anything down there we can use.”

  “What kind of job are we going to do?” Maselli asked.

  “Monetise any skills you have. Wash some diplomat’s car. There are always windows that need cleaning, boots that need polishing, toilets that need scrubbing. Find some way to make money.” After a pause, she added with a frown, “No gambling at the game centre.”

  “I doubt lightning strikes twice, anyway,” Maselli muttered.

  “I’ll visit my usual worksites and see if I can get my masters to pay me in cash this time around,” Mari said. “As long as we bring something home, we can call it a good day.”

  Standing by the warming Ring, it almost felt as if they were the ones committing a crime. Counting herself and Maselli, only two other people had bothered to show up for work on time. The Assembly had a real problem.

  “Aren’t we going to get into more trouble for boycotting work today?” Maselli asked, referring to all earthens in general.

  “You can’t sanction someone who isn’t getting paid,” said Mari.

  “Astaphite isn’t going to mine itself,” Maselli argued. “We’re making things harder for Renna Sorel. She can’t win the war if we don’t help.”

  “The astaphite we mine doesn’t always go to the battlefield,” Mari said. “The government has plenty stored away. Besides, it’s a good thing, this boycott. Those people at the top need to appreciate us more.”

  “Mari, do you ever worry we might get replaced? What if we push the Henrikians too far one day and they decide to find new workers for the factories? When that happens, what do you think they’ll do to us?”

  Mari must not have heard him. Her eyes were on the portal opening ahead. She stepped forward first. “You have a habit of overthinking,” she said. “It does you no good. Find work and meet me here at four-thirty.”

  The Third was silent. Where was he supposed to find work when no one was around to offer it? Blood glistened on the streets—he could scrub that off. All he needed was someone willing to pay him. A worthwhile venture, though time-consuming. And besides, a wise man avoided working for the government. You might not get paid.

  With no better options, he went to Fortune’s shop. For once, there were actual customers. So many that Maselli had to wait before he could even step inside. Henrikian staff were avoiding the Farm pharmacies, and thanks to that influx, Fortune’s face lit up when he saw Maselli. A promising sign for anyone looking for quick employment.

  “You’d be amazed at the sales I’ve made just this hour,” the dealer said. “Get me three boxes of painkillers from the back.”

  Maselli squeezed through the stacked shelves, reaching into the dark corners. Soon after, he was packing pills at Fortune’s desk. Painkillers came as thin strips of paper printed with a special triangle. For a headache, you pressed it to your forehead. For a stomach ache, to your belly. You could even tear off bits of the enchanted paper and drink it with water. The richer pharmacies stocked painkiller candies instead.

  “How much are you going to pay me for this?” Maselli asked.

  “I know someone looking for a phone repairer. He’ll pay you well. Don’t take this as a joke—I promised myself I wouldn’t be doing this anymore.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I used to recommend boys like you for jobs. They’d end up stealing from officers, and I’d be the one compensating for what they stole.”

  “Franka,” Maselli muttered. “That’s why you charged me five hundred for the drug?”

  “When I caught him, he had already sold the stolen phones and spent the money.”

  The Sodenite had an operation that needed funding, and he was using puppets like Franka. Knowing his brother could be such a fool both frustrated and satisfied Maselli.

  Fortune gave him names and addresses to follow, along with a small side bag stocked with a rug, a screwdriver, and other useful items.

  The Commission of Labour was not a building you could easily distinguish from the rest—tall, grey, shrouded in smoke and misery. Maselli barged in, trying to walk as if he belonged there.

  The building had several floors with crisscrossing hallways. The lobby alone held more Green Officers than he’d ever seen in one place. A snake pit. He prayed no one would recognise him. Should he turn back?

  A rusted shaft groaned as it descended from the upper floors. Men in diplomatic suits stepped into the lobby, moving in his direction. Maselli ducked out of their path, spun around a few times, until his nose pointed toward the stairs.

  Ren Talon was supposed to be here, in need of service. Maselli only knew him by name—the Arch-Commissioner, the Green Chief. Head of both the Green City Guard and the HF. The man responsible for Jude’s death. Should he really treat Talon as a customer? Or turn and run as far as he could?

  Instead, Maselli found himself outside the Green Chief’s office. Ren Talon was shorter than expected, his lavender eyes softer in person than on television. He perched at the edge of his desk, sharp in his green uniform. A girl in a pink flowery dress sat in his chair, swallowed up by its size. She had the same lavender eyes with a wand in one hand, a phone in the other.

  “You must be Fortune’s,” said Talon, too weary to disguise his thick Kirisi accent in the English he spoke. “Sweetheart, give your phone to the repairman.”

  The girl hopped out of the chair and hurried towards Maselli, her tongue rattling in rapid-fire Kirisi—too quick for his English-trained ears to follow.

  “What seems to be the problem, Sir?” Maselli asked.

  “She lost all her contacts. We tried everything we could, but nothing worked.”

  “I see. How did this happen?”

  The girl explained something, but every time Talon tried to interpret, she cut him off and began again. Finally, Talon said, “She was taking pictures of the refineries.”

  “Sir, it is not advisable to bring gadgets near the refineries.”

  “I know, I know.” Talon waved the matter away. “Can you fix it?”

  Ascension distortion could cause all kinds of malfunctions. Conventional methods wouldn’t do any good—he’d have to fall back on the tricks Ezra had taught him. He needed a needle, a triangle, and a drop of the girl’s blood.

  “What in God’s name do you need her blood for?” Talon asked, pulling his daughter back.

  “It’s the only way to restore her contacts. Blood holds her identity, Sir. With it, I can combine a ripper triangle and broadcast her signal to her friends’ devices. Their phones will respond and reconnect.”

  Talon argued back and forth with the girl until she screamed and stomped his foot. With a grunt, he relented. Maselli took a needle, cotton, and a bottle of spirit. Using a hex-blade, he inscribed a triangle on the back of the phone. Then he pricked the girl’s finger and let a drop of blood fall into the triangle’s centre. The symbol glowed violet.

  The girl snatched the phone, scrolling. Just as she was about to scold him, she shrieked instead and ran to embrace her father. Talon grunted, then asked how much he owed. No one had ever asked Maselli to name his own price before. The longer he stalled, the less Talon would be willing to pay. He blurted, “Fifty kliqs.”

  Talon didn’t even flinch. He pulled a wallet from his pocket, handed over the note—plus an extra five for dealing with Yurisa, his daughter.

  The door opened. A head peeped inside. “Talon—”

  “Strong,” said Talon. “This is, uh…”

  “Maselli,” said Maselli. “I repair everything.”

  Ren Strong stepped into the room. He had the kind of height and bulk that made the room feel smaller. His green uniform was untucked, the sleeves pinched tight around his arms, and his enormous belly strained against the buttons. Folding his arms, he said, “Have you checked him? The last one ran off with my wallet.”

  “Let him fix your TV,” Talon said. “Unusual methods, this one.”

  That caught Strong’s attention. His nostrils flared once. Then he turned and walked out. Maselli glanced at Talon, who gave a small nod. Maselli followed.

  SCESIO LOMIRIO. TU HENRIKIA’S GAVERIAN NAEXTE

  TAKE A SHOT OF ASCENSION TODAY. YOU ARE HENRIKIA’S NEXT GAVERIAN.

  The posters were everywhere—each one showing the same moustached soldier pointing directly at the reader.

  Strong led the way down the hallway and pushed into an office far larger than Talon’s. Maselli had forgotten to check the nameplate on the door, and now he could only guess how high up this man sat in their ranks.

  The office was like another world. A wide window stretched from wall to wall. The carpet underfoot was milky white, softer than anything Maselli had ever stepped on. A mini-fridge hummed in the corner, next to a dispenser. A wood carving of the nude goddess Wilihay sat on display, alongside portraits of Strong as a younger Green Officer.

  “Catch,” Strong barked.

  A remote came sailing through the air. Maselli barely caught it, distracted by the massive display screen against the wall. Who lived like this? The man’s office was more comfortable than most homes.

  “It powers on, but the screen stays dark,” Strong said.

  One problem came to mind—pads. Maselli ran a finger along the screen’s edge until he felt a small bump. Digging in his nails, he peeled back the first pad and examined the faded triangle etched into it. Just as he suspected—it had warped.

  “Your palettes are all burned out,” Maselli said. “They’ll need replacing.”

  “I thought as much,” Strong grumbled. “Never liked these modern TVs. Always breaking down too soon.”

  That was partly true. Henrikia imported its televisions and computers from Yuna, their super-powered western neighbour. But government funds had long prioritized military contracts over quality tech. So the country ended up with cheap sets where the enchantment triangles weren’t etched into the hardware but mass-produced on flimsy plastic pads. They worked fine at first, but ascension leakage, heat, dirt, or humidity ruined them quickly.

  “How much would it cost to replace?” Strong asked.

  “Sir, unless I—”

  “Never mind.” Strong cut him off with a deep breath. “Tonnis!”

  “Sir!” A lanky boy burst into the room, his glasses slipping down his face. His uniform hung loose, twice his size. He saluted with his left hand first, then corrected himself with his right. Strong jerked his chin toward Maselli.

  “Repairman, teach Tonnis the triangles he needs to draw. He’ll stay here all day if he has to, until that screen works again.”

  Neither Maselli nor the boy looked thrilled. It was humiliating enough for a cadet to take instruction from an earthen. Still, Maselli went through the steps on how to cut and place the triangles along all four borders of the TV. He finished, but Tonnis still wore a blank stare.

  “Should I explain again?” Maselli asked.

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  “You’re casting Ripper spells, nothing remarkable,” Tonnis scoffed. “Even a child can manage this. Step aside. We may both be amateurs, but I’d like to think I’m more qualified than you’ll ever be.”

  He elbowed Maselli aside and took over.

  “Can you handle it, Tonnis?” Strong asked.

  “Yes, Sir!”

  “Good. We’ll show those Yunnish bastards they can’t cheat us!”

  “Right on, Sir.”

  Maselli packed his tools, slung his bag over his shoulder. He was tempted to march up and demand payment, but it wasn’t worth his effort. He saluted and made for the exit.

  “You. Come for this.”

  Strong tossed him twenty kliqs. Well worth the time.

  He ended up at the Wage Mistress’ quarters, ear pressed against a radio as he fiddled with the busted speakers. A near-impossible task with a nest of women chirping and chattering at the top of their voices. The large office swarmed with them—green shirts, black skirts, stockings, flats. Hair tied back in neat bunches. Their bright, unnatural eyes sparkled in every colour, like lights strung on a Christmas tree.

  Some lounged at their desks, some tapped away at games on their work computers, others dozed in their chairs.

  “…I urge you all once again,” the voice on the radio blared. “Go to any I.A.A. centre near you and take a shot of ascension. Become a Gaverian. Fight for your country—”

  “Renna, we’re tired,” Maselli muttered to the radio. “This war’s gone on too long.”

  The quarter fell silent. A hundred eyes turned on the weirdo talking back to the airwaves.

  The mistress who had hired him slipped a fifty-kliq note into his hand and whispered for him to leave. He stepped out—and behind him came an eruption of collective laughter.

  By midday, he had fixed two more phones and repaired the public announcement system in the Labour Commission tower. For once, he got to eat lunch with a group of cadets. They retold the pharmacy shooting story again and again, each version louder, more exaggerated. One bragged about chasing the “Sexite spy” on a motorcycle—how he almost had him, how the bastard slipped away. If only they knew the truth. That the spy was still among them. That he wasn’t Sexite, but Sodenite.

  An hour before five, Maselli strolled the Labour Commission halls with the heaviest pocket he’d had in months. The only thing missing was Franka jumping out of a corner to rob him blind.

  “Maselli.” A head poked from an office door. Colin. Of course. The Sodenite winked and waved him over.

  Maselli soldiered on, brushing past like he hadn’t seen him. He’d survived the HF—what was a Sodenite to him?

  “Hey,” Colin snapped. “Stop, or I’ll cry thief.”

  That word alone made Maselli stumble.

  “Maselli.”

  He didn’t turn. His sprint down the stairwell was done breathless. Only when he burst out into the evening sun did the knot in his chest ease. He’d made it. Laughing, he tore through the streets. His time had come. The world was behind him, pushing him forward.

  “I’m taking a twenty-five per cent cut,” Fortune said when Maselli returned. “Payment for using my equipment and connections. Why the face? You still made more money today than you make in a year—unless you’re stealing.”

  “All the more reason you should listen to me.” Franka.

  His voice slithered down Maselli’s spine, his presence prickling the hair on his neck. Franka was alone today, no gang in tow. He stretched a hand toward Fortune. Fortune didn’t shake it.

  “Can I help you?” the dealer asked. The stack of notes he’d been counting had already disappeared into his coat.

  “I heard my brother was working with you,” Franka said.

  “For me,” Fortune corrected. “And he’s busy. You can have him after five.”

  Fortune gave Maselli a look that said Hand it over. I’ll keep your earnings safe from the vulture.

  Franka smirked. “Master Deus has been complaining about his broken fridge. You could squeeze in one last job, make yourself a real profit.”

  Maselli frowned. “I’m not in the mood for games. What do you want?”

  “Can’t I support my baby brother anymore?” Franka tilted his head. “Deus pays better than all your clients combined. He’s generous like that.”

  Master Deus was a rich man. He ran the day-to-day affairs of a chocolate factory called Hally’s. In the commercials, smiling Henrikian children said a bar of Hally’s chocolate tasted like love. Maselli had no way of confirming that, nor did he care to.

  “Last job before you leave?” Fortune asked. “Mind games or not, there’s no harm in going to confirm.”

  So, without Franka, Maselli arrived at Hally’s. The factory itself was asleep—only a few Henrikian staff remained inside. A stream of women poured out the gates, drab in their greys and browns, moving fast despite their tired faces, gravel crunching under their boots. Most ignored him. Until he spotted Aunt Patrica.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, confused but pleased.

  “Same as you,” Maselli replied.

  “Turn around. Let’s go home. I’ve heard rumours about a curfew.”

  “Did Mari work here today?” He scanned the crowd. “I don’t see her.”

  “Yes, but she left early.”

  “Okay.” He moved again.

  “Maselli,” Patrica called. “Where are you going?”

  “Why?”

  “What’s more suspicious than a young man barging into a place he has no business being?”

  “I do have business here.” He patted the bag at his side. “I’m grateful for your concerns, Auntie, but I can’t squander this opportunity just because I might get kicked out.”

  “Who are you looking for?”

  “See you at the funeral,” Maselli said, hurrying across the compound.

  The factory was massive—more floors and windows than an entire block of apartments back home. Inside, the place was dark as evening, crowded with hulking metallic tubes and silent assembly lines.

  From experience, Maselli knew senior staff kept their offices upstairs. He climbed, knocking on the first door he found. No answer. Another door.

  “Come in, please.”

  Master Deus sat behind a polished desk. In front of him—Mari.

  Patrica had lied.

  The Henrikian manager was handing her money. Not a handful. A stack. At least four hundred kliqs. Too much for any cleaner.

  “Thank you, Sir,” Mari said, bowing. She turned—and froze at the sight of her son. She jolted, bumping into the desk. Then, without a word, she placed the stack back down and hurried past him, careful not to touch him on her way out.

  Maselli remained, locked in silence with the man.

  When you became too familiar with certain names, you forgot who they really were. Master Deus, manager of Hally’s. That was the first thought. But not the truth. Deus came from an ascender family. His father was Lord Deus, Chancellor of Henrikia. His brother, Ren Deus, a national hero, fighting in the Midder-Lands. This one—this Master Deus—was the least of them.

  Shelves of books. A television. Portraits on the wall. No fridge. Franka had lied again.

  “Are you Mari’s son?” Deus asked at last.

  “I am, Sir.”

  He lifted the money from his desk, stretching it out. “Take it. It’s your mother’s.”

  Fives, fives, fives. Stacked high.

  Maselli shook his head. “I can’t.”

  The man didn’t press him.

  Mari was waiting on the stairs. She tried to turn away when he sat by her, but Maselli took her hand.

  “We may not have money,” he said, “but there’s one thing we’ll never run out of.”

  “What could that be?” she asked.

  “Our love for you.”

  She had been holding herself together until now. But no longer. Maselli stayed by her side until she was ready to go home. By the time they reached Blackwood’s Ring, it was already warming up. They were the only ones waiting.

  The village was bright that evening. Lanterns lit the churchyard, casting warm halos across the crowd. Under one canopy, tables and chairs were lined with food. Aunt Patrica, balancing a tray, set a bowl of soup in front of Father Ken. Two toddlers darted around her, laughing as they tugged at her skirt, until their mothers rushed in with apologies. At the far end of the table, boys banged their spoons like drums, impatient for food. Aunt Evelyn and Maselli’s classmate, Belle, hurried out with steaming plates of rice. The smell drifted out of the church windows and set Maselli’s stomach growling.

  “Maselli, escort me to the well,” Mari said.

  He groaned, clutching his belly. “Now?”

  “Please.”

  He followed her away from the bright lights.

  Behind the chapel, the courtyard was quiet, too far from the food and laughter. “Fetch some water,” Mari said, stepping toward a back door. “I’ll get soap.”

  Mari washed her hands, then splashed her face.

  “We can go home and change.”

  She shook her head. “I’m already late to serve. Find a seat and ask Jeromy if he’s eaten.” She cupped her mouth as if sharing a secret. “I’ll make yours extra special.” She tugged his cheek until he smiled.

  Back at the tables, voices called his name—the priest, cousins, aunts, uncles. But Maselli drifted past them all until he saw the only face he wanted. Jeromy. Innocent. Free of knowledge. Maselli wished for a spell to switch places with him, just for a day.

  Jeromy gnawed a chicken bone, oil shining on his chin, with half a soda bottle beside his rice and sauce. Maselli slumped into the chair next to him, reaching aimlessly until Jeromy placed the soda bottle in his hand. Maselli took a gulp, gasped, and burped.

  They didn’t speak of the one thing on their minds, but their gestures said enough. Jeromy’s flicking left brow meant things at home were worse. Aron was missing. Maselli’s shrug told him what he already suspected: the unthinkable had happened.

  Still, they masked it well.

  “Where were you, Mari?” Father Ken’s voice carried across the table. Both boys looked up. Mari stood beside him with a tray, eyes on her sons.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I lost track of time.”

  Father Ken scoffed, waving her off. She bit her lip and moved on, glancing at Maselli.

  “Some people can’t help but put God second to money.” That voice belonged to Franka. The priest laughed at that, leaning sideways in his chair, soda bottle pressed to his lips. And what was that in Father Ken’s hand? A phone. Wow.

  “What’s Father Ken doing with that?” Maselli asked, pointing.

  “An officer brought it,” Jeromy whispered. “Said it was a gift from the commissioner.”

  “It’s not a gift,” Maselli muttered. “Henrikians don’t give gifts. Victor wants to know everything in Blackwood. We have to be extra careful now.”

  “Franka’s coming,” Jeromy hissed.

  Franka and his crew dropped into the seats opposite, shoving children out of the way.

  Mari slammed a tray in front of Maselli, the plate rattling. She glared at Franka and his boys the whole time, never blinking, before popping open Maselli’s soda and storming off. Franka’s gang laughed after her.

  “What the hell is Franka doing here?” Maselli whispered.

  “He was the first in church today,” Jeromy said. “He sang a hymn. Father Ken called it a miracle.”

  “Why would he...” Maselli searched around his plate for a spoon. He didn’t have one.

  “Jude came to him in a vision,” Jeromy added. “Told him to turn his life around. Everyone knows it’s a joke. Well, everyone except Father Ken.”

  Patrica approached their table. “Is something wrong?” she asked.

  “I didn’t get a spoon,” Maselli said. To Jeromy, he muttered, “No wonder Father Ken is laughing with him.”

  “You can’t ignore me forever,” Franka said across the table. “How was your day, Maselli? Did you fix Master Deus’ fridge? They say he pays well when you satisfy him. Though judging by your face, I’d guess otherwise.”

  Jeromy tugged Maselli’s sleeve. “What’s he on about?”

  “Leave my children alone,” Mari said from behind them. She dropped a spoon onto Maselli’s plate and set a hand on both boys’ heads. Franka tried to mask the cracks showing on his face.

  “Brothers,” Franka muttered. “They’re my brothers.”

  Mari ignored him and walked away. Franka’s eyes followed her, darkening. He leaned toward one of his boys, whispered something, and they shared a grin. The boy dropped to all fours and scuttled across the dirt. He cut off Mari’s path, shoved his head under her skirt. She screamed, beating him on the head.

  “I smell a whore!” he yelled.

  Patrica stormed to Mari’s aid, slamming him into the dirt. Gasps broke out, people rising to their feet, shoving and asking what had happened. Patrica seized a bottle, charging at Franka, but bystanders caught her in time.

  Mari’s sisters clustered around her, leading her into the chapel. Franka’s friends scattered, leaving him alone. He grabbed a plate, scooped up rice with his hands, and shoved clumps into his mouth.

  “Maselli,” Jeromy whispered. “What’s Franka talking about?”

  “Maselli.” Patrica. “You haven’t touched your food.” She spoke into his ear. “I think it’s time you headed home. Your mother needs you.”

  Maselli’s neck pulse throbbed, one hand strangling his fork. Franka smiled at him. Maselli smiled back. He burst forward, slid over the table, knocking over cups and plates. Franka’s eyes popped, watching Maselli lunge for his throat.

  A chair snapped underneath them, dust rising as bystanders rushed away. Maselli tightened his grip on his fork, shoving it down, mouth frothing, breath wheezing. He pinned the fork to his brother’s throat. Franka clutched at Maselli’s arm, squealing as the murder weapon pressed deeper into him. You heard Patrica. Your mother needs you. Kill him!

  “Maselli!” The screams were many. Hands wrapped around his arms, hurling him off Franka. Maselli’s feet dangled in the air, right above the devil.

  “Grab the fork!”

  A hand twisted his wrist. Someone grabbed his fork and tossed it away.

  The Assembly had founded the Book of Deviants in the year 306, six years after Maselli’s birth. In those six years, only six names had been written down. Ren Talon had already executed one—Jude Potter—yesterday, as atonement for Franka Shepherd’s alleged crimes. Now one name replaced Jude’s. Maselli Shepherd.

  Aunt Patrica and a few others cleared the tables while their husbands helped carry furniture back to the school classrooms. They wouldn’t be taking the canopy down until morning.

  “I don’t know what to say to you anymore, because nothing seems to get through your thick head.” Aron jabbed his finger against Maselli’s thick head. “Do you ever think about consequences?”

  “Aron,” Mari said.

  “Our boy was almost a murderer tonight, and he does not care to show remorse.” Turning to Maselli, his father’s black face deepened. A thick vein swelled, cutting through his forehead. “Wipe that scowl off your face before I smack it off.”

  “He should have done it,” Mari said. “We all wanted him to, and you know it. You can’t blame Maselli for what he did.”

  “You hate our son so much that you would wish death upon him.”

  “Franka is not my son.”

  “I wasn’t talking about Franka,” he said. “You know what happens when our kind commits murder. Just yesterday, we witnessed something I wished to never see for the rest of my life. And out of spite for Franka, you would doom our son to the same fate. What can I call that, but selfishness? You don’t care about this family. You’ve proven that time and time again. I gave one son up for you. I won’t give up another.”

  Mari raised her hand as if to strike him. Aron stepped forward. She froze. Maselli clenched his eyes shut, waiting for Mari to wail. When he opened them, Aron was gone.

  “Why does Mari hate Franka so much?” Jeromy asked at bedtime.

  Everything Maselli knew he learned from Uncle Jeremy and Aunt Patrica. They were the only ones who did not pretend that the past never happened. “Before I tell you two anything, I want you to promise me you won’t hate Mari because of this story, because it happened a long time ago.”

  Ezra and Jeromy nodded.

  “The Hexite church frowns on any kind of sex outside of marriage, especially one that involves a transaction. Thing is, the Hexite church’s influence is not as strong as it thinks it is. When the Midder-Lands war first took its toll on the economy, it became the norm that an earthen young woman who needed a little more—just a little more—money to support her family would offer... certain services to a wealthy Henrikian. The administrator ordered Aron and Mari to have another child around that time, when it was the most difficult for them. You see, they already had an unwanted child called Ezra.”

  “I wasn’t unwanted,” said Ezra. “Mari says she accepted me in love.”

  “It didn’t change the fact that you were an extra mouth they hadn’t planned to feed. Mari panicked and did some things none of you should ever, ever ask her about. She did it once and came home crying that night. Aron tried to keep it a secret, but Mari insisted we had to know. She sat Franka and me down and told us what she’d done, and how wrong it was. It was confusing, because I couldn’t see her as anything but Mari.”

  “What’s he talking about?” Jeromy asked Ezra, struggling to keep up. Ezra leaned close and whispered in his ear. The face he made—you’d think she’d shoved a worm into his ear.

  “I told Mari it was fine, but honestly, I didn’t know how to feel.”

  “What did Franka do?” Ezra asked.

  “He told me to stop eating her food, because it was cooked with dirty money. Said if I didn’t want to catch an infection, I’d better hold my breath when she was near. He wanted her punished for what she’d done, otherwise she’d just do it again since she’d gotten away with it once.”

  “Did you do those things?” Jeromy asked.

  “No,” Maselli said. “I was angry with her, but I couldn’t bring myself to. Franka said I’d betrayed him—that I was comfortable eating from a whore’s table. Which was ironic, because later we found out he’d been eating from a whore’s table the whole time too.”

  Ezra coughed, cleared her throat, and asked, “How?”

  “Gemma.”

  “Oh. I didn’t think she was like that.”

  “Franka was very vocal about stopping the sex work on the Farm. He rallied a lot of supporters in the church. Any chance he got, he’d shame Mari and the others like her. Gemma came to our house one night, sobbing. Aron and Mari asked her what was wrong, and that’s when she told them about what she’d been doing to get by at home with Franka. She was terrified that Franka might find out. He liked to use her as an example of morality for others to follow and would be crushed, knowing he couldn’t trust anybody. Gemma didn’t want her parents to find out, so she came to Mari instead.

  “Gemma wanted Mari’s help in breaking the news to Franka. Our mother advised her to keep it a secret for as long as possible. Unfortunately for Gemma, that wouldn’t be for long. The Assembly had had enough. The Green Chief cracked down on officers involved. He posted a list of all the women whose names and indexes came up during his investigations and underneath it, he wrote in bold black letters, SHAME. Gemma got exposed, along with Mari.

  “Franka put Gemma through hell. He stopped speaking to her. If she cooked for him, he’d throw it out. He left their apartment. She endured it until one night she disappeared.”

  Maselli’s voice dropped. “She hung herself in the forest. That’s where we buried her. It was called a sinner’s death, and that was the end of it. Afterward, Mari told Aron never to let Franka near me or our house again. They haven’t spoken properly since Gemma’s death. And I don’t think they ever will.”

  By then, Jeromy and Ezra had drifted off to sleep.

  One of them lay dying, all because of Franka. Aron had not returned home. Mari had fallen asleep on the sofa—all because of Franka.

  The television displayed the same soldier with the moustache pointing at the viewer: Take a shot of ascension.

  He fetched Mari’s coverlet from her bedroom, covering her bare arms and feet. He entered the kitchen, pulled open a drawer, taking out a knife. Maselli approached the carving on the counter.

  A symbol with two triangles facing each other, with one vertex on each touching the centroid of its counterpart. Ezra would’ve cursed Franka that day. He’d stopped her from completing the symbol. There was not much to do, though. All he needed to add was a complete circle. Maselli pressed the knife on the counter and carved it whole.