Smoke and Shadow: The Fireweaver, Book 1

Chapter 13. STAYHOUSE

Mehlie danced around the room. The courtyard outside their room was full of life, trills of laughter, music. Abandalas. It meant party until dawn. 

Just beyond the courtyard, through a few archways of bougainvillea were the hot springs. Wealthy patrons in disguise lounged with beautiful Beneiahs in the lush, exotic Nede gardens.

"I could be making so much money out there tonight," Mehlie scowled, cheeks and hands pressed to the glass watching it all. She opened the window, and the music and laughter of the courtyard filled the room. A pickpocketer's dream. "So much money."

"No more of that. And as long as we're here you're going to the school. It will raise suspicion if you don't attend." Dimarrah went into their small bathroom and changed into a set of clothes she'd purchased at one of the shops close to their room. She'd gotten some new clothes for Mehlie too. "Starting tomorrow," she said.

Mehlie made a face like she was going to object, but even she knew there was no fighting it.

"You might love school."

"Doubt it." She distractedly picked at something on her clothes.

"Never been have you?"

"Never needed it." Her defiance stoked a fire in Dimarrah's heart. Here was a fierce, independent spirit, but she sensed the vulnerability just beyond the facade. How many places had this girl called home? Had any place really ever felt like home? What of her family?

"Really. You might even just like it," Dimarrah said, yawning into the bed. "Shut that, will you?"

"Oh my gods. How can you be ready for sleep right now? What's the point in coming to the Stayhouse if you're not going to have any fun?" She slammed the window, but the jangling of tambourines and the beat of drums came right through. Even Dimarrah's foot was moving to the beat, despite her exhaustion.

"That isn't the sort of party kids should be going to," Dimarrah said, even though there were a few kids out in the courtyard running around. She turned out the light. It had been one very long day.

Mehlie sat back in the chair by the window, looking out. In the little bit of light coming from the courtyard, Dimarrah could see her eyes roll.

"You're not my mother," Mehlie said.

The words caused a physical pain in her heart. 

Mother. 

Dimarrah could scarcely breathe. 

Son. 

Daughter. 

She turned in the bed and rode the wave of grief, clenched in a fetal position.

* * * * * *

The room was quiet. Too quiet. Mehlie wasn't in her bed. 

Dimarrah padded barefoot out of the room, grateful for the satin wrap Mona had packed. She walked down the darkened hallways until she reached the courtyard, dark and quiet; only the hovering lights over archways and greenery still twinkling. Remnants of revelry were scattered about; a woman's shoe by the hedge, empty drinks on tables.

She heard voices just around a wall of wintergreen boxwood. Hushed male voices. The click of boots on stone as they slowed on the path. 

She held her breath, peering through the dense shrubbery.

"They're gone," said the one voice, gruff. "I'm telling you, I was in the rehab wing." The city center hospital. There was only the one. People didn't get sick much in the cities. Palliative care and rehab were the largest areas of every city hospital. "Not a single one in the whole damned building."