Folding the Sky

-1-

Zuri's line of work had taken her worse places. It had taken her to the eastern slums, which crawled with massive, dirt-streaked sewer rats and yellow-toothed beggars, and to the smoke-filled, sweat-slick meat packing centers at the edge of Naino, where eyes seemed to watch her out of the dark. Once, it had taken her to the dense jungle at the city-state's northern border. She didn't remember much about that trip, besides the mosquito bites that pocked every inch of her bare skin for days afterwards.

Yet, when Zuri located the hotel—which wasn't, notably, in a jungle or the slums—for which she was searching this time, she hesitated. It was a narrow building, almost too narrow, as if the two townhouses beside it had squeezed it together like a piece of taffy. An eerie, foreboding mist wrapped around its black, gothic spires like a shawl, and apart from a waterlogged wooden H nailed above the door (which could've stood for anything, Zuri thought), there was no indication that it wasn't actually a horror house.

Forcefully, Zuri reminded herself of the weighty bag of shillings that was waiting for her once she found this old book. That, and the angry shout of a fruit seller dragging his cart through the street to get out of the way, girl! drove Zuri forward.

A plume of dust greeted her the second she stepped inside, shot up into the air as the door swung in. She coughed, shaking dust from her skirts as she examined the lobby. Ailing yellow light, produced by a vintage chandelier. Rugs imported from Sinje, a city-state known for its talented artisans. An old man dozing at the bar, glass still half-full with liquor.

The bellhop had noticed Zuri. He was young, spindly, his hair shaved close to his head. "Can I help you, miss?"

"Yes," she said after a moment. "Actually, you can."

She reached out a hand, brushing his shoulder, and the visions began.

Her body locked into stillness, yet her mind was a storm of movement. The young bellhop's memories flashed behind her eyes like a motion picture. She saw his hands, small, childishly covered with dirt, reaching for his mother. Too far. Pressing forward, his hands deftly fastened the buttons of his uniform, a reflection of gold in the mirror. Not quite. Then she saw it: the book, Kiro, Our Founder, Our Lord, as a parlor maid shrugged and handed it off to him. It was leather-bound, the pages yellowing, a years-old coffee stain across the spine.

Zuri released the bellhop, who staggered backwards with a small gasp, his eyes wide as if he'd just escaped from a monster. Zuri was used to getting looks like that.

"Sorry for the intrusion," she said. "That book, that the maid found in Room 222. What did you do with it?"

"It's..." He swallowed. "We have it in the lost and found, miss. Are you—?"

"Lost and found? Where is that?"

He turned and pointed behind the concierge desk. "That way, miss. But are you a—"

"Perfect," Zuri said, already striding in its direction, the clack of her boots muffled against the rug. "You don't mind if I take it, do you? Someone left it here and they're looking for it. They sent me to fetch it."

"Sure," the bellhop agreed, then blurted, with all his voice: "Miss! Are you a Celestial?"

Zuri stopped walking, stood completely still and soundless until all she could hear was the fine inhale and exhale of her breaths. She did not turn to face him.

"Don't be silly," she said. "Celestials are just a folktale."

The peculiar thing about Naino, as Zuri had come to know it, was that it was really a bunch of tiny cities in one. One moment, you were surrounded by craggy cobblestone and gray-black brick, but in the next five minutes the living arrangements were tall, smooth stone, rectangular and close-knit, like a labyrinth.