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C R U M M Y
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FETA FROWNED, BROW CREASING GENTLY. "But this is what I'm good at."
"Better if you stay here," Kaz dismissed. "Off you go, Zenik."
Nina would have preferred Feta come with her, actually. It would be less suspicious for two girls to tut around Upper Djerholm than for Nina to wander aimlessly by herself, especially with the way things were in Fjerda. They were stricter with women here; they had rules and responsibilities that must be seen to lest they disappoint their fathers and bring shame to their family and blah blah blah.
Besides, Feta was born here and had more practice with deceiving its citizens. She'd swindled her way through this country once, and if she could do it as a child then she could certainly do it now.
From mesmerizing pigeons with her dances on the Staves to bringing the Komedie Brute plays to life in theaters to crooning in her corner of the Crow Club or just outright from behind the bar, the title — the stage name — Siren had followed her everywhere.
Feta's reputation preceded her. She was more than capable of being exactly what everyone needed.
Nina would dare to say Feta was more fluid than her; Feta would disagree. Nina was a natural actress. She was clever and quick on her feet and she had been a great help in Feta improving her improv, a natural teacher, as well.
But Feta, in Nina's opinion, had more dedication to character, nailed the mannerisms and speech patterns every time.
Hell, she'd even had Nina convinced she wasn't Grisha.
Not that Nina had ever asked, now that she thought about it.
That was a conversation for later, for after this job, for when they all went their separate ways with their fortunes. No matter that the longer Nina thought about it, the longer she actually was hurt that Feta kept being a Tidermaker secret. Of all people not to entrust with this secret... Had Nina been the last to know?
Later.
For now Feta was staying here, in this crowded bakery with Kaz and the others since Kaz wasn't budging.
"Precautions, Feta. Think of the peddler today," Kaz said, unmoved by Feta's calling, by her willingness to help. "Too many close calls—"
"But they're not," Feta reminded him. "If they think they know me, then that's perfect! They'll be easier to approach, and loads more willing to tell me about Hringkalla. I mean, c'mon. Look at this face." Feta rested her chin on her interlaced fingers. "Could you tell modest, reserved, lil ol' seen-and-not-heard me, no?"
Kaz stared at her over his cinnamon roll. "You look local—"
"Gee, you finally noticed?" They'd been parading around this sea of blonde long enough already that Feta's eyes were starting to hurt.
Unperturbed, Kaz said, "Wouldn't you find it strange if someone who could very easily be your neighbor begins asking basic questions about one of the most popular celebrations in the country? Wouldn't you want to ask her where she's been?"
Although Feta would've liked to point out that she was more than capable of being discreet, of figuring it out, she settled instead for amusing herself, seeing that she wasn't going to be let out of this bakery quietly. "Tell them I've been rolling in the dirt. It wouldn't be too far off."
Kaz cracked a wry smirk and settled back in his chair, eyes never leaving Feta as he said, "Off you go, Zenik."
Feta kept herself busy by stuffing her face with their second attempt at something edible, leaving demolished rolls and chocolate-chunk cookies in her wake. It was all she could do not to sulk.
Already she was feeling retired and set aside because of her injuries. She hadn't managed to do much during their skirmish with the drugged Grisha, either; all she'd had to prove that she'd been present was blood stained hands that she'd had to clean with some of Jesper's drinking water, washing her hands raw in the mini current she'd created. And on top of all that, returning to where she'd run from wasn't shaping up to be nearly as triumphant as she'd hoped for either. The entire job was just making her feel off.
Preceding every joke, every comment, was a desperation Feta couldn't tolerate, a need to break out of her memories and remember things are different now things are different now things are different now.
Different, too, because this wasn't like the Barrel where you could change the rules of the game and get away with it. Here, unable to do much else so far but hike and think, Feta actually had to deal with the parts of her that were unpleasant, tarnished, left unfinished.
Perhaps the Barrel should've driven it out of her long ago. Perhaps she was as foolish as plenty of self-proclaimed thugs made her out to be.
But she wanted someone to take it easy on her, wanted someone to care that she was replaying the worst years of her life with every step they took.
This, of course, was unfair.
Feta knew that her friends cared how she was doing.
Kaz? Eh.
He might have, somewhat, but there was so much going on Feta couldn't level her head to think for a minute, couldn't come up with how he cared or why he should. He was her boss. Nothing said that he had to.
She hadn't said no to this job. It was her own fault.
So it was what Feta deserved, to swallow her nightmares and her very real fear and do this job like she was supposed to.
But it was a lot, coming back to Fjerda where she'd always felt like a hunted animal. Ketterdam procured her to be proud, to be sure of herself above all else. She was more bravado than girl. And now she was being forced through relentless memory after memory, terror after terror, and one thing about the child that lives inside you is that it doesn't like to be told its fear wasn't worth anything. They like to be told there's nothing to be afraid of in the first place, but Feta felt so scrambled, so useless, that she couldn't find it in her to soothe the younger Feta.
Feta, this is pathetic.
It should not be this hard.
You know what they expect. You know how this goes.
This is still just a game. You are still in control. You don't need your friends to care that the Fjerdans would kill you because of something you were born as rather than whatever monster you've become, that's selfish and whiny. Stop acting like a child.
Get your shit together and let them underestimate you.
Easier said than done.
Inej waved a scone in Feta's face.
Feta blinked. There was never this much doubt before. Is this what it felt like to implode inside your own head?
She couldn't even joke about feeling like the tabletop after the decimation of their sweets: crummy.
Is this what would've happened if I saw my parents before I left? Would I have even come?
Feta saw Inej open her mouth, saw the concern in her blazing coal eyes, and ultimately decided that no, she could not handle being asked what was wrong, how she was, or anything of the sort.
"More coffee," was all Feta could manage, outright eager to escape the situation.
Inej watched her go; she watched Kaz watch her go, putting his brooding on pause for a moment. How menacing he looked, making sure Feta found her way safely to the counter as he clutched a piping mug of chocolate.
Inej had been talking to Matthias about the matter of homes, the matter of Nina, the matter of Matthias not even realizing all this pent up emotion towards Nina was really a good thing when you laid it all out, untangled it from the stubborn knot it had become.
Just like how she'd done with Kaz regarding Feta, although Kaz had shut her out and stalked away once he realized what Inej was getting at.
Now, Inej turned her eyes back to the crumbly sweets in front of them. A few she'd recognized from Feta's stash on the Ferolind. She'd gone for those first.
"Feta wants more say in this fight," Inej said for Matthias' ears. "She never did like sitting back and watching everything happen unless she got to pull some of the strings. And now she's helpless in the country that chased her out." Inej raised her eyes pointedly to Matthias.
"Fjerda never chased me out," Matthias said, missing the point. "It was — is — an honor to fight for Djel's cause and the harmony of the natural world." Matthias heaved a sigh, dispersing the steam from his mug. "And now I am stabbing my country in the back. There is not a more dishonorable thing."
"Feta's betraying one of the only rules from her parents she still lived by: never return to Fjerda." Inej sipped from her mug, quite calm for such quick responses. "Feta became something better, something bigger than herself in the Dregs. But we all have things that have happened to us that we cannot overcome so easily." For Inej, this was the Menagerie. This was slimy men thinking they had the upperhand, and getting off on it. Feta had been there for her, either as a comfort or as a distraction, and Inej wanted to do the same. "Feta wants to wreak havoc and we trust her to do so, but she needs to trust herself right now."
Matthias wasn't so sure. There would be vengeance enough on Nina's end, hell to pay if this mission didn't go Brekker's way...could he really risk leading a revenge-driven Tidemaker, the most vile of the witches he'd faced if she was so willing to corrupt Djel's wellsprings, into his home? Let Feta doubt herself, doubt what she was doing. That was fine by Matthias.
"I will not let her do that," Matthias grumbled.
"You're letting us," Inej pointed out. Matthias scowled. "Besides, it doesn't make a difference what you'll let Feta do. She'll do it anyway, when she's ready." Inej cast a glance to where Feta was lingering at the counter, waiting on her drink. "A lot of what you think of Nina works for Feta, too. Though I can imagine you weren't expecting that to come packaged like home."
Matthias did not meet her eyes. Inej waited until he did. Feta was slipping gracefully through the crowd on her way back to the table, at this point.
Under his breath, so soft Inej was surprised the druskelle's voice did not break, he muttered shamefully, "She looks like my sister."
Inej could not help the yanking on her heartstrings, could not offer enough apologies; Kaz could not help but wrench his gaze from Feta approaching to where Matthias was hunched over in his seat, always tuned in to where Feta's name was mentioned. Jesper and Wylan remained oblivious.
Feta sat down, looking steadier with a chocolatey coffee in her hands. The silence was too sudden. Feta furrowed her brows at Inej, flicked her eyes to Matthias. Inej blinked back innocently; Matthias did not look up again. "Were you talking about me?" Curious, no trace of accusation.
"Yes," Inej said.
"I appreciate your honesty." She cracked a wry smile. "All daring things, I hope."
"Giving up on good things?" Jesper smirked
Feta shrugged, lifted her coffee up close so the steam brought some color back to her face. "I've got too many, no one's got time to hear about them all. Daring things, now that makes you stick out in people's minds." Feta winked at Matthias, a ghost of her bravado rising. "And it's better to leave an impression."
Wylan shook his head with an unmistakable fondness. "Yes, you certainly prioritize leaving a mark."
With subtle prodding from Inej, Feta loosened up, relaxed in her chair like a Saint draped over a throne, like silk draped over a body. It was still weird to see Feta in thicker winter clothes that totally bundled her up; the Dregs had gotten used to seeing her in oddly-cut tunics, patterned britches, and her beloved, heavy-duty boots. Or elegantly sequined, sheer silks with dance slippers, hardly anything in between. With her cheeks still rosy from the cold, her smile coming easier every time it arose — even glances to Kaz that seemed no more loaded with the unspoken than usual — Feta effortlessly fit the role of a sailor enjoying her journey for all its worth.
Kaz wanted to hold on to this, this moment on this job where she looked as she did during their jobs at home: unburdened, inviting, happy. The life of the party, no matter where she went, even if that happened to be the country that shunned her.
Be better about this, Kaz scolded himself. Be better with her, for her.
It should not be this hard.
Get your shit together and do better.
But that was until Wylan, the poor soul, knowing jack squat about what it meant for Feta to be a Tidermaker from Fjerda, started asking questions. Inej who understood inner conflict and Jesper who understood running away shielded her the best they could, deflecting Wylan's questions for her and doing their best to subtly shoot the boy warning glares. But their united front had nothing on the fury radiating from Kaz, lethal enough to tint the cheery atmosphere of the bakery, not trying in the slightest to disguise his displeasure.
Feta brushed it off for their sake and fell into an entirely different conversation with Inej and Wylan, but it featured far too much mention of elsewhere for Kaz to stomach it. The bastard of the Barrel, who accepted Feta's loaded looks gratefully, who almost seemed not gentle but less severe for it, panicked and engaged Jesper in a loud, rambling conversation about something unimportant, something to distract him.
He did not want to confront the possibility of Feta wanting to go anywhere, anywhere but Ketterdam, anywhere but the Dregs. The trouble was he knew she would be fine — an avid actress and skilled fighter, with civil manners and a friendly disposition; she could easily start over. She was too good to be true, and elsewhere would be lucky to have her.
But what was Kaz supposed to do if he started pacing when she was merely across the city, out of sight in the Slat, even?
Oh Ghezen, put a sock in it.
He didn't have to think about that now. Or at least yet.
Instead he let Jesper carry the ramblings from there as he was soothed by the enchanting sound of the Siren's voice, thrilled by the sight of her smirk as she watched Matthias' face flood with relief upon Nina's safe return.