Isolde sprinted.
Her gait was awkward and uneven, and pain shot up her leg. How long did they have? Two minutes? Three? She didn't bother glancing at her watch. The wind whipped blonde hair into her face, and she thought of how much faster the gas would spread. How royally and utterly screwed they were.
The third foghorn blew.
The magic came in a wave from the palace, just as it always did: thick, silvery gas, slithering through the sleeping city's streets. Bardan was choked, her buildings imprisoned in noxious clouds. The gas was a form of nightmare somnium, Isolde had learned, although she had no idea how it was made.
All she knew was that there was no resistance to it.
No surviving it.
She raced through the streets. Every part of her ached, every limb screaming at her to stop. To rest. She leapt over a wooden cart, her leg buckling on the other side. She pitched sideways, and the ground rushed up in a blur of colours. Somewhere, an animal was screeching. Or perhaps it was a human; both sounded remarkably similar when they died.
Isolde tried to stand.
Her leg collapsed.
A broken sob rose in her throat.
She was going to die. This child was going to die. She clutched Rosie to her chest, burrowing her face into her shoulder. She could see the silver gas rising over the buildings, rushing toward them in a tidal wave.
This was it.
Isolde closed her eyes.
Years of memories flooded her. She thought of the whispers that chased her at breakfast. She thought of young girls taunting her, thought of crumpled wads of paper striking her head during lessons, thought of wearing hats with wide brims so that nobody could see her strange eyes.
She thought of Sister Tria's face looming over her when she was six years old, her hands and legs strapped to a table. "We will remake you," Sister Tria had whispered, stroking her cheek. "We will drive the devil out of you." She recalled the sickening pain of the hammer striking her leg. The agony of lying there for hours.
A lump rose in her throat. She wished she'd left that godforsaken convent.
She wished she'd been stronger.
Isolde stroked Rosie's hair. The little girl was asleep, one meaty fist resting on her collarbone. She rocked her back and forth, humming a song under her breath. One of the only hymns she could stand.
I looked in a frost-covered pond, my dear
I looked in a frost-covered pond;
And there I saw you weeping, my dear
Next to the willows and fronds
The gas moved closer. Her voice shook.
I dreamt by a frost-covered pond, my dear
I dreamt by a frost-covered pond;
And there I held your hand, my dear
Next to the willows and fronds
The gas rushed up in a wave.
We dove into the water together, my dear
And forged that unbreakable bond;
In a frost-covered pond, my dear
In a frost-covered pond
Isolde braced herself.
Her gaze landed on an overturned barrel.
Adrenaline spiked through her. It was a fool's chance — a totally mad, impossible chance — but it was her only chance. She clutched Rosie to her chest, half-dragging them toward it. Snow and dirt caked under her nails. The hiss of the gas filled her ears. More screams, more bodies thudding against the ground. How many people had died tonight? Six? Seven? Her hands shook as she wrenched open the top.
She pushed Rosie inside the barrel. Then she climbed in after, yanking the lid shut.
The gas rushed over top of them.
Isolde held her breath. It was instinctive, even if the barrel was fully sealed. She knew this barrel; it was the sort that sailors used to transport expensive wine from Zarob. Any oxygen that leaked in would damage the alcohol, so it was designed to be seal proof.
Still.
Isolde couldn't stop herself from holding her breath. From waiting.
Ten seconds passed.
Twenty.
Isolde burrowed her face in Rosie's damp hair. Two minutes ticked by. Three. Her spine dug into the wooden curve of the barrel, and her legs were howling in pain. They couldn't last much longer in here; they'd run out of oxygen soon. But to exit now...
It was too soon.
"You stopped singing," Rosie said sleepily.
A surprised laugh escaped her. "I didn't realize you were awake."
Rosie rubbed at her eyes. "What's that silver stuff?" She gestured at the walls of the barrel. "I don't like it."
A lump rose in her throat.
How, Isolde reflected, did you explain the concept of overpopulation to a child? How did you explain that your emperor flooded the streets every fortnight with nightmare somnium? How did you explain the normalization of genocide? How did you explain that the poor died so that the rich could survive?
She couldn't.
"Sometimes," Isolde said carefully, "Emperor Halson sends very dangerous gas through the streets. And that gas will kill you." She rotated Rosie so that they were facing one another. "You have to hide when you see it, understand?"
Rosie's small brow puckered. "Why does he do that?"
"I don't know," Isolde said.
"Does he know it hurts people?"
"Yeah." Her throat was thick. "I think he probably does."
Rosie considered this. "I don't like the idea of hurting someone. One time I accidentally stepped on a worm, and we had a funeral for it. Now I always look down when I'm walking." She looked up. "Would you be sad?"
"To hurt people?" Isolde asked.
Rosie nodded.
"Yes." Isolde's arms tightened. "I would be very sad. But I'm not sure that Emperor Halson feels things the way that normal people do."
Rosie considered this. "Mamar says that the emperor can be silly sometimes."
Mamar. Grandmother. Relief punched Isolde in the stomach, so hard and fast that she almost choked on it; maybe Rosie wasn't living on the streets after all. Maybe she'd simply gotten lost, and her family was frantically looking for her.
"Where is your mamar?" Isolde asked.
Rosie yawned. "She's with my parents."
"And where are your parents?"
She stretched her arms. "They're away with the winter winds."
A stone settled in her stomach. In other words, Rosie's parents were dead. Presumably her grandmother, too. Isolde hugged the young girl closer to her chest, her breathing shallow in the damp, narrow space.
"When did they leave?"
"Last month." Rosie frowned. "Daddy got a fever, and then Mummy got it, too. I was sick for six whole days but then I woke up and I was okay." She brightened. "But I've got my cat, Tukuma. We look after each other. The gas won't get him, right?"
Her chest felt tight. "Is he a smart cat?"
"Very," Rosie said.
Isolde squeezed her. "Then I'm sure he did a good job hiding."
There was a bang.
Red blinded her. Rosie let out a little noise, burrowing her face in Isolde's fur cloak. She clutched the younger girl, her heart hammering. She'd almost forgotten about this part: Halson always set off a series of explosions to catch the stragglers that had managed to fight off the nightmare somnium. She'd watched the explosions from the loft once, lighting up the sky in a dazzling sea of apricot orange and butter yellow and chocolate brown.
There was another bang. The explosion lit up the barrel, casting them in an odd silvery glow, as if they'd been dipped in stardust.
Rosie's eyes widened. "What's that?"
"Don't worry," Isolde said, "it's almost over." She hugged her close, trying to steady her breathing. "We'll be safe in here."
"No," Rosie said, "what's that?"
She tapped Isolde's forehead.
Dread coiled in Isolde's chest. The eerie silver glow was becoming brighter, shining like a star cupped in two hands. And the mysterious light looked almost as if it was coming from... it looked like it was coming from...
Ice slid down her spine.
No. It wasn't possible.
"Rosie," Isolde said slowly. "Do I have something on my forehead?"
The young girl nodded.
Her heart kicked into staccato. "Can you describe it for me?"
Rosie cocked her head. "Is this a game?"
"Yes," Isolde said. "Yes, it's a fun game." Her throat felt dry. "Try to be very detailed in your description, please."
Rosie's face scrunched up. "Well, it looks sort of like a snowflake. It's purple and has a star in the middle, and it has sort of a..." She mimed a diamond. "Like that? Around the whole thing." She looked up at Isolde hopefully. "Did I get it right?"
Isolde half-closed her eyes. There was only one symbol in the world that looked like that. Only one person who could have left that mark.
Lestia.