he wanted.
What had she done?
No emotions, no fear, she thought. She smiled and adjusted her posture, but that couldn’t have made much of an impression, panting and sweating as she was.
“Well, I’m actually looking for my mother, Lourdes Alfero,” Enne explained. “She mentioned Mr. Glaisyer to me in a letter. She said he’d be glad to help.”
“I never knew Pup to be glad to help anyone,” he said darkly. “Sure you got the right man?”
Dread blossomed in her like black ink soaking through paper. Could there have been some other mistake? “I believe so,” she replied meekly. “How are you acquainted with him?”
“Acquainted?” he echoed. With his thick New Reynes accent, he didn’t pronounce the t. It reminded Enne that she was awfully far away from home.
“How do you know Mr. Glaisyer?” she asked.
“Everyone does,” he answered. “He’s the lord.”
Footsteps thudded down a staircase, and two others entered the kitchen. The first was another boy, also about Enne’s age. He had a soldier’s look to him: broad shoulders, a shirt too tight for his muscular build and an expression like he was never much surprised about anything—that, or he didn’t care. Black-and-white tattoos covered his arms, some disappearing into his sleeve, snaking up his neck. Among them were two small ones, the only ones with color: a red J on one arm, and a diamond on the next, in the same places as the first boy’s. He wore his trousers cuffed and his blond hair slicked back underneath a newsboy cap.
Like a gangster, she thought. She took a step closer to the door.
The other person was a girl, maybe thirteen years old. She had golden skin and thick black hair, which was cut bobbed and jagged. She wore men’s clothes that were several sizes too large and a pair of ruby earrings that Enne imagined she’d stolen. On the underside of her forearms, just like the boys, she had two tattoos: a black spade on the left, a five on the right.
The boys met each other’s eyes sternly. “Where’ve you been, Chez?” the soldier one demanded. “And where—” his eyes wandered over to Enne “—did you find a missy like this?”
“Near Tropps Street. She was wandering around...an easy target, really—”
“You’re a bad liar,” the soldier one said. “You’ve been pickpocketing near the harbor again. You know Levi has business with the whiteboot captain. Business worth a lot more than a few volts in some tourist’s pocket.”
Enne perked up at the mention of Levi. So they both knew him.
“Then where’s my paycheck, Jac?” Chez growled. “Where’s her paycheck?” He gestured toward the girl. When the soldier boy—Jac—didn’t respond, Chez added, “I found this missy asking the whiteboots about Pup—I mean, about Levi. Levi and some other person. Then they started tailing her.” Chez took a switchblade out of his pocket and flipped it between his knuckles—deftly, expertly. Enne’s mouth dried, and she hugged her purse to her side. “She’s kinda thick.”
Jac tugged at his cap and nodded at Enne, who tried not to appear nervous. From his build, Enne guessed he had a strength talent. If he grabbed her, she wouldn’t be able to escape. And if she ran, Chez would catch her.
They all knew Levi Glaisyer, but something was wrong. Without knowing why, she felt trapped. Fifty minutes in the city, and she’d already made a dangerous mistake.
Jac stepped closer to Enne and stared at her with such intensity that, if not for years of etiquette training, would’ve made her drop her gaze to the floor. Lost or not, strength and speed talents or not, she refused to let them know they intimidated her.
“What’s your name?” he asked, arms crossed.
“Enne,” she said, clearly, loudly, as if answering roll call rather than speaking to a potential delinquent.
Don’t speak about yourself unless asked. Never show fear. Never allow yourself to be lost. No emotions. Don’t trust anyone unless you must.
Lourdes had drilled dozens of rules into Enne in the hope that they would become second nature. Usually, they were. Sometimes Enne could hear her mother’s voice in her head, whispering about etiquette and precautions. But right now, all she could focus on was Chez’s knife twirling around his index finger and the seriousness in Jac’s gray eyes. Even the girl looked threatening, and she was younger than Enne.
Enne held her breath, but even so, she felt herself cracking...shattering.
“Enne? That’s a letter, ain’t it?” Jac asked.
“Yes.” She didn’t hide her astonishment well, but the boy didn’t seem to notice.
“You from around here?”
“I’m from Bellamy.”
“Quite a journey.” He smiled, and she relaxed a bit when she noticed his dimples and the way his ears stuck out. “When did you get here?”
“An hour ago.” A wave of nausea crashed over her when she remembered that she’d left her trunk with all her belongings near the harbor. Someone would’ve stolen them since then. Now her only means of paying for her stay in New Reynes and her ticket home were the thousand volts she was carrying, meant to last an entire summer. She hadn’t anticipated buying new clothes or other necessities while in the city.
She was lost, surrounded by strangers, and all she had were the contents of her purse. And it was—mostly—her own fault.
When she caught Chez and the girl both staring hungrily at her bag, she hugged it closer.
Fear. Lost. Emotions. Trusting... Were there rules for when she was breaking every rule?
“I don’t know why you wanna see Levi,” Jac said, shaking her trembling hand, “but anyone who outruns two whiteboots on their first day here seems trustworthy in my book.”
Even if he trusted her, Enne knew better than to trust him. She knew better than to trust anyone in New Reynes. Except, hopefully, this Levi Glaisyer.
“Levi will be here in an hour,” he said, and those were the only words that held her together. “He’s busy, and I can’t make promises, but I’ll make sure he talks to you.” He took her arm and led her to the sitting room, his smile a little too wide, his grip a little too tight. “I’m Jac Mardlin. Allow me to be your official welcome to the City of Sin.”
Muck. Of all the gambling taverns in the city, why had the whiteboot captain chosen Grady’s? Levi Glaisyer hadn’t set foot in there since he’d handed Grady his resignation four years ago. He paced back and forth in the alley outside the tavern, dropping the copy of The Crimes & the Times he’d been carrying. On the front page, a photograph of Malcolm Semper, the oh-so-respected Chancellor of the Republic, soaked up the muddy rainwater.
After a few more moments of cursing, Levi gathered his nerve, straightened his felt homburg hat and strode to the door.
The inside of the tavern hadn’t changed at all. It still reeked of tobacco and burnt food, and the patrons were loud, even now, early in the morning. A group of men seated at the main card table—what was once Levi’s card table—were dressed in clothes with more patches than original fabric. A woman in fishnet stockings giggled and toppled into one of their laps.
The dealer at the table did a double take once he noticed Levi. Most gamblers considered Levi to be the best dealer in the city, and he didn’t normally show his face in establishments as small-time as this one.
But he hadn’t come to gamble. He’d come for business.
Levi