“Even me?”
“Especially you.” She kissed him on the forehead. “You are whatever you want to be, Wayne. You’re the wind. You’re the stars. You are all endless things.”
It was a poem she liked. He liked it too. Because when she said it, hebelievedher. How could he not? Ma didn’t lie. So, he snuggled deeper into his blankets and let himself drift off. A lot was wrong in the world, but a few things were right. And as long as she was around, stories meant something. They was real.
Until the next day, when there was another collapse at the mine. That night, his ma didn’t come home.
PART ONE
1
TWENTY-NINE YEARS LATER
Marasi had never been in a sewer before, but it was exactly as awful as she’dimagined. The stench was incredible, of course. But worse was the way her booted feet would occasionally slip for a heart-stopping moment, threatening to plunge her down into the “mud” underneath.
At least she’dhad the foresight to wear a uniform with trousers today, along with knee-high leather work boots. But there was no protection from the scent, the feel, or—unfortunately—the sound of it. When she took a step—map in one hand, rifle in the other—each boot would pull free with asquelchof mythical proportions. It would have been the worst sound ever, if not overmatched by Wayne’s complaining.
“Wax never brought me into a rusting sewer,” he muttered, raising the lantern.
“Are there sewers in the Roughs?”
“Well, no,” he admitted. “Pastures smell almost as bad, and he did make me march through those. But Marasi, they didn’t havespiders.”
“They probably did,” she said, angling the map toward his lantern. “You just couldn’t see them.”
“Suppose,” he grumbled. “But it’s worse when you can see the webs. Also there’s, you know, the literal sewage.”
Marasi nodded to a side tunnel and they started in that direction. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“What?” he demanded.
“Your mood.”
“Nothing’s wrong with my rusting mood,” he said. “It’s precisely the mood you’re supposed to have when your partner forces you to stick your frontside into a buncha stuff that comes out of your backside.”
“And last week?” she asked. “When we were investigating aperfume shop?”
“Rusting perfumers,” Wayne said, his eyes narrowing. “Never can tell what they’re hiding with those fancy smells. You can’t trust a man what doesn’t smell like a man should.”
“Sweat and booze?”
“Sweat andcheapbooze.”
“Wayne, how can you complain about someone putting on airs? You put on a different personality every time you change hats.”
“Does my smell change?”
“I suppose not.”
“Argument won. There are literally no holes in it whatsoever. Conversation over.”
They shared a look.
“I should get me some perfumes, eh?” Wayne said. “Someone might spot my disguises if Ialwayssmell like sweat and cheap booze.”
“You’re hopeless.”
“What’s hopeless,” he said, “is my poor shoes.”