The morning crept in like a knife slipped between ribs, quiet and without apology.
Silk had been up for hours, though time held little meaning in a root cellar. Cellar was buried beneath earth like a forgotten silver piece, tucked between the skeletal ribs of burned-out tenements and shuttered winehouses. Where the gutters were choked with bird droppings and moss, and everything, everything, smelled faintly of old feathers and moisture damage.
The City of Fools dragged itself into motion. Crates slammed. Doors thudded. Somewhere nearby, a prostitute was shrieking curses at a customer who’d had his fill but refused to pay. The open hatch let in slanting light and a steady stream of noise from the abandoned rookery, gulls crying, pigeons cooing, the dry rustle of wings shifting on every exposed beam. Silk had propped both cellar doors open with broken bricks.
She sat cross-legged just outside the entrance now, her back to a tree stump, covered in soot and ivy. Sunlight brushed the tops of her knees. Her hands were clean, her knives notched back into their sheathes. She was dressed and ready, though she’d barely slept. A few shallow dozes, nothing deeper. Her body had rested, but her mind hadn’t let go. Not after that night. The hours had slipped past in silence, heavy and slow, while she lay there wide-eyed in the dark. The "bed" had been hard and uneven, the cellar thick with old air and the sound of other people breathing. He’d fallen asleep so easily, damn him. The thief had lain there stiff as a board at first, heart knocking on her ribs. For a time, she’d just watched him in the dark. She’d cuddled, her cheek near his shoulder, listening to the slow rhythm of his breath until it almost pulled her under. Actually cuddled. Like some soft thing that didn’t know better. Now the sun was up, and she was trying not to think about it.
Inside the cellar, the others were still sleeping, laying tangled in a moth-eaten blankets. Breakfast was already set. Buns of freshly baked (stolen) bread, a thick slices of cheese rubbed clean with ash, salted meat, a drizzle of honey, a small handful of walnuts. Two clean glass bottles of water stood between the bowls. She’d taken her own breakfast earlier and eaten outside.
She rubbed her thumb against a scar on her knuckle, eyes on the morning light creeping over rooftops. Silk liked Zalan. That was the problem. Last night hadn’t been a mistake. It had felt right, like they’d already known each other's bodies for a life.
But it was a mistake, wasn’t it?
Too much closeness blurred lines. And blurred lines got people killed. They had a job to do. A dangerous one. Too late to pretend the world had stopped. Too late to hide from what came next. With a quiet sigh, Silk rose to her feet, brushed the dust from her knees. Her joints ached faintly from the tension of a night spent half-curled in someone else’s warmth. She stooped low and ducked into the hatch, descending the steps into the dim, close air of the rootcellar.
Silk hesitated, her hand on the door frame. “Up,” she said, her voice firm and sharp. “Come on. Gotta move.”
Silk had been up for hours, though time held little meaning in a root cellar. Cellar was buried beneath earth like a forgotten silver piece, tucked between the skeletal ribs of burned-out tenements and shuttered winehouses. Where the gutters were choked with bird droppings and moss, and everything, everything, smelled faintly of old feathers and moisture damage.
The City of Fools dragged itself into motion. Crates slammed. Doors thudded. Somewhere nearby, a prostitute was shrieking curses at a customer who’d had his fill but refused to pay. The open hatch let in slanting light and a steady stream of noise from the abandoned rookery, gulls crying, pigeons cooing, the dry rustle of wings shifting on every exposed beam. Silk had propped both cellar doors open with broken bricks.
She sat cross-legged just outside the entrance now, her back to a tree stump, covered in soot and ivy. Sunlight brushed the tops of her knees. Her hands were clean, her knives notched back into their sheathes. She was dressed and ready, though she’d barely slept. A few shallow dozes, nothing deeper. Her body had rested, but her mind hadn’t let go. Not after that night. The hours had slipped past in silence, heavy and slow, while she lay there wide-eyed in the dark. The "bed" had been hard and uneven, the cellar thick with old air and the sound of other people breathing. He’d fallen asleep so easily, damn him. The thief had lain there stiff as a board at first, heart knocking on her ribs. For a time, she’d just watched him in the dark. She’d cuddled, her cheek near his shoulder, listening to the slow rhythm of his breath until it almost pulled her under. Actually cuddled. Like some soft thing that didn’t know better. Now the sun was up, and she was trying not to think about it.
Inside the cellar, the others were still sleeping, laying tangled in a moth-eaten blankets. Breakfast was already set. Buns of freshly baked (stolen) bread, a thick slices of cheese rubbed clean with ash, salted meat, a drizzle of honey, a small handful of walnuts. Two clean glass bottles of water stood between the bowls. She’d taken her own breakfast earlier and eaten outside.
She rubbed her thumb against a scar on her knuckle, eyes on the morning light creeping over rooftops. Silk liked Zalan. That was the problem. Last night hadn’t been a mistake. It had felt right, like they’d already known each other's bodies for a life.
But it was a mistake, wasn’t it?
Too much closeness blurred lines. And blurred lines got people killed. They had a job to do. A dangerous one. Too late to pretend the world had stopped. Too late to hide from what came next. With a quiet sigh, Silk rose to her feet, brushed the dust from her knees. Her joints ached faintly from the tension of a night spent half-curled in someone else’s warmth. She stooped low and ducked into the hatch, descending the steps into the dim, close air of the rootcellar.
Silk hesitated, her hand on the door frame. “Up,” she said, her voice firm and sharp. “Come on. Gotta move.”
