Page 32 of Born for Lace

“Apparently, it’s Tomar who fancies you, then?” Sweets says, leaning her hip on the wall and folding her arms over her exposed breasts.

“I doubt that.” I frown, heading straight for my room only to notice it is unlocked. My heart leaps into my throat as I swing the door open, finding Tomar sitting on the bed with Spero cradled in his arms. I exhale hard.

“He sleeps like the dead.” Tomar smiles, gaze lost as he looks at Spero. “Such a sweet boy.”

“I wasn’t gone long. I promise.” Scooping my wet hair to the side, it dangles and drips down my chest, wetting my black shirt. Oh.Hisblack shirt. A blush of awkwardness spreads across my cheeks.

“I wasn’t judging you, Dahlia.”

“You don’t mind…” I pause, lifting the fabric of his shirt as my face flushes. “That I am wearing this, do you? I found it with the supplies.”

“It is for you to wear. Look what you found.” His blue gaze moves around the room, taking in the small mobile I fashioned from shells and rope, the bottle-rattle, and the mirror. “You didn’t do anything silly for these items, did you?”

My gaze widens. “No. I helped Tide.”

“That old geezer let you near his boat?” He lets out a single laugh, and if I weren’t so tired, it would make me smile. “Well, it seems you’ve managed something none of us have. I’ve been offering to help him for years, but he won’t allow it. Stubborn old bastard.”

“Why are you always helping people,” I ask, and I hate that kindness is so unbelievable.

“I told you,” he says with a chuckle, “it’s my Purpose.”

“And Lagos,” I ask, brow rising, “Why does he do it?”

“It’s his Purpose, too.”

I scoff helplessly. “Sorry, but he doesn’t seem the noble type at all. He is—” I see his leer. “Cruel to me, and rude. Unnecessarily.”

“It wasn’t the Purpose he was born for, sure, but it is the Purpose he chose. He chooses it every day when he protects me so I can help others.”

“Why does he dislike me?”

“I don’t think he does, Dahlia,” Tomar says. “Helping someone like you is not easy for him. Your innocence bothers him—discomforts him. So he’s just,” he pauses, “intolerant.”

Someone like me?

A Trade girl?

“Intolerant. Grumpy.” I lift an auburn brow at him. “Grumpy is a polite word for him.”

“Maybe. You don’t know him.” He nods to a basket on the floor filled with cans and two bottles of white powder. “More food and formula. That formula was not easy to get, Dahlia. It’s all Trade stock. It’ll be even harder when we hit the desert.”

“Milk?” I ask, even though finding milk is hard, surely not as hard as sourcing formula. Reproduction in The Cradle is controlled by The Trade, so anything that might aid a non-authorised pregnancy is scarce-to-impossible to find. The Trade will provide everything needed for a safe birth in exchange for the babe. All babies born in The Cradle are declared Trade property. While the Endigo and Common who live outside of Trade towers are free to do as they please, they are also disadvantaged—on their own to raise, educate, and deliver their young. The Trade will not offer any aid to citizens who refuse the regime. “Just plain milk might do for a while?”

I’m not convinced.

“Powdered milk. Sure.” Tomar nods dubiously. “For a day or so, but he’ll need more than that. We will be in the desert for a week before we get to the Common Community.”

“Can we find a new mother?”

“In the desert?” He shakes his head with a soft laugh, not condescending, more disappointed. “Better luck finding formula than a lactating woman who isn’t Trade-aligned.”

“There has to be something.”

He stands with Spero and lays him down in the nest I made at the bottom of the bed. “What I did find is in that basket.” He sits back down and clasps his fingers together. “Might help. If you’re willing to try it. I didn’t want to be the one to have this conversation with you, but I’m all you’ve got. I did ask Sweets to talk to you about this, but she’s been rather…” He clicks his tongue before settling on, “Unhelpfulwhen it comes to you. I wrongfully thought she’d mother you, but I believe she finds your presence uncomfortable.”

Annoyance rushes through me. Uncomfortable? How? What have I done? I try not to show my agitation, but it comes through a scoff. “How? I barely speak to?—"

“Dahlia,” he soothes, and I stop talking. “Relax. It’s not you. It’s her. Just like with Lagos, it’s not you, it’s him.”

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