Page 9 of Born for Lace

ChapterThree

Dahlia

The zipline ticks over notches as we dock. The hull bumps the edge of a wooden jetty.

The clarity in The Bite is dream-like. I can hear every noise echoing into the depths. Hear the playful trickling of water coming from unseen corners of the cave, and distinct female and male voices. Dock workers shuffle. Boats hum. It is not loud—it’s alive, in a reserved way.

I stare into the rocky tunnels, spotting lights from cabins made from both wood and the rock itself. So many houses—they appear small as they cling to the cave walls like starfish are said to do to underwater rocks.

“Off you get, Lace Girl,” Tomar calls.

My wonder is cut short when time is up, and I have to figure out what happens next without asking what happens next…

“Give me a few hours,” Tomar says to me, unknowingly answering my question, and creating another question: a few hours until what? “Oh, and you know the colours, right? Orange for first-light, yellow for crown-light, and red for last-light. Gets dark down here, but the streetlights will always show you the time.”

I nod. We had time-lamps in each room of the Lace House. With the sun always behind a blanket of Redwind, day and night, and everything in between become disorientating.

The other passengers are already stepping onto the rocky ground.

Right, I can do this.

Head high, I cradle Spero with one hand and climb from the boat, my boots hitting the smooth rock.

A few hours…. That is enough time to find Spero some food. Find an Exchange Hub or… a person who can help me. An older woman, perhaps. I roam the faces of people around.

Shuffling so mybeibaomoves on my back, I remind myself I have stamps to exchange. Lots of them. Whiskey stamps are worth five times milk stamps. I am set for a while.

Risking a look back at the catamaran, I find Tomar conversing with another man, and Lagos unloading the boat, lifting each massive crate effortlessly.

A few hours…

I tug my jacket higher, turn toward what looks like a small exchange and stride over to it. Warmth rushes up my spine, so I pause. When I peer over my shoulder, I inhale sharply. Lagos is staring straight at me with those near-pitch-black eyes. And I feel small and out of breath.

Does he know that I’m not Maple? Does he want to kill my—Maple’s—baby?

I have to trust them.

I will, but not blindly. A healthy dose of suspicion will keep me and Spero safe.

I lift my chin and continue in the opposite direction toward what I think is an Exchange Hub, a cabin with a sign hanging above the door. It has a fish drawn on it, but I hope they also have powdered milk or, more unlikely, formula.

I enter through a rickety door.

It’s a narrow room with very few items on display: crates of fish—half empty—a few items, ropes, gloves, hooks on racks. A small bowl of apples catches my eye, and my stomach rumbles with need.

I whisper, “Apples.”

Pulling mybeibaooff, I riffle through to collect all my whiskey stamps and a few tonic ones that I know are also quite valuable.

"Your stamps are no good ‘ere."

My eyes snap up to a man with hair as translucent as ice, one cloudy eye, and pinkened skin sagging from his aging face. He is visibly older—in his second century of life, for sure. It has not been kind to him.

"What do you mean?" I ask, blinking at him.

"You got Half-tower stamps.” The man walks toward me, his good eye measuring me up while the other doesn’t move. “I know your kind.” He points to the wad of papers in my hand. “That's worthless. That means nothin’ to me. I isn’t allowed in the tower.”

I almost lose my footing.

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