Page 22 of Born for Lace

Looking at this tiny being, so wriggly and new, I am overwhelmed with the urge to care for him.Oh,how I wish I had bargained for more stuff from the Endigo, and selfishly—horribly—wonder whether his Exchange Hub can still be entered.

Or is it boarded up?

Will another take over?

It could be lucrative…

I could look after Spero myself.Do I really need Tomar and, ugh, Lagos?I could take supplies from the exchange, find my own way across the desert, take my chances…

In my mind, I foresee stepping over the old Endigo man’s mutilated corpse and taking items like a scurrying rodent. I couldn’t bring myself tostealfrom anyone and stealing from a dead man seems worse than stealing from a living one.

I’m not like that… I couldn’t?—

Oh, no.The truth finds me in my lonely musings—To make the journey alone, I would have to kill or be killed. Be ruthless and cruel—be likeLagos.

The Cradle is said to be barren wastelands, with forests of windmills and the belting Redwind that only military vehicles can withstand. Outside the Trade towers, the land is home to savages. Endigos and Common raiders hide in the desert declines and hills. If I dare try to make my way alone, the people I encounter on the road will ravage me indiscriminately, maybe even feast on my flesh.

And Spero’s.

I couldn’t kill.

Could I?

Closing my eyes, I exhale a steady breath. I have to accept facts. That even if I knew how to get to the Common Community up north, without Tomar—and by extension, Lagos—I would probably die in the desert.

I need them.

With my eyes closed and my finger in Spero’s tiny hand, my chest fills with air before a heavy exhale drags through my lips. Sleep seems to be ready to take me. A few hours on the boat and mere minutes in the Deep Sleep are not enough to appease my exhaustion.

I relax deeper into the mattress, somewhere between sleep and awake, and focus on Spero’s light squeezes, little hiccups, and sweet, odd baby scent until…

ChapterSeven

Dahlia

I dream about Maple and wake up crying.

Sleep is intermittent, the gaps filled with feeding and tending to Spero, but as I swing the door open at first-light, and peer down the long, carpeted corridor, it becomes apparent the other occupants are not early risers.

Which explains the noises from last night, moans and giggles, squeaking beds and the thumps of feet passing my door.

During one of my night feeds, I explored the supplies Tomar provided, enough canned food for a week and another huge, shapeless black shirt like the one I woke up in. I presume they are his so I only plan to sleep in them, not wear them out. I have two pairs of pants and a modest shirt-dress. Then again, being attractive is not a priority.

On an exciting note, I realised I could use my linen neck wrap, typically used to shield me from the weather, as a carrier for Spero.

Feeding it over one shoulder and under one arm, I can slide Spero in at my chest and have full use of my hands. It’s not ideal for the desert, not with the Redwind, but it’s perfect for the crisp and steady atmosphere here at The Bite.

With Spero secure and well-fed, I close the bedroom door behind me and head down the corridor after convincing myself all night that I would explore and find supplies.

An entire month here, perhaps, and I do not want to rely entirely on Tomar or, worse still, Lagos.

The floor creaks as I pass other doors, heading toward the end where an open stairwell appears to lead downward. So, I’m not on the ground. I have no memory of getting here yesterday, meaning I don’t know what to expect.

I take the stairs and when my foot hits the floor at the bottom an opening to my left leads down four ceramic mosaic steps into a ruby-hued room with tables and chairs, but I can’t see further inside from here. To my right—Oh, I know exactly where I am. I recognise the small grey door and the lovely, jewellery-adorned woman standing at a tall desk.

The pretty House Girl I met yesterday leans over the stone counter, her bulbous cleavage spilling out for the man she is speaking to like an offering and not a subtle one.

The man is scary. Rotund. Light from outside reflects along the smooth, white surface of three parallel scars on his cheek. Perhaps claw marks from an animal or nails from a woman. I squirm, discomfort rising in my legs. I’m not a prude, or maybe I am, but not voluntarily. Being pure and sweet are part of my Trade.

---