Page 78 of A Tower of Half-Truths
“The earliest years were, from what little Mother has told me, and from what little I can remember.” He gestured to the boutique. “But, as you can see, things eventually worked out for the better.” With a shiver, he shoved his hands in his pockets. “Let’s hurry back to the market before we both freeze.”
They turned away from the shop. Though only the crest of the Night Market’s dome was visible up ahead, the din of the crowd—and the music cutting through it—carried all the way down the moonlit street.
“Who was the wizard you mentioned earlier?” Mavery asked. “The one your mother helped?”
Alain came to an abrupt stop. “It was…Nezima.”
“Let me guess: being the reason for your mother’s fortune is something she’s always lorded over you. That’s why you hate her so much.”
“I don’t—” he began. Mavery threw him a pointed look, and he sighed. “You’re right, Idodislike her, but that’s not the reason. Therealreason is a story for another time, and one that would dampen the mood.”
“Fair enough,” she said. Her curiosity was far from quelled, but she would set the matter aside—for tonight.
Despite the cold, Alain continued down the road at a leisurely stride, and Mavery had to slow her pace to match his.
“So, if both your parents were Dyadists, are you also one?” she asked.
“Not in the slightest, despite my mother’s best efforts. Besides, one can only return from the dead so many times and still believe in the afterlife—or higher powers, for that matter.”
“Right, I’m sure you would’ve collected calling cards from the entire Pantheon by now.”
He laughed. “Oh, I doubt any of them would be thrilled to see me, the number of times I’ve denied them another soul for the Beyond. But what about you? When you were a child, did your family also force you to weekly temple services?”
“Not weekly, but we made pilgrimage to the Temple of Messun at least once a season, to ensure the God of the Harvest protected our crops from demon-blight.”
Alain scoffed. “Of course your crops would be protected from demons—they were driven out centuries ago!”
“And any Messunist would say that was proof that our prayers had been answered.” Mavery shook her head. “One summer—I was thirteen at the time, I think—the last of my grandparents fell ill and passed away. Between the funeral and keeping up with the farm, we had no time to make our seasonal trip to the temple. When we still had our best harvest in years, I realized that all of it—the wassailing, the prayers, the pilgrimages—was a load of rubbish.”
“Hold on, did you say ‘wassailing’?”
“It’s when you sing to the—”
“Oh, I’m familiar with that custom.” A smile teased at the corner of his mouth. “I just can’t imagine you singing to anything, much lesstrees.”
She laughed. “Another reason why Messunism was never a good fit.”
“Well, if more people used that same reasoning, perhaps all the Pantheonic churches would have less influence.” They had now returned to the plaza. Alain stopped before the dome of warding magic and sighed. “Sorry, you wanted me to take a night off, and here I am, diving head-first into a theological discussion.”
Mavery grinned as she nudged him with her elbow. “You can take a scholar out of his library…”
She stepped through the magical barrier, and Alain followed closely behind her. The Night Market was less crowded than before, but the festivities continued on, now with much shorter queues at the stalls. Mavery gasped as she spotted a familiar sight at one of them.
“I haven’t had one of those inyears!” she cried, pointing to one of Fenutia’s signature pastries. Dozens of flaky layers formed a spiral shape that was roughly the length of her forearm and half as wide. The entire thing was encased in a thick, white glaze and dusted with powdered sugar.
“Good evening, sir,” she said to the merchant in Fenutian. “How much costing, this is?”
Though Mavery had read plenty of the language over the past week, speaking it was another matter entirely. Despite her butchering of Fenutian grammar, the merchant—a stout, gray-haired man—gave her a broad smile.
“Normally, three potins each,” he replied in Fenutian, albeit at a glacial pace. “But for speaking my mother tongue, you pay half.”
Mavery relayed this to Alain, who balked at the cost.
“You did promise meanything,” she said. “And trust me, these are so incredible, they’re worth the cost ten times over.”
“If you say so,” he muttered as he handed the man a single note and fifty coppers.
Mavery had barely put any distance between herself and the stall when she could no longer resist. Hearing the crunch as she took a bite brought about a wave of nostalgia. Tasting the rich butter as it melted on her tongue, then ungracefully licking the cinnamon and sugar from her lips, brought about a second wave.
