The Drowning City - Amanda Downum [60]
But she couldn’t hide in her room forever either. Her mother had knocked three times already and eventually she’d demand Zhirin answer.
She paused beside her window, leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Raindrops trickled down the pane, fat beads of rain darkening the stone and trickling through the gutters before eventually joining the river. Zhirin wished she could lose herself in the water so easily. Already the current rolled on, washing away the blood and corpses, easing the shock of shattered stone; the river took all the pain.
She straightened, wiping the oily smudge of her skin off the expensive glass. Nearly noon—she had to go downstairs sooner or later. She rubbed her eyes again and opened her wardrobe, wafting the fragrance of imported cedar into the air. It had been a long time since she’d worn her mourning clothes, but they were still tucked inside, gray trousers and long blouse. Her mother would never let her leave the house with ashes in her hair.
After dressing and twisting her tangled hair up in sticks, Zhirin eased open her bedroom door. The third floor was quiet, no lamps burning against the rainy gloom. Rain-streaked windows cast rippling shadows over the tiles at the end of the hall.
On the second floor she heard soft voices from her mother’s study. She shook her head at the familiarity of it—had it been only seven days since she’d last come home? This time, she paused outside the door and listened.
“When will your next shipment be ready?” Fei Minh asked.
“At this rate, who knows?” Porcelain clinked and Faraj sighed; Zhirin was becoming far too familiar with the sound of his muffled voice.
“I can’t just order my ships to sit in harbor all season. People will talk. Not to mention the money I’d lose.”
“We’ll lose more than money if this fails. And we only need one ship.”
Zhirin swallowed; the pit of her stomach chilled, but she was too tired for true shock. Oh, Mira. Not you too.
“The Yhan Ti,” Fei Minh said after a moment. “She’s dry-docked anyway. I’ll tell the captain to take her time with the repairs.” A cup rattled against a saucer. “You have to do something about these terrorists, Faraj. My daughter could have been killed.”
The fierce protectiveness in her mother’s voice made Zhirin’s eyes sting again. She pressed a hand over her trembling mouth to stifle a sob. Swallowing tears, she knocked on the door and pushed it open.
Her mother rose, and Faraj set aside his cup.
“Darling—” Fei Minh raised a hand, let it fall again.
“Do you know yet?” she asked Faraj. “Who murdered Vasilios?”
“No. Asheris is investigating. Do you know anything that might help him?”
“They asked me that last night. No. He was…a good mage. A good master. An old man.” Her voice sounded hollow; she was hollow. No blushing now, no stammering. Was this how Isyllt did it? Scrape out everything that mattered, leave nothing but the cold?
“I’m sorry,” Faraj said, not meeting her eyes. He rose, straightening his coat. “Will you come to the ball tonight?” he asked Fei Minh.
Zhirin’s brow creased. “You’re still having a ball?” The festival usually lasted for days, but after last night she couldn’t imagine anyone celebrating.
He spread his hands and shrugged. “It’s a victory for them if we don’t. We can’t let them grind us down so easily.”
She swallowed half a dozen answers, pressed her lips tight.
“I don’t know yet,” Fei Minh said, carefully not glancing at her daughter.
“I understand. Again, Miss Laii, I’m sorry for your loss.” He waved Fei Minh back as she stepped toward the door. “I can see myself out.”
Zhirin waited till she heard the front door close to pour herself a cup of tea from the cooling pot. Fei Minh watched her carefully—afraid she’d start crying again, perhaps. Tea washed away the taste of tears, bitter replacing salt; leaves clung to the sides of the cup, swirled lazily in the dregs.
“Your business with Faraj,” she said at last, “your personal investment. It’s stones, isn’t it? It’s diamonds.” A tea leaf stuck in her throat