I know I shouldn’t care about the herbs, or the trade with the Heaters, or anything other than getting Jolie back, but my theories are the only thing keeping me sane. Every day that passes without seeing Jolie is like a bruise on my soul, an ache in places that are impossible to reach and that don’t heal, not with time, not with talk, not with sleep.
The lawkeeper stopped the search weeks ago, chalking it up to a mysterious disappearance, despite the fact that Clint, Looza and I all saw someone take her. But I won’t stop searching, not now, not ever.
Now with winter waning and the throes of a frosty spring upon us, I know that if I don’t figure out what happened to Jolie soon, it might be too late. It might already be too late. Shut up! I tell myself. If I think like that, I might as well curl up in a thick patch of snow and let the Cold take me.
Speaking of the Cold, incidents of the disease have been on the rise as of late. Some say it’s because the winter was one of the coldest yet, and others believe the Heart of the Mountain is angry with us for all of the evils that take place in the Red District. Me, I don’t care either way. If the Cold will come, it’ll come. Who am I to question the why or the how?
I pause in front of an arched doorway. The Blue District isn’t nearly as well off as the White District, but it beats the chill out of the Brown. The streets are clean and free of beggars, the houses are solid and well-maintained, and the people are smart enough to slam their doors in our faces as soon as they realize we’re not from around these parts. I’m not saying I like it, but there are plenny of bad folk who might try to take advantage of them, so they’re right to be cautious.
Another door to knock, this one painted bright green under its white archway. Recently touched up by the look of it. Smooth and bright. I rap on the door with my knuckles as Buff rubs his gloved hands together beside me, trying to generate some heat.
Someone hollers from behind the door, but I can’t make it out. Unusual for this District. Usually the people are quiet and timid. The boisterousness of the cry reminds me of a good old Brown District welcome.
The door opens.
Nebo stands before us, bald and short and altogether the most unintimidating person you could ever meet. His mouth forms an O and he sucks in a gasping “Uhhh!” and then tries to slam the door.
I swing my foot out and wedge it between the door and the jamb. The heavy wood crunches my toes, but I’m already moving forward, lowering my shoulder, barging my way inside. Nebo’s thrown backwards and into the house as the door rebounds off the wall with a solid thud.
He tries to scramble away from us on his arse, but runs right into a table leg, his eyes full of terror.
“Whoa there, Neebs. We’re not going to hurt you,” I say, feeling somewhat bad about the jittery man’s response to our forced arrival.
“Like—like—chill you’re not,” he says. What is this man so afraid of?
“Nay, really, Neebs. We didn’t even know you lived here. We were knocking on every door on this street,” Buff says.
Neebs is shaking his head, his eyes closed. “Go—go away.”
“We just want to ask you a few questions,” I say. Although I’m pretty sure the nervous little man can’t help us with Jolie, clearly he’s scared of something and I want to know what. Plus, he’s been working for Abe/King Goff much longer than us, so he might know more about the mystery herb.
“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebs drones on.
“It’ll only take a minute,” Buff adds.
“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay.”
Ten “nays” and we haven’t even asked a question yet. Nebo’s as still as a statue, still on the floor, back against the table leg. He looks sort of like a child throwing a tantrum, his eyes all squinted shut, his mouth crunched in an overdone scowl.
I kneel in front of him and he twitches, like he can sense how close I am. “First question,” I say, as soothingly as I can. To my ears my voice sounds like grated rocks.
“No questions,” Neebs says.
I ignore him, say, “Why don’t you want to work for the king anymore?”
“Rule one: no questions,” Neebs says.
“We’re not on the job,” I say, “and you’re not Abe, so I’ll ask you any freezin’ thing I want to.” It comes out a little harsher than I’d planned, but I’m getting frustrated. I repeat the question.
“Bad man,” Neebs says.
“Abe’s a bad man?” Buff asks, sliding in beside me.
“Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay,” Neebo hisses. His eyes are still closed and his mannerisms are so jerky I wonder if he’s got more wrong with him than just silver problems. “The king.” He clamps a hand over his mouth as if he just swore at his mother.
“The king is bad?”
“Not saying any more,” he says, pouting out a lip like a child.
“What are those herbs?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Drugs?”
He shakes his head but I don’t think it’s an answer.
“Tea leaves?”
Another shake of the head.
“Spices?”
His eyes flash open and I’m surprised to find them clear and blue. “Not spices,” he says.
It’s like my mind is trying to climb a sheer rock face, and its fingers are scrabbling for something to grab on to, but they keep coming up empty, keep sliding down it, getting torn by the stone, slipping farther and farther toward a fall that will eventually kill it. Nothing makes any sense. That’s usually when everything makes sense. It hits me.
“Is it some kind of medicine, like the concoctions the healers use?”
The look on his face tells me I’ve hit on something that’s close to the truth. “Abe made me promise not to talk about all that,” he says.
“All what?” Buff says with a growl, but I warn him off with my eyes. I don’t want to scare him back into his shell.
“Nope,” Neebo says, crossing his arms.
“What kind of medicine?” I ask. I soften my voice. “Please—it’s important.”
He bites his lip, as if he has to keep it from telling me everything.
“Please,” I say again.
“Uh-uh.”
“What’s the special cargo we’ll be picking up soon?” I ask.
His eyes close and he goes back to shaking his head.
“Do you know what happened to my sister?” I ask.
He stops shaking, but doesn’t open his eyes, doesn’t give an answer. Just sits there.
We leave, knowing more than we did when we arrived, and yet knowing nothing.
~~~
It’s quiet on the home front. Mother’s passed out on the floor in front of a dwindling fire, a blanket draped over her, clearly placed there by Wes, who’s sitting in a wooden chair just watching the last few flames dissolve into hot embers.
He doesn’t acknowledge my arrival. Not even when I slam the door much harder than is necessary. I hate going home these days.
“I knocked about a hundred doors in the Blue District,” I announce. Wes flinches, as if I’ve pulled him out of a daze, but doesn’t turn or say anything. “No one was really in the talking mood.”
Wes just stares at the fire. He’s beginning to scare me. He’s always been the strong, responsible one—the replacement for my father. Mother could never cope, could never be the one to provide for us, but Wes was stalwart, unflappable. “Get on with what has to be done,” he would always say, mimicking one of my father’s favorite expressions and sounding a chill of a lot like him. But now, ever since Jolie…
Well, he’s still out of work. And it’s not like he’s just been sitting at home staring at the fire. He’s tried to find a job, but things are tight right now, and nothing’s available. Nothing respectable anyway. Luckily I’m making enough to support us—barely. I think that’s what hurts him the most, feeling like he’s relying on someone else, like he can’t stand on his own two feet.
I hate seeing him like this.
“You should get some sleep,” I say. Wes nods. “Are you gonna be okay?” He nods again. “Goodnight.”
My mother shifts in her sleep, murmurs, “Your hair is all a mess, Joles, let me braid it for you.”