single wood-pitched roof that isn’t sodden or a weathered
door that isn’t peeling from the oppressive moisture.
The clouds often pull in storms from the ocean and
toss them here. There’s nothing cleansing about the rain,
though. It simply dumps back into the sea that fed it,
reeking of fish while it floods the muddy streets.
The air is claggy today with a humidity that soaks
through my dress and weighs down my lungs. I’ll be lucky
if my clothes dry once I hang them up tonight, lucky if my
hair is anything other than damp and frizzed.
But no one looks at my hair or clothes anyway. Greedy
eyes always fall against my gold-pinched cheeks, roam over
my skin that’s ten shades too gleaming to be real. That’s
why I’m known as the painted girl. The golden orphan of
Derfort Harbor. No matter what rags I wear, there’s absurd
richness that sits beneath my sodden clothes. A worthless
wealth of my skin that does nothing, yet has caused
everything
.
All along the market street, the vendor tarps are still
dark, burlap sacks saturated, carts covered and dripping. I
close my eyes and breathe, trying to pretend that I’m not
smelling the sharp iron from the anchor maker. I’m not
smelling the drenched wooden planks on the moored ships.
I’m not smelling the crates of flailing fish mixed with the
brined sand from the shore.
My imagination isn’t quite enough to stave off the
stench.
Of course, the air would probably smell a little better if
I weren’t sitting on top of the pub’s refuse bin. As terrible
as the scent of old ale is, this spot is one of the driest and
most shadowed, making it valuable real estate.
I shift my weight on the metal lid as I lean against the
building at my back, gaze scanning the market alley. I
shouldn’t be here. I should keep moving, but even that’s a
major risk. Zakir has too many eyes in the city. It’s just a
matter of time before I’m caught, whether I stay in one spot
