Alas, over the next half quadrant she was kept busy, and when her time wasn’t spent with Elspeth and Marla, she spent most of her time with Robles’ stack of books.

  “I need ink, pencils, paper, and of course my journals,” she’d asked him on her fifth morning. Her employer had appeared reluctant to return them, only giving in once she’d promised to transcribe their contents into a book more fitting for his library. Nonetheless, he’d remained sniffy about it, as if they were his journals and he was imparting a great favor. “Your little iron witch books,” he’d said covetously.

  Her only response had been to narrow her eyes and stare him down, as if he was one of her older brothers who’d long ago learned not to goad her. As for the iron witch taunt, on the high plains, witch was a nickname given freely to anyone remotely associated with the profession of healing and was harmless enough.

  It’s precursor, however… Iron witch was a slur, referring to a broad caricature of a stern, older woman who forced children to swallow foul-tasting medicine. But if Robles was determined to upset her, he’d have to do better than that.

  She wrote a letter to her mother, telling her she’d settled in, but didn’t mention the dead body or the vomiting, or her new employer’s brusque behavior and how, on some nights, as she climbed the stairs, her feet dragging with exhaustion, he would appear at the doorway to his study. He would yell out a name, and the battle would begin.

  “Darphilium!”

  “Dye from the red petals. An antiseptic from the leaves, used as a gargle for a sore throat.”

  “The stem?”

  “Likewise, but stronger. Not to be ingested.”

  “And the bulb?”

  “Brewed at low temperatures, it slows the heart. A poison in dry powder form.”

  “What about the root tendrils?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Aha!”

  Occasionally he’d appear in the kitchen, too, with an adoring Bodworth wrapped around his shoulders. And while she, Marla, and Elspeth were busy with chopping, grinding, infusing, and decanting, he’d do his best to catch her out. Mostly plants and venoms she had never heard of and she’d make a stupid fool of herself. Only on occasion would she surprise him with an extensive reply. It was a tough game, like playing ball-toss with her brothers. Sometimes she’d score a hit. Most of the time, it hurt.

  ##

  One morning, days after her nineteenth birthday and a full quadrant into her apprenticeship, Robles made a great ceremony of hanging her Apprentice’s Charter on the wall of the dispensary where she was soundly applauded by Mr. Feesh and his colleagues. There was little time for celebration, however, and in the afternoon, she and Torrell were left alone at the table in the kitchen, drawing labels for the many bottles and jars offered for sale in the dispensary.

  They’d divided the task. While he inscribed the bold lettering, she was working on the fine curlicue designs at the corners. Mild concoctions bore fabulous and bombastic names—Bane of Widow, Sine of Worm—and they were drawn with a flourish until they seemed more powerful and mysterious than they actually were.

  “Why was he yelling at you, this morning?” she asked when they were part way through the task.

  “I had to deliver a letter,” Torrell said. “I was supposed to wait for a reply, but the recipient wasn’t there.” He was still rattled over the incident. His hand was shaking slightly and slowing him down.

  “You shouldn’t let him talk to you like that.” Kaddie dipped her pen carefully in a nearby bottle of blue ink.

  “Easy for you to say. He’s not as hard on you.”

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  She snorted. “You think so? How long have you been here?”

  “Three years. Hated every minute.”

  “Robles is a city person, and city people are hard.” It was the very last thing her grandmother had said to her before the coach had arrived. She put down her pen and rested her elbows on the table. “Why do you stay?”

  “Because it pays well, and everyone back home thinks I’m—” He offered her a dismissive gesture. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It’s prestigious, and our families need the money.”

  “You don’t sound as if you need the money. And what do you know about city people?”

  “My grandmother was born here,” she retrieved her pen, “and she’s a terror.” It felt uneasy, letting slip about something she was supposed to keep a secret, but at least it had brought a smile to his face. “Where are you from?”

  “Otren. It’s—”

  “I know where it is. On the coast, near the conorum mines.”

  He frowned. “It’s not a bad place.”

  “I never said it was.”

  “And yet, you’ve got that look on your face, like everyone else whenever I mention it.”

  “Torrell, I’ve never been, so I’ve no idea if it’s a good or a bad place.” She watched him shake his head and return to work, his pen now drawing clumsy strokes that dragged across the paper. “Anyway,” she continued, “it’s me who should be the sour one. Don’t think I haven’t heard you and Elspeth calling me iron witch behind my back. Robles says it, too.”

  Torrell regarded her with astonishment. “It’s a compliment.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Well, back-handed, maybe.” Torrell lowered his voice. “Elspeth started calling you that because she thinks you’re strong.” He glanced over his shoulder for a moment, “That you can stand up to you know who.”

  Kaddie began to laugh. The whole idea of standing up to Robles was preposterous. But she stopped when she saw his face, and for the next few minutes they both returned to their work. However, Torrell’s glum silence soon plucked holes in her concentration and she returned her pen to its cradle. “Do you think we’ll be allowed to take a walk? Let’s go for a walk.”

  He sat up and regarded her warily. “Where to?”

  “I want you to show me the second city.”

  ##

  The nearest stairwell was on the lower right side of the avenue, just before it reached the square. It was partially hidden from view by a squat wall topped with a railing, which is why she hadn’t spotted it earlier. The steps leading down were well-used, their formerly sharp edges worn, while stains and lumps of refuse further spoiled their surfaces. And at the bottom, a revelation.

  Kaddie gasped and turned full circle. “I never imagined.”

  “Bigger than you thought?” Torrell was in better mood, smiling alongside her. “Don’t get too excited. This isn’t the real deal. Not yet.”

  She looked back at the stairway. So wrapped up in discovery, she hadn’t realized how far they had descended. The ceiling was now a lofty distance above their heads, incoherent, partially shrouded in mist, where ornate metal lanterns appeared to hover, their hangings invisible in the gloom directly above them, their incandescence dulled as the light fell softly on the damp paving below.

  “Is that steam? How does it escape?”

  He pointed. “Through those pipes, and you’ll see patches of light every once in a while, from the street directly above.”

  She nodded, and remembered peering down through the grating on her first morning in the city. All around her, the subterranean streets were busy, and yet the hustle and bustle was muted. People drifted by like ghosts and the incumbent atmosphere inspired her to lower her voice.

  Torrell led her into a wider thoroughfare whose ceiling promptly dipped once they’d left the intersection. Here the damp gave way to the smell of burning conorum. It was accompanied by other faint aromas, not all of them pleasant. Pipes of varying diameters crowded the ceiling. The walls were lined with food and clothing stores.

  “Are we walking in the direction of the palace? Is it possible to walk beneath it?”

  He grinned. “You can try.” He pulled on her sleeve. “This way. I want to show you something.”

  Ahead lay another flight of steps, leading down. It led to another, and another, and the deeper they descended, the quieter and darker it became. Here, the streets were narrow and the stores had disappeared. People walked by with their collars raised and their shoulders hunched, a gait she adopted while imagining the upper layers of the city weighing heavily above their heads. Any further down and she’d be crawling on her belly.

  Torrell was wearing a broad grin on his face.

  “What? What’s so funny?”

  “You can stand up straight, you know. It’s perfectly safe.”

  “I’ve never been underground before.”

  “I suppose it takes some getting used to.” He chuckled and beckoned, leading her to the outer curve of a nearby wall. “Here’s where the real city begins.” He squatted low alongside a piece of roughly-hewn stone at the base of the wall. Their immediate surroundings were particularly dark. Shadows hid the finer details, and it wasn’t until she was crouched alongside him that she noticed the intricate carving.

  She reached out, her fingertips touched the stone’s rough surface, and immediately she withdrew.

  “There,” Torrell said. “Do you feel that?”

  “I don’t feel anything,” she said, embarrassed. “I heard something, and there’s a vibration, maybe.” In defiance, she placed the palm of her hand against the stone. Immediately, her head filled with whispers and she remembered something her grandmother had said.

  Forget the ruins. The entire city squats on a tomb of ghosts.

  “It’s probably coming from the pipes.” She stood, brushing her fingers against the pocket of her coat, subconsciously making sure she hadn’t forgotten to bring her sickle, frowning at Torrell whose easy grin immediately faded. Don’t make me add you to my list, Torrell Voldan.