“She may be small, but she is extremely talented,” Bogdan boasted. “She can create rocks, and she can break them apart. She can manipulate them. And she has a special touch of life with anything growing from the earth. My honored guests, I present to you: Child of Earth!”
A murmur rippled through the crowd. Onstage, May crouched by the pot of dead flowers. Despite everything, the expression on her face was a mix of sorrow and hope as she stretched out her hands.
For a few moments, nothing seemed to happen. And then the crowd gave a collective gasp, pointing as a lovely green hue seeped up the stalks like ink. Red blossomed into the petals. In front of their very eyes, May was breathing life back into the plant. And Ana found herself leaning forward slightly.
The gasps of the crowd, the animal masks, the torches, and the blackstone glass faded, and there was just May. She sat in the middle of a clearing, surrounded by tall, snowcapped pines. Her hands were cupped around a single white daisy, wilted from the snow and locked in the hard, frozen ground. Her eyes were closed, and she hummed softly. Ana had watched as, slowly, the daisy unfurled, its petals uncurling to face the winter sun.
It had felt like watching a miracle.
The memory dissipated as the crowds in the Playpen broke into a smattering of applause. Onstage, the Ice Queen beamed.
Bogdan spread his arms. “The smallest ones are often the most underestimated and tend to be much stronger than we anticipate.” He paused theatrically, waving his hands. The rings on his fingers glittered.
“Now, does anyone have any requests for our talented Child of Earth?”
A cry immediately went up. “Have her grow a fruit tree!”
“Make her juggle rocks!”
“Ask her to make a statue from earth!”
And on and on it went, copperstones and silverstones and goldleaves clattering at Bogdan’s polished black shoes while May kept her head bowed. Nausea pounded at Ana’s stomach as wave after wave of jeering calls and mocking yells continued, and Bogdan shouted orders for May to comply with.
“Hey.” A pair of hazel eyes, a warm hand coming to rest gently but firmly on her shoulder. “It’ll all be over soon. She’ll be safe, with us.”
Ana looked down and realized that she had gripped the sleeve of his peacoat. She snatched her hand back.
Something caught her attention. Onstage, a leather sack the size of Bogdan’s head had landed. Gold coins spilled like guts across the Penmaster’s feet, glittering viciously in the firelight.
A hush fell across the crowd. Ramson straightened.
From somewhere near the stage, a clear tenor rang out. “Penmaster, I have a very special request to make—one that I believe the audience will very much enjoy!”
Bogdan stooped to pick up the bulging pouch of goldleaves, his mouth hanging open. Coins continued to spill like water from the overflowing bag.
“Well, mesyr,” Bogdan exclaimed, a slight breathlessness to his tone. “You have certainly shown your dedication to entertainment!”
Behind him, May had finally lifted her head and was watching with sharp intent. The Ice Queen’s beam looked frozen, forced. In the shadows of the wings, the pale-eyed broker observed with unimpassioned interest.
A feeling of foreboding descended upon Ana. She searched the crowd for the owner of the voice, panic low but rising within her. This was wrong. The amount of goldleaves offered up was enough to feed fifty families for an entire year. It was enough to buy a small dacha.
No one in their right mind would offer up this much money for a few moments of entertainment.
Onstage, Bogdan’s eyes sparkled in delight. “And how else,” the Penmaster continued, his voice growing louder as he held up the pouch of coins, “are affairs conducted here at the Playpen but through gold and coin? Mesyrs, meya damas, and everyone—I say we hear out this civilian who seems set to give us the show of the night!”
As the crowd burst into thunderous applause and roared their approvals, something moved amid them. A flash of gold, a hooded figure.
As the man took a light leap onto the stage, Ana found herself gazing into a familiar golden mask.
There was no mistaking it. It was the nobleman she had bumped into on her first night at the Playpen. He wore the same mask he’d worn then, with a derisive crying face, yet it was the burning in his eyes that she remembered. That first night, she had only glimpsed him, but he had looked irate.