and Darya made a face. “Can’t anyone read the sign?”
“Wait.” Celka caught the child’s arm. A shift of perception put her on sousednia’s empty field. A smoky chill steamed her breath, and the air carried a whiff of rotting meat. The big top surged from the ground, and she struggled to force it back down.
Darya slipped free and disappeared into the front room.
“Don’t.” The word came out a whisper as Celka focused back on the workshop. Bolts slammed back, then Darya cried out, and wood banged against wood.
“Gerrit.” Fear made Celka’s voice squeak. She reached for the concealment imbuement, but neither had time to activate it if the newcomers were what she feared. ?Tayemstvoy.?
Gerrit reached for his knife, cursed, and met Celka’s gaze. ?Maybe it’s not.?
A gruff, muffled voice filtered in from the front room. Across the workshop, another door led out the back. ?We could run.?
?They’ll have posted a back guard.? His jaw muscles tensed. ?We stick to the cover story. You’re here for a postcard photograph. I’m a circus... accountant.?
Though he still wore the wig and spectacles, the ruse felt horribly thin. She’d stuffed her costume in her rucksack, but hadn’t changed into it. Lukska was in the darkroom, and if the Tayemstvoy got a look at the photograph—
The door into the front room slammed open.
“Pa!” Darya cried. A Tayemstvoy soldier held the child by the hair, a pistol to their head. Five more Tayemstvoy stomped in after them. Tears brightened Darya’s wide, terrified eyes. “Pa!”
Two soldiers waved pistols at Celka and Gerrit, ordering them up against the wall. Celka’s chest tightened, and storm energy buzzed through her hands. Hobnailed boots clumped up the stairs as two more went to search the apartment above.
The darkroom door slid open, and Lukska stepped out, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
Darya made a strangled noise, and Lukska paled. His mouth opened, but if he made any sound, Celka couldn’t hear it with the soldiers stomping around. Heavy thumps sounded upstairs. The sub-lieutenant in charge prowled over to Lukska. In a single, fluid move, she drew her truncheon and rammed it into his stomach.
Lukska folded with a grunt, and the sub-lieutenant cracked her truncheon against the side of his head. He collapsed like a marionette with cut strings. Darya screamed.
Gerrit shifted, and a Tayemstvoy aimed their pistol at his head. “Don’t move.”
The corporal who’d been holding Darya shoved them toward Celka. She caught the child, hugging them tight.
The sub-lieutenant landed a kick in Lukska’s ribs. “Start talking.”
“What do you—?” Lukska’s voice shook.
The sub-lieutenant dropped a knee on his back and grabbed his hair, forcing his head up as she shoved the resistance leaflet in his face. “You printed this.”
“No! I’ve never seen that before.”
Celka swallowed the storm’s taste of hot iron and hugged Darya tighter. Maybe the red shoulders were fishing, kicking over anthills to see if anyone admitted resistance sympathies. Surely Lukska wasn’t fool enough to print leaflets, not when he also forged false identities. The former was too public, too risky. A mimeograph machine in a cellar could make leaflets; it didn’t take a professional printing press.
Behind Celka, hobnailed boots clumped down the stairs, and one of the soldiers handed a bound stack of letters to the sergeant guarding Celka and Gerrit. The sergeant jerked her chin, and the private started banging open cupboards and dumping out drawers. They shoved aside a stack of paper, sending pages fluttering across the wood floor.
Celka caught Gerrit’s hand, and the print shop brightened. Lightning tugged against her spine, and she struggled to drive the circus tents back into the field. The big top resisted. The air stunk of blood. She prayed Lukska had hidden the engraving dies and false identity documents somewhere safe.
Two Tayemstvoy shoved Lukska into a chair. “Where are the image plates?” the sub-lieutenant asked.
“I don’t have them. I didn’t print that. I don’t even have that font. Please, look through my type cases, the letters won’t match!”
The sub-lieutenant punched him in the jaw. “Where did you hide them?”
Lukska shook his head, desperate, as one of them tied his wrists to the chair’s arms. “No, no, please. Please listen to me. I have letterpresses—that page was mimeographed.”
The sub-lieutenant hit him again, and Darya whimpered, fists balled in Celka’s shirt.
The scripture Gerrit had quoted tumbled through Celka’s mind: A palm becomes a fist, a fist a knife, and the blade strikes a killing blow. How much worse would the Tayemstvoy become with a storm sparking their violence?