Sparkers (14 page)

Suddenly, I remember that Sarah was in the study the night Azariah told me it was illegal to own books written in Hagramet. She could've told her tutor everything.

“What's it to you?” I ask, my heart beating fast.

Channah draws herself up, and I regret my rudeness. “Anyone would be curious,” she says. But she stops asking questions.

A
t the Ikhad on Tenthday, I jostle my way to the book stall and greet Tsipporah.

“Marah!” she exclaims, breaking into a smile of relief. “I was beginning to worry.” An impish light appears in her green eyes. “Forgot about me, did you? How do you expect to keep a job when you go three weeks without showing yourself?”

“Tsipporah,” I say, “Caleb's ill.”

At once, her lined face looks much older. “The dark eyes?” she says.

I nod. Before she can say anything else, I draw the translated list from my cloak pocket and hand it to her. “Do you know where I can find these ingredients? Especially the cub's foot, the oxalis tubers, and the perilla oil?”

Tsipporah squints at the page, wisps of her silvery hair rippling in the wind. A look of wary surprise spreads across her face. “Oxalis tubers were cultivated in this region before the cold times, but they can't be grown this far north anymore,” she says. “And cub's foot is contraband. It's considered dangerous.”

“Does that mean they're impossible to come by in Ashara?” I ask, my heart sinking.

“I didn't say that,” Tsipporah says with a hint of a grin. “Does this have something to do with the Hagramet grammar you were asking about last time?”

I hesitate, then nod. “I've met someone who has another Hagramet book,” I explain, keeping my voice low.

“Really?” she says. “I'd like to see it.”

“There's something in that book I think might help Caleb get well,” I say. “That's why I need to find these ingredients.”

Her gaze is searching. I can't tell if she thinks this is a futile pursuit.

“You asked me where that grammar came from,” she says at last. “Where I found it, you can find what you need. It's a place where many strange goods are sold.”

“We also need to translate a few more words of Hagramet.”

“Who's we?”

“Me and my friend. The one with the book.”

“Well,” she says, “it just so happens I know someone who reads Hagramet. He was the one who told me what I had when that grammar of yours fell into my hands.”

I feel a surge of hope. “When can you take us, Tsipporah?”

She considers. “Tomorrow night? It must be at night, Marah. It isn't the safest of places.”

“It's not?” Wouldn't it be better to go in daylight, then? Though I suppose if cub's foot is contraband, there must be an element of evading the authorities involved.

“Oh, you'll be fine with me,” Tsipporah says, waving her hand as though batting away invisible worries. “But best not tell anyone where you're going. And you'll need money to pay the vendors.”

We'll figure out the money somehow. I think for a moment. My Qirakh audition is tomorrow. After that, there will be nothing left to worry about but the cure. “Tomorrow night's perfect.”

“Meet me here after dark,” Tsipporah says. “And bring a lantern.”

“My thanks, Tsipporah.” Standing on the cobblestones beneath the Ikhad roof, I feel something stir in my chest. If it weren't for the books between us, I would throw my arms around her.

• • •

E
VENING
COMES
,
AND
headlamp beams scythe through the wooly darkness. Channah's greeting is subdued, and she doesn't meet my eyes as I climb into the auto. She grips the steering wheel with pale, bony fingers, and she looks so gaunt I wonder if she's lost weight. I expect to have to deflect more questions about my increasingly frequent visits to the Rashids, but she makes no attempt at conversation.

When we arrive, Azariah ushers me into the dining room, where his whole family is gathered. Only Sarah is missing. I cast Melchior an uncertain glance. He looks miserable. For the first time, I feel a strange closeness to him because of our shared worry for Sarah.

Everyone picks at the exquisite dinner, and conversation is scant. Azariah excuses us right after dessert. We hurry to his study in silence. In front of the door, he arranges his hand in a curious way and reaches for the knob. He begins to speak, starts, and jerks back.

“What's wrong?” I say.

“Someone's tampered with my lock spell!”

He flings open the door, and I dart after him to stop it from slamming against the wall. Azariah lets out an explosion of Xanite. When I turn to survey the study, he's on the floor snatching up papers. Before I can warn him, he plants his knee into a seeping pool of ink. Someone appears to have knocked an inkwell off his desk along with a stack of books. I rush over and right the bottle before picking up the books and setting them on the desk. There I notice Azariah's Maitaf, opened to a page marked with a silver ribbon.

“It was Melchior!” he spits, slapping a few pieces of sheet music onto a chair.

“Are you sure?” I say. “He's still at the table.”

“Who else would it be? It might've been before dinner. Melchior's always barging in here, borrowing books, stealing pens.” Azariah spreads his hand over the inky carpet and growls an incantation that makes the stain fade. He stands and repeats the spell on his trousers. “I can't believe he broke my lock spell. I didn't think he could.”

“He must've left in a hurry,” I say, indicating the mess, but Azariah's not paying attention.

“Why couldn't he have knocked
this
into the ink?” He picks up a folded edition of the
Journal
lying next to his Maitaf and thrusts it at me. I glance down at the article, which is about insulation problems in the District Halls. Then I notice a box squeezed in the corner.

“What did your father say?” I ask Azariah.

“He said the Assembly hasn't shown it's done enough to address the dark eyes, even as the death toll mounts. He specifically mentioned halani and how most of them can't afford medicine or a doctor's visit. He argued the government should be providing medicine to those who are too poor to buy any.”

“Medicine hasn't prevented anyone dying.”

“I know,” he says with a pained expression, “but it eases their suffering. Anyway, Father went past his allotted time. He said he wouldn't yield as long as the kasiri refused to lift a finger to help those we'd placed beneath us. I'm sure plenty of kasiri agree with Father, at least about the Assembly not doing enough about the dark eyes, but everyone else is too scared to complain.”

“Your father did the right thing.”

“Yes, well. . . . When I think that we know more about the dark eyes than anyone else in Ashara, that we've found a cure, I wonder why we haven't—”

“We don't know if this cure will work,” I interrupt, my heart thumping. “We haven't even translated the instructions for making it. If we manage to heal Caleb and Sarah and my friend Leah, then maybe we can think about going to the Assembly.” I have no intention of telling the councilors anything, but I need Azariah to stop harping on this.

He sighs. “Let's start working, then.”

He crouches behind his desk and runs his fingers along the back panel. A drawer pops out, revealing the Hagramet texts and the notebooks nestled inside.

“You hid them?” I say.

He nods. “They are illegal, after all, and with things turning sour for my parents . . .”

We sit down at his desk with the books in front of us.

“I've found someone who will take us somewhere to buy the unusual ingredients tomorrow night,” I say. “The cub's foot, the tubers, and that oil. She also told me someone there can read Hagramet, so we'll be able to translate the last three ingredients. We're going to leave from the Ikhad after nightfall.”

His jaw drops. “You managed all that this morning? Who is this person?”

“Her name's Tsipporah. She's the bookseller who sold me the grammar.”

“You said tomorrow?”

“Yes, after my audition.”

“Thank God! I didn't think we'd find everything so soon.” He frowns. “Wait, what audition?”

“I'm auditioning for Qirakh Secondary School.”

“The music school? That's a Xanite school. You're applying there?” He grins. “You at a Xanite school!”

“I have to get in first.”

“Oh, I'm sure you're really good,” he says blithely. I can't help smiling.

Having deciphered all but the three impossible ingredients two nights ago, we set to work translating the instructions for making the cure. Luckily, the text proves relatively simple. Most of the words have to do with preparing ingredients for cooking, and there's a lot of repetition. Both of us marvel at how straightforward it is until we come to a mysterious direction.

“It's talking about what to do with your hand.” I point the words out to Azariah. “I think it might say ‘cupped hand.' And then here, I don't think this is even a real word, it's just a . . . a syllable. God of the Maitaf, they're spells.” I look up at Azariah in consternation.

A hint of alarm crosses his face, but he says, “Let's get through to the end.”

After another hour, we succeed in translating the entirety of the instructions. I'm confident our translation is accurate, but the result concerns me. It's a recipe for an herbal remedy interspersed with sequences of spells, all meticulously described.

“What are we going to do about these spells?” I ask.

Azariah rereads the instructions. To my surprise, he brightens. “I think I can do them.”

“But when you tried to cast the neutralizing spell, it didn't work.”

“These spells are different,” he says. “I recognize them. They're the simplest kind that exists. Instead of producing a specific effect, they alter magic on a fundamental level, and they can be layered in complex ways. I think that's what's meant to happen in the cure.”

I raise my eyebrows.

“Think of it as playing open strings on a violin,” he says. “The most basic thing you can do.”

“Fine, but this text is ancient. How can we be sure the spells haven't changed?”

“We'll just have to trust they've been passed down properly over the centuries.”

“Oh, right. It's not as if magicians failing to pass down their spells properly
got us to where we are today or anything.”

Azariah looks incredulously at me, and suddenly, despite everything, we're both laughing.

“I should go home,” I say, sobering. “It's getting late.”

“Of course,” he says. “Good luck on your audition, Marah.”

“My thanks.” I hesitate. “Azariah, when we buy the ingredients tomorrow . . . I don't have any money.”

He shakes his head. “I'll take care of that.”

Relieved, I say, “Don't forget, then. Tomorrow at the Ikhad. Meet me at the northeast corner, after dark.”

“After dark,” he echoes. There is a pause. “I'll go find Channah now.”

Neither of us moves for a while though. The study is absolutely quiet.

A
t daybreak, I wake to the patter of rain, a strange sound for the dead of winter. I twist out from under the covers and tiptoe to the window. The snow on the sill has melted, and the cobblestones below shine with moisture. Down the whole street, the eaves are crowned with icicles as long as swords.

The knowledge of what day it is grabs me by the throat. As I dress, my stomach feels hollow one moment and fluttery the next.

The kitchen is empty, but while I'm frying bread for breakfast, Mother appears in the doorway. With the heat of the stove warming my face and the cooking to occupy my hands, I realize now is the time to tell her.

“Mother, I'm going to be gone this evening.”

“Must you see the Rashids every day?” she asks wearily.

“No, I'm not . . .” I falter. “Azariah and I are going somewhere. We might be gone late.”

“How late?”

“I'm not sure. I'll come home as soon as I can.”

Mother purses her lips. “Marah, I don't like the idea of you two going out after dark.”

I clench my teeth, checking the undersides of the bread slices. “We won't be alone. Tsipporah's coming with us.”

“Tsipporah?” Mother says in disbelief. “I hardly think the company of an elderly bookseller is any reassurance.”

“She wouldn't let anything happen to me,” I say as persuasively as I can. “She's known me since I was eight.”

“She's been kind to you, Marah, but what will an old lady do if you encounter someone dangerous?”

I suspect Tsipporah is more capable than Mother thinks, but I don't say anything.

She comes up behind me as I spread honey on my bread. “Is this about you thinking you've found some way to help Caleb?”

I nod, keeping my eyes downcast.

“What is it, exactly?” she asks gently.

“Some . . . some herbs,” I say, “different, rare herbs . . .” It's difficult to lie to her, but she seems to think I'm stammering from emotion.

She rests her hands on my shoulders. “It's all right. Try to calm down. You need to focus on your audition. We can discuss this afterward.”

“I have to do this, Mother.” I muster the courage to look her in the eye. “If I don't, and Caleb . . . I'll always wonder if I could've done something more for him.”

Mother gazes at me for a long moment. “All right, Marah. You can go.”

• • •

Q
IRAKH
S
ECONDARY
S
CHOOL
lies between a modest but respectable commercial district and an impoverished Xanite neighborhood. Built of gray stone, the building hunkers lower than the surrounding roofs, as if ashamed. The ripples of nervousness intensify in the pit of my stomach.

Inside the school, a spiral staircase leads to a landing that wraps all around the foyer. The wooden banister has been polished by many hands, but the hall is empty. I adjust the strap of Leah's violin case on my shoulder, comforted by the instrument's weight.

“Are you here for an audition?” The voice rings under the high ceiling. A stocky, middle-aged man in Xanite tunic and trousers beckons me from the corridor.

I walk with him down the hallway, wondering how I'll play with such cold hands. It's a good thing Aradi Imael told me to arrive early.

“What school do you attend?” my escort asks. His garb may be traditional, but his Ashari is unaccented.

“Horiel Primary,” I reply.

“Oh!” He smiles. “You're Elisheva Imael's student.”

“Yes.”

The corridor ends in a large hall. A handful of students are scattered across the room, warming up. Swallowing hard, I retreat to the farthest corner and unpack. The minutes go by slowly while I play some scales and various passages of the Shevem, trying to wring some blood into my fingers. Yet when a young woman calls my name, it feels like only moments have passed.

I follow her into an adjacent room where she leaves me at the mercy of three women. I start to greet the judges, but my voice fails me. Two of them have copper ornaments in their hair. In Xana, copper is for mourning.

“Levi?” says one of the judges.

“Yes,” I whisper.

“We'll begin with a few scales.”

They ask for D minor, G major, E minor, B flat major. With each execution, I relax. I'm playing under the expected tempo, and I stumble once in the last scale, but otherwise every note comes out pure and in tune. They invite me to continue with my solo.

This is the moment I've been waiting for. I think back to what Aradi Imael told me about playing with my whole self. Taking a deep breath, I let all my worries and all the pain of this winter flood through me. I embrace them. Then I tuck my violin back under my jaw, lift my bow, and begin.

I am a soul unmoored from my body, floating far above this city buried in snow and sorrow. The violin sings of its own accord. The first crescendo swells with my love for Caleb. My strings murmur with whispers of death at the Ikhad. A tricky passage brings to mind the mysteries of the Hagramet text, and with three dark chords, I sound the depths of my alliance with Azariah. Finally, the raw desperation pours through, for Sarah, for Leah, for Caleb. Aching sadness, crippling fear, and smothered hope mingle in the music. I play the Shevem as I never have before.

When I finish, the calluses on my fingertips are hard, the skin white. I feel exhausted, but also purged. The room is absolutely silent. I can tell I've done well, more than well. I muddle through the sight-reading excerpts, hardly aware of what I'm playing. After the last snippet of music, it's all over.

“My thanks, Levi,” one of the judges says. “Decisions will be mailed in a few weeks.”

Nodding awkwardly, I reach for my music. The three women bow their heads, intent on their notes. The only sound is the scratching of their pencils. I walk from the room. Triumphant euphoria surges in my veins, settling to a quieter confidence as I calm down. I can do anything now.

• • •

T
HE
S
HEVEM
STILL
swirling through my head, I return to the Street of Winter Gusts and Caleb's bedside. His face is waxy, the skin under his eyes a bruised blue. He tosses under the covers, his breath whistling in his nose.

I sit on the edge of the bed and stroke his face. When he opens his eyes, I begin to sign. I tell him about the Hagramet text and the harmful magic and Azariah's and my plans. My hands fly in complete silence, speeding to the cure.

I'll heal you
, I sign.
Soon. I promise
.

He twists under the blankets, pushing his face toward a cooler patch of pillowcase. I brush the sticky hair from his brow and kiss him on the forehead.

Then I walk through the drizzle to Old Spinners' Street. The pavement is slick and dark with moisture, and the low gray clouds seem to press down on the apartment buildings. Gadi Yakov's worn face is tender when she invites me in. The children are all gathered in Leah's bedroom and start like rabbits when I enter.

“Marah!” Yael and Ilan chorus, swarming me with outstretched arms. Ari claps his hands on Leah's bed. Touched by their affection, I let Yael and Ilan tug me to their sister. She's sitting up, sipping an infusion of bee balm meant to ease her cough. Strands of her now lank hair lie plastered to her temples, and her black eyes have sunk deeper into their sockets. The exhaustion is carved into the hollows of her face.

“I'll send them out, if you want,” she says, so softly I have to strain to hear her.

“No, I don't mind,” I say, clasping her hands.

“Oh, good. It's lonely without them.”

Her hands feel like heated stones in mine. “You're feverish again.”

“It's nothing,” she says, pulling away, but her cheeks are very flushed.

Ilan distracts me by climbing onto my back. “Do you know any stories, Marah?” he asks.

“She knows lots,” Leah says. “Come here. Let Marah breathe.”

“Leah tells us stories, but she never gets to the end,” Yael informs me.

“I make them up,” Leah says when I glance at her. “When I don't know what happens next, I start a new one. I'm good at beginnings.” Her laughter is feathery.

“Leah, you should be resting,” I say, prying Ilan's fingers from around my neck. He latches onto my arm instead. I draw Yael to me too, comforted by these warm, innocent bodies against mine.

“I'm tired of resting, Marah.” She gives me a significant look. “I'm not going to waste these days.”

Right then, Gadi Yakov appears in the doorway and summons the children. “It's time to go outside. In this weather, you won't want your cloaks after five minutes.”

“Let's find Raspberry in the park!” Yael says, rushing into the hall. Ilan screams with excitement and dashes after her.

“Do you think Raspberry's all right?” I ask when everyone's gone.

“I have to believe he made it,” she says with a faraway expression. Then she asks, “How was your audition?”

“Pretty good. I'm happy about it.” I grin, still electrified by my solo. It keeps playing itself over and over in my head.

“But never mind that,” I hurry on in an undertone. “Azariah and I have found the cure to the dark eyes in the Hagramet text. The cure, Leah! And Tsipporah's taking us to buy ingredients tonight. You're going to get well, I promise, and everything will be all right.”

“Everything's all right when you're here,” Leah says. “Sometimes when I'm alone, I feel so angry. When you're here, it's easier to bear.”

“You don't believe me,” I say. “Why don't you believe me? We're going to make the cure!”

She closes her eyes. “You will. Yes. I—I hope you'll cure Caleb.”

“I'll cure you too.”

Leah slumps against her pillow. “Marah, it would help if you'd just—”

“I want you to get well, but you act like it's hopeless!” I jump up and storm to the door, but the iciness of the knob on my palm brings me to my senses. I look back. Leah's staring at me, her cracked lips parted.

My heart splinters. I stagger back to the bed. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I'm sorry.”

She looks at me, tears shimmering in her fathomless eyes. “I don't want to die,” she says.

You won't die
, I want to say, but instead I say, “I know. Just hang on, all right? Hang on a little longer.” I breathe deeply. “I want to hear one of your stories.”

Leah half sobs, half laughs. “You're the one who knows real stories.”

“I want to hear a story no one's ever read, that has no end.”

“Oh, Marah,” she says.