Mal squeezed my hand, and I felt a surge of giddy excitement. My cloak was uncomfortably warm, and my face was already starting to itch beneath the mask, but I didn’t care. I felt like we were back at Keramzin, casting off our chores and braving the threat of the switch just to sneak away to our meadow. We would lie in the cool grass and listen to the hum of the insects, watch the clouds break apart overhead. That kind of peace seemed so far away now.
The street leading to the pickle king’s mansion was clogged with carriages. We turned onto an alley near the convent so that we’d be better able to mix in with the performers at the servants’ entrance.
Tamar carefully shifted her cloak as we descended from the coach. She and Mal were both carrying hidden pistols, and I knew that beneath all the orange silk, she had her twin axes strapped to each thigh.
“What if someone actually wants his fortune told?” I asked, tightening the laces of my mask and pulling my hood up.
“Just feed him the usual drivel,” said Mal. “Beautiful women, unexpected wealth. Beware of the number eight. ”
The servants’ entrance led past a steam-filled kitchen and into the house’s back rooms. But as soon as we stepped inside, a man dressed in what must have been the Gritzki livery seized my arm.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” he said, giving me a shake. I saw Tamar’s hand go to her hip.
“I—”
“You three should already be circulating. ” He shoved us toward the main rooms of the house. “Don’t spend too long with any single guest. And don’t let me catch you drinking!”
I nodded, trying to get my heart to stop hammering, and we hurried into the ballroom. The pickle king had spared no expense. The mansion had been decorated to look like the most decadent Suli camp imaginable. The ceiling was hung with a thousand star-shaped lanterns. Silk-covered wagons were parked around the edges of the room in a glittering caravan, and fake bonfires glowed with dancing colored light. The terrace doors had been thrown open, and the night air hummed with the rhythmic clang of finger cymbals and the wail of violins.
I saw the real Suli fortune-tellers scattered throughout the crowd and realized what an eerie sight we must make in our jackal masks, but the guests didn’t seem to mind. Most of them were already well in their cups, laughing and shouting to one another in boisterous groups, gawking at the acrobats twirling from silk swings overhead. Some sat swaying in their chairs, having their fortunes told over golden urns of coffee. Others ate at the long table that had been set up on the terrace, gorging on stuffed figs and bowls of pomegranate seeds, clapping along with the music.
/> Mal snuck me a little glass of kvas, and we found a bench in a shadowy corner of the terrace while Tamar took up her post a discreet distance away. I rested my head against Mal’s shoulder, happy just to be sitting beside him, listening to the thump and jangle of the music. The air was heavy with the scent of some night-blooming flower and, beneath that, the tang of lemons. I breathed deeply, feeling some of the exhaustion and fear of the last few weeks ease away. I wriggled my foot from my slipper and let my toes dig into the cool gravel.
Mal adjusted his hood to better hide his face and tipped up his mask, then reached forward and did the same with mine. He leaned in. Our jackal masks bumped snouts.
I started to laugh.
“Next time, different costumes,” he grumbled.
“Bigger hats?”
“Maybe we could just wear baskets over our heads. ”
Two girls came swaying up to us. Tamar was by my side in an instant. We pushed our masks back into place.
“Tell our fortunes!” the taller girl demanded, practically toppling over her friend.
Tamar shook her head, but Mal gestured to one of the little tables laid with blue enamel cups and a golden urn.
The girl squealed and poured out a tiny amount of sludge-like coffee. The Suli told fortunes by reading the dregs at the bottom of the cup. She downed the coffee and grimaced.
I elbowed Mal in the side. Now what?
He rose and walked to the table.
“Hmmm,” he said, peering into the cup. “Hmmm. ”
The girl seized his arm. “What is it?”
He waved me over. I gritted my teeth and bent over the cup.
“Is it bad?” the girl moaned.
“Eeet eeees … goooood,” said Mal in the most outrageous Suli accent I’d ever heard.
The girl sighed in relief.
“You weeel meet a handsome stranger. ”
The girls giggled and clapped their hands. I couldn’t resist.
“He weeel be very wicked man,” I interjected. My accent was even worse than Mal’s. If any real Suli overheard me, I’d probably end up with a black eye. “You must run from theees man. ”
“Oh,” the girls sighed in disappointment.
“You must marry ugly man,” I said. “Very fet. ” I held my arms out in front of me, indicating a giant belly. “He weeel make you heppy. ”
I heard Mal snort beneath his mask.
The girl sniffed. “I don’t like this fortune,” she said. “Let’s go try another one. ” As they flounced away, two rather tipsy noblemen took their place.
One had a beaky nose and wobbly jowls. The other threw back his coffee like he was gulping kvas and slammed the cup down on the table. “Now,” he slurred, twitching his bristly red mustache. “What’ve I got in store? And make it good. ”
Mal pretended to study the cup. “You weeel come into a great fortune. ”
“Already have a great fortune. What else?”
“Uh…” Mal hedged. “Your wife weeel bear you three handsome sons. ”