The Hidden City Read Online Free

above; he could see that her cheek was bruised. Wondered, with the sudden heat of unexpected anger, if those were the only bruises she had.
    He would have said, I won’t hurt you, but those were the wrong words. He promised her nothing. She expected nothing. And nothing was safest for both of them. He was utterly silent as he unlocked his door, aware that she watched not only his actions, but his setting; the length of now dark hall, the step-curved floor of wooden slats that had seen far too much use and far too little repair, the flat and impersonal surfaces of closed doors that extended into shadow.
    He had a small magelight which he took out of his shirt’s inner pocket, more for her comfort than from any practical need; she watched this as well, assessing him.
    If she was afraid, she contained her fear. It was there; he knew the signs well enough, and although the streets had added a patina of opacity to her age, she had not been there long enough to become hardened. But he found he had no desire to inflame the fear or to use it to his advantage, and this was unusual. He had on occasion brought people to his dwelling, and each and every one was worthy of intimidation. When he was doing the intimidating.
    But as he opened the door, he almost cringed. He did not, as a rule, have guests; his rooms were therefore not entirely presentable, and the detritus of his many identities lay strewn from wall to wall. It almost made him feel self-conscious, which was both exceedingly rare and unwelcome. “Watch your step,” he told her, his voice cooler than he had intended.
    Her curt nod was instant and perfect, but then again, she couldn’t yet see into his private life. Couldn’t yet step across and over it, examining it with her wide, dark eyes. If there was a moment to turn back, this was it, and it was the only moment he would be afforded.
    A better man than Old Rath wouldn’t even have considered it; he did. She was—by presence alone—a complication, and he abhorred complications; they were always costly, and in ways that mere money did not assuage. But he entered into the room, holding the door wide, and she hesitated in its frame, for entirely different reasons. The first thing her eyes skirted was the dim shape of the obvious bed, seen through the arch that separated the two rooms that contained his life.
    He offered no safety but silence; was aware that there was no safety in silence. He let her choose, waiting, the backpack he’d slung across one shoulder dragging his arm down. He wasn’t young; it was heavy. Heavy with the intangible gravity that drew her eyes, her attention.
    It wasn’t because he pitied her that he’d invited her here.
    She entered his home, unaware of the singular honor he offered, and waited while he closed the door behind her. She didn’t turn to watch him bolt the locks, but he saw her back as he did; he didn’t need to look at what he was doing, and it was less interesting, less foreign, than she herself, standing there and flinching with each quiet click.
    He opened his hand, exposing the magelight to air and darkness; the darkness made its light grow, and her eyes widened.
    â€œThat’s expensive,” she whispered.
    â€œI didn’t buy it,” he replied, voice heavy with irony he thought she might miss. He walked over to the table and set it down upon the small pedestal designed for its use. Passed his hand above it twice, each time increasing its offered brilliance.
    â€œAre you hungry?”
    She shook her head.
    â€œJewel, the first thing that I must ask of you is this: while you are in my home—and you may never be in it again—you will not lie to me. Do I make myself clear?”
    She met his gaze, held it, and surprised him. “If you already know the answer, why are you asking?”
    He laughed; it was quiet, but audible. “Point,” he said, raising a hand. “I wanted to see if you would