The Hidden Twin Read Online Free Page B

general call to make more offerings to a certain god or patronize a new shop. I always open “occupant” letters. For the first time in my life, however, I am astonished to find the letter is intended for me.
    To the one who doubtless reads letters that most would discard unopened. Meet me in Angel’s Glade Park this noon. I know what you are.
    â€œDo you?” I wonder aloud. “Because that is something I would dearly like to know, too.”
    *   *   *
    I sit on a metal bench in Angel’s Glade Park, nervous, wincing at the noise of the artificial waterfall that doesn’t quite make up for the park’s lack of vegetation. I shouldn’t have come. But what else could I do? Whoever wrote that letter has already found me.
    Angel’s Glade is on the edge of town and quite exposed to the elements, so most of the people enjoying the morning here wear bandannas to keep out the ash particles. I have tied a square of linen around the lower half of my face and watch the world suspiciously. The clouds are at their brightest for the day. The letter writer should be here soon.
    A cold shiver slices through the fire inside me. What if this is a trap, and I am going to be murdered? While I’m not eager to have my throat slit, there is something attractive about the simplicity of the idea. Getting ambushed doesn’t require much thought or effort on my part. Or maybe I am to be blackmailed. That’s a bit trickier. I haven’t much to offer other than old books and healthy plants.
    Through the fog, I catch sight of a spotless red duster. Though she wears sunglasses and a linen bandanna like everyone else, Nara Blake hasn’t made much of an effort to disguise herself. I feel my shoulders relaxing. And when she arrives with delicious fruit drinks for both of us, the scene is almost pleasant. Almost.
    â€œHere,” she says curtly, shoving a glass bottle at me. I have rarely tasted any beverage other than the warm water that runs from our kitchen tap, and I watch Nara sip first so I don’t behave like too much of a glutton.
    â€œFirst of all, stop asking people about bonescorch orchises,” she says, putting her drink down and adjusting the bandanna over her mouth again, red to match her duster.
    â€œExcuse me?”
    I can’t see Nara’s eyes through her gold-rimmed sunglasses, but I know the exact exasperated look she is probably giving me. “You asked me —the bloody editor of the Daily Bulletin —if I thought the bonescorch was real. As though you’re worried about redwings.”
    â€œOh!” Redwings. That word, out loud. Out here. “Curiosity, I guess,” I say more casually than I feel.
    â€œCuriosity, my foot,” she says. “I’m not stupid.”
    My stomach reels. How much does she know? How much have I told her?
    We sip our drinks. A group of children play a ball game under metal trees nearby. I look for escape routes. Papa is on Roet Island, Jey at the college; they have no idea I even left the house. Nara Blake could have accomplices everywhere.
    â€œNothing has given me the slightest impression that you’re stupid,” I say. “But why the cryptic note? And please don’t say you belong to a centuries-old secret organization dedicated to the slaughter of eighteen-year-old girls who ask too many questions.”
    Nara’s bandanna creases in a smile. “Absolutely not,” she says.
    I sit back. “That’s a relief.”
    â€œMy centuries-old secret organization has only ever killed priests. Mostly. Although we do try to avoid that.”
    A cry escapes me as my bottle falls to the ground, cracking on the paving stone under the bench.
    Nara gives me a stern look. “There are children playing right over there. I’m not sure their parents would appreciate them coming home with that language.”
    â€œYou kill priests?” I whisper.
    She blinks slowly.