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“State your business,” he says.

I pull free the order that Mistress Solomon gave me. “I have a delivery in the Royal Sector.”

He barely gives it a glance, then nods at the gates and returns to his post.

Well, I always knew it was easier to get in than it is to get out. A woman with a glistening purple carriage is waiting on the other side while guards search her belongings. Her skin is starkly pale, with rich red hair coiled in impossible braids. She stands to the side, haughtily checking her pocket watch. Diamonds sparkle in the sunlight.

That pocket watch alone would buy enough medicine for a family for months. I want to grab a fistful of the powder in my pack and shove it down her throat.

I shake myself. No. I don’t. It’s not her fault. She didn’t put Wes up there. She can’t help that she was born to privilege.

Oneof the guards opens the door to her carriage and bows to her. “Forgive the delay, Consul Marpetta.”

A consul! I’ve never seen one up close, and I want to gawk. I probably am gawking. I try to force my eyes away.

She tosses him a coin. It winks in the light and then disappears into his palm. “I’d rather you search everyone than let a smuggler out,” she says, her voice so soft I almost don’t hear it. She climbs into the carriage, and he slams the door behind her.

As her carriage rattles past, the guard notices me staring. “Don’t you have business here, girl?”

“Oh! Yes.” I hurry away.

I’m no stranger to the Royal Sector, but I know it in the dead of night, when the streets are empty, dark, and silent. With the sun blazing overhead, everything gleams, even the gutters. Doorways sport gilded edges. Fountains splash merrily in front of the larger houses. The windows of the shops are all crystal clear, the cobblestones out front freshly swept. Electric lights blaze inside the fanciest establishments, but others are lit by oil lanterns. Doorknobs are edged in silver, carriages and carts are lined with leather and steel. Horses prance and shine, their harnesses richly detailed.

And the people! Women wear dresses with jewels embedded in the bodices, silver stitching glinting along the skirts. Men wear long jackets of brocade or silk or soft suede, their boots thickly heeled and polished. Fabrics burst with every color, brighter than any found in the Wilds, where dyes would be too expensive and too frivolous. At night, these swaths of pink and purple and orange are all muted shades of gray.

There are more common people, too, workers with duties like me, but they’re hidden, invisible in homespun wool or gray trousers that seem to blend with the cobblestones or the brick walls of the storefronts. Even still, I see the differences here as well, from boots with thick leather soles, belts stamped with intricate leatherworking, and buttons that have been made from a steel press, not carved from a piece of wood.

Despite all of the riches and perfection of this sector, I ache for the people dying in the Wilds, for the people struggling in Steel City or Trader’s Landing or Artis. There is so much here. So much wealth, so much health, it’s like a slap in the face.

What Wes and I took . . . ?they could afford to lose it.

And now he’s dead, and they’re prancing around as if Kandala weren’t dying outside these gates.

I have to duck into a shop to ask for directions so I can find the address Mistress Solomon specified. The closer I get to the center of the city, the larger the houses grow. More gold, more silver, more wasted wealth.

I’ve never walked right up to one of the houses to ring the bell, and it feels unnatural, as if slipping through open windows and picking locks is the preferred means of entry. A steward answers and takes the parcel, looking down his nose at me haughtily. “This was to be delivered an hour ago,” he says.

As if it matters. I hastily bob a curtsy, though he’s probably not someone who deserves it. “Forgive me,” I say. “Please don’t tell my mistress, sir.”

He huffs through his nose and closes the door in my face.

I give the closed door a rude gesture, then turn around.

Now what?

I have to walk. If I don’t walk, that steward might come back out and call for a patrolman. There are fewer shops here and more houses. I try to backtrack to where I first asked for directions.

Instead I turn a corner and find myself staring up at the palace.

Ifthe houses looked wealthy, the palace looks like an ostentatious abomination. It’s massive, stretching four city blocks wide, with white bricks edged in lavender that practically climb into the sky. The front is wide and flat, with two towers at either end. Two massive fountains spray water high in the air, bubbling and splashing on the way down. Carriages roll past, and footmen leap into action, opening doors, carrying parcels, rolling out carpets.

The palace shouldn’t be white. It should be red with blood, or black with death, or honestly, it should be a charred pile of rubble that I would skip through, and happily.

I slide my hand into my pack. The muslin of ground thimbleweed root is wrapped tight, but it’s still there.

That’s too much. You’ll end up killing someone.

My feet carry me forward against my will. I don’t want to be here, but it’s almost as if my body is working against me. Rumor says that the Moonflower elixir they mix in the palace is ten times the strength of the crushed petals Wes and I used to steal. I’m not sure what I’m going to do—it’s not like I can walk right in and ask for some.