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“It’s full,” Colson retorts. “More than full.”

Ritha shoots him a wearied look. “It’s very small. Cagmar, the way it’s built, it can only house so many people. It can only grow so much. They barely tolerate us, so our space is very small. I share a bed with Tara.” She pats the girl on the shoulder. “That’s why we were so surprised to hear about you!”

I hug myself. “Understandable. I didn’t know they let in children. I had to ... prove myself, to say the least.”

“They don’t,” Ritha replies. “Tara was born here. We make sure she stays useful, running errands, doing behind-the-scenes work.”

Tara chirps, “I’m going to be a scribe.”

Ritha sets a hand on her shoulder. “Her handwriting is quite good.”

Colson snorts, but I don’t question him. Instead I ask, “Would they really exile a child?”

Ritha and Wiln exchange uncertain looks. A familiar fear cools the base of my belly. None of us is truly safe, then. I can only imagine they came here out of desperation as well. Even in the townships, the drought has made living hard.

I want to change the subject. “What is it you do?”

“I’m an herbalist. And a midwife.” Ritha glances lovingly at Tara.

Wiln smiles, his white mustache stretching. “I’m a horologist.”

I brighten. “A clockmaker?” I haven’t known one since I left Lucarpo.

“A tinker as well. Keep that running.” He gestures to a white-faced clock high on a nearby stone wall, which I hadn’t noticed earlier.

“Do you ...” I hesitate, trying to choose the best words. “Do you work with sundials at all? Or the stars?”

Wiln shakes his head. “Not for a very long time. Very little sunshine down here.” He gestures toward the market’s high ceiling of unending near-black rock, as if we’re inside an obsidian egg, blocked entirely from the world beyond. “Why do you ask?”

Again, I hesitate. I’ve had little opportunity to talk about those deep desires within me, about the heavens that have molded themselves into a faith all my own. “I ... I met a Cosmodian once. I thought her work was fascinating.”

His brow tightens, and he rubs his chin with the pad of his thumb. “A worshipper of the stars? I thought they’d all died off. Makes me think ... Well, I’ll check on something.”

Before I can ask what he means, Wiln looks expectedly at Colson, who says, “I work the mines.”

I’m surprised. “They wouldn’t accept me for labor alone.”

Gaze narrowing, he reels back. “Pardon me for not being a scholar.”

My gut clenches. “I didn’t mean—”

“Colson has been here awhile,” Ritha’s voice soothes. “Even grown he can get into places the trolls can’t.”

“Or pick ore from their pebbles,” he quips.

Wiln peeks at the clock again. “You’d best get on your way, MissLark. Work shift ends soon, and if you get caught up in the traffic, you’ll never get where you’re going.”

I glance at the clock. It’s nearly the third hour.

“Thank you. And ... the enclave?”

“It’s full.” Colson’s tone is even more bitter than before.

“Down,” Ritha answers, pointing to a nearby tunnel. “Past military training, just below the divide on the west.”

“Thank you. Even if I can’t join ... I would like to visit and know you better, if I might.” I glance at Colson. “All of you.”

He folds his arms and averts his stony gaze.