A ceiling lamp created in the shape of an upside-down joba tree hung above the gold-gilded four-poster bed. The carpet was a plush amber with thick coils of cotton begging to be walked on.
She got up and sank her toes into it. Then she walked into the dressing room that had been her prison. Her fingers grazed the bloodwerk runes on the door that had kept her trapped. Anoor must have figured out how to use someone else’s blood. If that was the case, then the knowledge of how to bloodwerk was more important than ever. Sylah needed to get hold of Anoor’s inkwell. And if she was using an Ember’s blood, then anyone could bloodwerk with the right tools and education. Sylah’s mind reeled with the implications.
The dressing room had been cleaned.
Sylah began tearing clothing down from the racks.
“What are you doing?” Anoor screamed. Actually screamed.
“Well, we’ll need an area to train in, and this seems as good a space as any.”
Her lip quivered, but she eventually nodded. “But be careful! That is an expensive scarf.” She clutched the silk that Sylah had thrown to her ample chest. “Can you be a bit more delicate?”
“No.” Sylah threw a glittering ruby boot at her. “This is actually very therapeutic for me.” Down came a rack of dresses. “Some might say it’s a bit of an invasion of privacy. Not us, though? Right?” A chandelier of emerald necklaces was kicked to the wayside. “We’re best buds, pen pals.” She was smiling maniacally. “So close, you even did my hair. How kind!” She ran a hand over her shaven head. “Ah!” The muscle in Sylah’s arm went slack, her hand hanging limply from her body. “Argh.” Sylah dropped to the ground, her muscles in her legs going weak too. Anoor ran to her and helped to prop her up against a shoe rack.
“I’ll make the tea.”
Sylah sat there looking at her limbs all piled on top of one another, like kindling waiting to be lit, prickling in anticipation of the fire. By the time Anoor returned with the glass of verd leaf tea, Sylah had already gained mobility in her arms.
“How long is this going to last?” Sylah asked, sipping the drink. Anoor had cooled it with cold water.
“How many joba seeds did you chew in a week?”
Sylah snorted. “About four or five a day.” More. Much more.
“A day?” Anoor gasped with extravagant hysteria.
Sylah tried to shrug. “I like the feel of it.”
“Well, Kwame’s cousin had been chewing three a week, and her muscle spasms were really bad for a mooncycle, but they plagued her for five more after that. She’d been caught having an illicit”—Anoor tried to wink but both her eyes closed—“affair with a Duster and they sentenced her to five lashes and sent the Duster to the rack. So she turned to joba seeds, sourced from across the river, of course—”
“What worsens the symptoms?”
“Pardon?”
“Why did my muscles suddenly stop working?”
It was Anoor’s turn to shrug. “Not really sure.” Anoor looked down. “When I wrote that paper there was a bit of research that said stress and anger could bring on spasms. They make the blood pump faster, and so the nerve transmitters go into overdrive. And if they’re still trying to stabilize without the drug, then the body shuts down. It protects itself by rerouting all the efforts to the brain. The limbs are the first to be affected.” She smiled. “But at least you’ll still be able to think clearly.”
“Fucking maiden’s tits,” Sylah growled.
Anoor bristled.
“What? Don’t like my language?”
Anoor’s shoulders limped upward. It was a noncommittal “no.”
“Well, fuck you and your fucking maiden’s tits.”
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Gorn arrived as if she were a bad-language detector. Anoor cast a furtive glance at Sylah.
“I’ll go see what she wants.” Anoor opened the door to Gorn’s sour face.
“Hello, Gorn.”
“Hello, Anoor. Dinner is ready in the dining room. I took the liberty to set another place setting. The bedding I have left in the foyer for now, until we can make suitable living arrangements for your…chambermaid.”