As the Appraiser predicted, the moment Domi stepped into the Black Flight Wine Bar he could tell he was in trouble.

His ma presided over her salutatio audience in the cramped common room. Forty Pullati and other criminals gathered at tables around jugs of watered wine, including the Dyer, who sneered at Domi and glanced at his nails as the boy froze. Sweet Eternal Radiance, what was he doing there?

As Domi crept into the candlelit saloon, the eve's business didn't stop his ma from casting him a glance that shifted from assessing to displeased in an instant. His heart plummeted from its place in his throat over what the Lightbearer might have blabbed straight down to his belly. Eternal Radiance preserve him, she knew something.

He cringed under her stern scowl. Best to go wait for her in their insula above the common room and pray the Dyer kept his toothless trap shut.

He threaded his way through her Pullati court toward the spiral stairs, listening to the din of conversation with half an ear. His heart swelled with pride. His people possessed their own ways.

For most of society, salutatio was an early-morning tradition. Lowborn children began their day before chores by offering their parents a formal greeting. Servants, sycophants, and clients waited upon their highborn patrons for an hour, though what they did there remained a mystery to Domi.

But at the Black Flight and among Pullati all over the world, salutatio was an evening affair. There, each gang's Rex Pullati received the daily reports, requests, and riches of their city's hardworking criminal lowlives and distributed instructions, favors, and rations in return. Like in every past generation, the tradition preserved his people despite all the hardships they faced.

Domi slid through the gathered throng of thieves, forgers, smugglers, and swindlers, receiving a respectful nod as he passed one of Merula's enforcers. The slender but deadly woman, having caught the vexation on the Rex Pullati's face, offered Domi a pat on the shoulder as he scampered past her. He darted up the staircase, which spiraled its way above bar tables, wine racks, and dartboards to the narrow loft serving as Domi and Merula's insula.

The apartment over their respectable establishment was tiny but decent. Merula kept a strict house when it came to redistribution, a principle vital to their community's survival. Little made its way back into her own hands that Merula didn't share with others in equal measure or based on need. In fact, if Domi's ma caught wind of today's lift, she would punish him on those grounds alone, never mind the risk, the secrecy, and the disobedience.

But though the Pullati's collective wealth passed through her hands and back into the community, a thing here or there sometimes drifted back their way. As often as not, it was a gift or service from Pullati who appreciated some favor Merula offered over the years. Lately, though, it had been a gesture of care and concern.

As a result, someone tended to patch Domi and Merula's roof before the Rains whenever wind or woodpecker knocked fresh holes in it, and their brazier rarely lacked coal. And though they owned no fancy blankets like the one the Appraiser found Domi in years ago, warm, if patched, wool blankets guarded them against the evening chill.

And though ineligible for the grain dole citizens registered in the Compendium enjoyed, they still managed to acquire a share most weeks. The rare day dawned when Merula could not send Domi off to the forum's communal ovens to bake a hearty loaf of bread.

Still, their window—boarded over for several weeks now—needed mending. Glass blower services were costly, and though Merula told Domi dozens of times to get the window fixed, he had other uses for their share of Pullati coin.

He peered over at his ma's straw pillow, eying the laundered linens with suspicion. Despite his ma's best efforts, no amount of washing hid the bloodstains.

Domi didn't remember how long Merula had been sick. His own health had been so frail as a child that everyone, his ma included, seemed like a paragon of glowing wellbeing in comparison. But for several months now, Merula suffered a nagging cough, which grew worse in the evening. It had not been terrible at first, just bouts of dry hacking now and then.

But the wretched cough and slumber-sweats were constant now. Her wheezing breaths filled most eves, and her body—never particularly stout but still strong and sturdy—withered before his eyes.

At forty-one, no one would call Merula a young maiden anymore, in particular among the Pullati, who tended to die achingly young. Still, she should never have looked so like an old woman. Merula had grown thin and frail, with graying skin, yellowing eyes, and an ever more bloodless cast to her lips.

He remembered how she appeared in his childhood, a stately bronze woman, regal as a statue, radiating authority like one born to it. Her tight black curls—so dark and glossy they often reflected the evening sun's crimson glow—had circled her head like a fiery halo.

He had always thought she was beautiful, but now she just looked sick. It terrified him.

He jumped as his ma's voice cut into his anxious thoughts.

"Dominulus Lodicis, where is your clothing?" Merula stood at the top of the spiral stairs, hunched and winded from the short climb. She still possessed the energy to glare.

"Come now, do I look naked?" he deflected, raising his brows.

"You look like a Pullatus."

"I am a Pullatus."

"Don't you sass me." She crossed to the chest at the foot of his bed. It was, of course, empty but for his midnight-blue tunica. A fact she soon revealed she knew as she threw back the lid and skewered him with a pointed glare. "What the heck is this, Domi?"

"A tunica," he said, adopting the tone the Appraiser used when lecturing snatchers on items worth stealing and disguises that would help them get away with their crimes. "A simple garment of various lengths, colors, and fabrics worn by all genders and classes. Shall I define a lantern next?"

She scowled at him, dropping the lid with a thump. "I seem to recall that I got you several new tunicas this year and even that nice paenula to wear over them for observance."

It was time to own up. Somewhat. A little truth might throw her off the trail.

"Yeah, I pawned those." He kept his voice steady, like using one's whole wardrobe for collateral on a loan at fourteen years old was normal and reasonable. "But I'll get them back."

"You pawned—" She broke off, squinting. "What the heck is that on your arm?"

"That" was the long tunica strip wrapped around his elbow. He'd hoped she wouldn't spot the makeshift bandage in the dim evening light. "Well... I just..."

She slumped onto his bed, exhaustion engraved in every line of her face. A thin film of sweat glossed her forehead; her fever had returned.

"You know you can't let yourself get hurt," she said, her voice tight. "You bleed, you die, Domi. That's why I put you on the discreet work. Don't think I'm unaware you were out there with the snatchers today. You need to stick to breaking. It's safer."

Good, she didn't find out about his trip to the Dyer. He crossed his arms. "I'm not going to die from some little scrape, Ma. I've always pulled through even when it was bad. And look, this isn't bad at all. The bleeding stopped, see?" He waved his arm.

"And how long did that take?"

"Not long. It stopped fast, like a miracle." At least, he hoped the cut no longer bled. He couldn't tell with a soaked bandage, but no blood dripped on stuff now, so he figured he was good.

She shook her head. "Domi, miracles are such because they don't happen every day. You can't live your life like you expect the Eternal Radiance to bail you out of every scrap."

"I promise, I'm being careful. I don't risk injury, you know that. This was just from leaning against... something."

He wouldn't come clean about the Dyer. No way. That was the exact opposite of avoiding risks.

She scrutinized him for an excruciating moment and at last nodded. "Fine. Now, don't think you've distracted me from the other matter, Domi."

He distracted himself from the other matter, but now memory came sweeping back. "Can I just say sorry and skip the lecture?"

She appeared torn between amusement and exasperation. "Sure, if you tell me, in detail, what it is you're sorry about. Out with it, Boy. Why did you pawn off your clothes? If you're in trouble or owe someone money, tell me, and I'll deal with it."

"No, it isn't anything like that. I'm not in trouble. I'm just raising a bit of coin for a personal project. I'll earn plenty later to buy the clothes back." If the Appraiser didn't sell them all. "You always encourage me to be entrepreneurial, don't you?"

She studied him with furrowed brows and a quirked lip, as though still deciding whether to reward him or strangle him. "Why is it I get the impression you're not telling me what you very well know I want to hear, Dominulus?"

He pressed a hand to his heart. "I'll tell you all about it when I'm done. I promise I'll stay safe and get the coin. You know how clever these hands are. I'll be back in my observance finest in the blink of an eye."

She huffed. "You'd better. We're Pullati, sure, but I'm the Rex, and you're my Regis Heres. We have standards, and not just at observance."

"Yeah, yeah." He hesitated, eying her wilted state. Salutatio had drained her. He had drained her. "Speaking of observance, it's time to go. Can... Can you walk there?"

She rose to her feet and did not waver. "I'm the only one who gets to fret here, Kid." She nudged him toward the chest. "Get dressed in that awful thing, and let's go. After the ceremony, I want you to repeat back everything the Rex and Princepses said, and we'll go over any words you don't understand."

"Yeah, yeah." It was the same script every year; he memorized most of it ages ago. His ma possessed her own ways of giving him the education society denied him.

"Good. Get dressed." Her eyes narrowed. "And Eyes devour, don't pawn off anything else."