Alexandra Duncan - Salvage

“Right so, missus,” I say and smile. Whatever she wants us to do, I’ll do, so long as it keeps Miyole safe.

“Please,” my modrie says. “Soraya.”

I nod. “Soraya.”

Miyole comes in from the garden, places her book on the table, and leans her head against my shoulder. Her hair is soft and clean, and it comes to me what a poor job I’ve done of caring for her. When was the last time I made sure her hair was washed or her clothes properly scrubbed? I lean my head against hers.

Soraya pushes back her chair and carries the dishes to the kitchen. “I need to stop in with my lawyer to start my custody registration for you and Miyole,” she calls over her shoulder. “And after that I thought maybe we could go pick out handhelds for both of you, since neither of you seem to have one.”

“Really?” Miyole perks up.

Soraya comes back around the corner. “Yes, really.” She smiles at Miyole, and I can read her pleasure in sorting these things clearer than any words. “You’ll need one if you’re going to be at school all day.”

“Crow-crow-crow. My very own crow,” Miyole sings to herself. “My very own, very own crow.”

Soraya laughs. “You are such a goose!” But then she looks over at me and frowns. “Ava? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” I put my smile back in place. “Nothing at all.”

The first place Soraya takes us is a woman doctor, who makes us dress in paper gowns and fills our arms full of shots. The doctor asks me all sorts of questions about how I lived in the Gyre and on the Parastrata, and again if I was married and if any men ever touched me or hurt me. I’m glad I never asked Soraya about Khajjiar. I don’t want to have to explain to her or this strange woman about Luck, about what passed between us. That shame is mine alone. As for Khajjiar, I’ll find another way. So I lie and lie until at last the doctor frowns and says she believes me.

After, Soraya takes us into the heart of Mumbai to buy clothes.

“I don’t need anything more, so missus,” I try to tell her.

“You can’t wear that to Revati, Ava.” She shakes her head at my faded Gyre shirt, my secondhand boots, and Perpétue’s knife looped through my belt. “Maybe it didn’t stand out in the Salt with all the foreigners passing through, but you’re in the city proper now. You have to dress like it. And I told you, you don’t have to call me missus.”

We take the floating trains into the terminus nestled in the heart of the center city and step out into one of the crowd-choked canyons cut between skyscrapers. Powell-Gupta is in an older district, so I’ve only ever seen the city center in passing. The streets run thick with people and cows, bicycles, horses, elephants, and solar-powered rickshaws, all weaving around one another with quick precision. The rich waft of spice and oil-fried dough from the food carts swirls together with the smell of animal dung and the faint metal tang the trains leave in their wake. Herds of street sweepers roll along behind the cows and horses, chirping and banging to a halt when the animals stop.

We fall into the flow of traffic. Miyole gapes at the towers as Soraya leads us up from the ground level, onto a walkway arching gracefully over the train trough in the center of the street. A tier of smooth-planed pathways connect the buildings on opposite sides to one another, and covered gangways lead into the shops. Above us, still more walkways lead to higher and higher walking tiers, with hanging vines and flowers trailing from their undersides. Glass pods full of passengers slide up building faces and stop gently, poised above the street as the people inside empty into the buildings.

Soraya leads the way up to the third tier, to a high-ceilinged shop on the top floor of an older building.

“Conditioner’s broken. Sorry,” the woman behind the counter calls out as we come in, fanning her face with a heavy piece of foil. The shop’s barely hotter than outside, but I’m beginning to learn the rich folk of Mumbai pride themselves on not letting on they sweat.

Soraya waves and smiles, a kind of no-worries gesture, and weaves her way between the racks of embroidered tunics and raw silk saris in flame blue and persimmon. The back room is stuffed end to end with identical shirts and pants and skirts in a streak of colors.

“Here, try these.” Soraya pulls out a pair of knee-length saffron skirts and scoop-necked black shirts that button up the back. A gold-picked crest with some kind of horned bird and a circle stands out above the breast. REVATI ACADEMY is stitched below the bird’s feet.

Miyole makes a face. The clothes look some stiff to me, too, but if this is what we have to wear to earn Soraya’s help, I’ll swallow it. I take the clothes and let Soraya herd me to the dressing room at the back of the shop. Miyole pulls her tongue back in her mouth and follows.

I put on the shirt in the humid dressing room, and instantly my skin goes cool. I rub the fabric between my fingers. How did they weave cool air into cloth? My crewe would trade all their copper for that secret, and I bet the Gyre folk would have done, too.

I step out of the dressing room, still staring at my new uniform.

“Do you like it?” Soraya asks.

I look up. “It’s cool.”

Soraya laughs. “Of course it is. Haven’t you worn smartfiber before?”

I shake my head.

“The wonders of civilization,” Soraya says. “Go on, get changed. We’ll buy some street clothes for you, too. You can’t go around sweating like a horse all day.”

As we stack our new clothes on the counter, Miyole circles a slowly spinning carousel of jewel-colored saris at the front of the store.

“Can I get one?” she asks Soraya shyly.

Soraya melts. “Of course.” She holds a lavender one dotted with silver-thread arrows next to Miyole’s face. “What do you think, Ava? Doesn’t this suit her?”

I freeze, mortified. “Oh, but missus, you don’t need to—”

Soraya sighs. “Really, Ava, I wish you wouldn’t call me that. There’s no need to be so formal.”

We head home with an armload of saris. Miyole even wears one on the train, sky blue with gold horses parading along the borders. The blue is lovely against her skin. She looks like a different girl. Younger, rich, the kind of girl who would never have cause to sleep in an alley or cut her hands climbing a ladder in the midst of a hurricane. Soraya bought a sari for me, too, in midnight blue rippling with undertones of honey rose. I tried to shake her off, but that started to make her cross. How can I ever ask her about Khajjiar if I’m already in debt to her over a stack of pretty clothes?

I should be down fixing the ship, I think as Mumbai skips by outside the train windows. I should be working, shoring up extra money against what’s to come. Not trying on clothes. I finger the pommel of my knife. I need to be ready, in case something goes wrong here, like it did aboard the ther, like it did in the Gyre. Nothing this good can last.

R evati Academy turns out to be an old stone building in south Mumbai, near the college where Soraya teaches. Miyole and I stand hand in hand before the sliding doors of its main entrance. I’m sweating despite the smartfabric. The knowledge that the satchel slung over my shoulder hides a glistening new crow Soraya insisted on buying makes me sick some. She bought us tablets of our own, too, but they were too nice. I couldn’t bring myself to carry mine with me and left it at the bottom of the chest of drawers in the guest room—your room, Soraya says.