Quartz by Rabia Gale Read Free Book Online Page B

champions.
    Isabella took his arm and steered him in among the buildings, deeper into the shadows. Here the lights were dim, the stalls smaller, the wares half-hidden and presided over by sullen and suspicious men who sold in front of the crumbling homes they dwelt in.
    Isabella murmured into his ear. “If you want the real Blackstone, the cold heart and granite soul and hot blood of Blackstone, this is where you’ll find it.
This
is Moon Alley.”
    They meandered down the narrow street that smelled of smoke and cabbage dinners. Rafe paused to examine the objects hidden under awnings. His fingers touched an explosion of textures. Sand-grit roughness, paper smoothness, a riot of etched lines. Not uniform, not made according to state regulations in a factory, fiercely defiant in their deviation. Oval-shaped, square-shaped, no-shaped. Carved, chiseled, gouged. They were more than cups and plates and pots, they were stories, dramas, secrets at his fingertips.
    This was the Blackstone shaped and birthed in the dark by those who lived without light. Rafe, hands wrapped around a squat ceramic mug covered in pinprick patterns, felt a keen sense of blessing.
    He turned to Isabella with a sudden certainty. “I know you. You do work for Rocquespur. You acquire art for him. That’s why you know about this place.” His gesture encompassed all of Moon Alley.
    “Oh?” Polite disinterest bleached her tone. He struggled to make out her expression.
    “You’re the one who beat me to the Tivik illuminated manuscripts in Emerald Market. The bookstall owner—Hatter, was it?—said a woman from Rocquespur had gotten there first. It was you, wasn’t it?”
    “You’re determined to put me in a neat box in your mind, aren’t you?”
    “It’s true, though, right?” he pressed.
    A shrug. “Believe what you wish.” She strode forward to the next stall. It was empty, a gaping cavity under tattered canvas. A short walkway led up to a small brick rowhouse. “We’re here.”
    Rafe walked up to the battered door and knocked. Splinters came away in his knuckles.
    The door opened a crack, leaking light. A man with rumpled grey hair peered out. “Go away. I’m not open today.”
    Rafe caught the door before the man shut it and stuck his foot in the gap. “Berlioz sent me.”
    The man blanched. “I have nothing to say to you. Be gone before I send for the stazi.” He kicked at Rafe’s toes.
    “I think you should see what he has to say, Pyotr.” Isabella stepped up beside Rafe.
    For a moment, Rafe thought that Pyotr was going to faint. His pupils dilated behind his spectacles and he swayed. “You,” he whimpered, staring at Isabella. “Why are you here? Why are you back? I did everything you said. Lights on at all times. I can barely pay for all that fuel. Why are you back?” His voice, low at first, had risen to a hysterical pitch.
    “She’s with me,” said Rafe quickly. “I won’t let her hurt you. Let us in, man. Do you really want a scene on your doorstep?” He pushed gently against the door, and Pyotr stumbled back, his arm falling limply to his side. Rafe and Isabella slid in and shut the door behind them.
     
    Pyotr had not exaggerated when he said that he kept his place well-lit. Blackstone did not supply gas lines to individual homes, so a dozen oil lamps burned in brackets in the wall and many more candles flickered upon small tables.
    The room was hot, smoky, and stuffy. A pungent herbal smell lingered in the air. Furniture occupied every corner, boxes stood stacked against the walls, pots and pans hung from hooks. A low-grade hum filled Rafe’s ears and tingled in his bones. His skin grew warm where the mage-made device lay against it. He bumped against a small table, then caught the candlesticks upon it before they clattered to the floor.
    Pyotr fetched a pair of soy wax candles, stuck them into tarnished silver candlesticks that might have once graced a Goldmoon mansion, and lit them.
    Rafe noted that the old