CHAPTER 1
O
f all the treasonous acts I’d ever committed, this shouldn’t have been the one to get me caught. Red water streamed between my fingers with each frantic sponge-drag across Marge’s door, but even my frothing assault of soap and vinegar wouldn’t erase the Hunters’ Mark. I was only spreading the paint around, making a mess of the rose pattern Marge had drawn above the door-knocker last summer. So much for preserving her memory. Footsteps clopped behind me and I spun, heart racing. The air was still fuzzed and dewy as a morning peach, the jewel-toned houses barely flushed with colour; I had to squint to see the figures through the haze. I exhaled in a sharp blast. Not the guards. Just some children racing across the mosaic-encrusted road, too caught up in their laughter to notice me. They rounded the corner, and the street returned to its sleepy silence, the silver penny blossom trees rustling like sequins in the wind. But a few streets away, the market was yawning awake and exhaling the stench of roses. Soon, the festivity of Rose Season would drag locals from their beds. I was running out of time. I dunked the sponge into the bucket and slapped it across
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