Hana

“You’re okay,” I whispered to my haggard reflection. Dark bags hung under my dingy, pale-purple eyes—a constant reminder of the designer baby I had been to my mother.

I scooped a handful of water from the tin basin and wiped it over my face. The cold shock to my skin sent a shiver down my spine but didn’t make me feel any more awake. I toweled off and set about doing my hair.

The comb caught on tangles from poor hydration and I gritted my teeth through the pain as I combed it out. I put it up in a tight bun and then cycled a breath for ry disguise. I pulled the purple munje to my fingertip and smoothed over the bags under my eyes. Another burst and my irises were vibrant once more.

My stomach growled in angry protest of the energy use.

I pulled in a deep breath to calm my nerves and closed my eyes. “You’re going to be fine.”

I jumped at three sharp knocks on the door. The middle-aged man’s voice was muffled by the door as he said, “You need to pay or pack up.”

My empty gut burned with anger. “I’ll have money tonight,” I shouted back.

His footsteps moved on, and he knocked on the next door with the same message. I looked back to the mirror, the reflection showing my hot shame. I leaned in, hating every bit of that reflection I saw.

“Stop pitying yourself. Get out there.”

I pulled my bag from the tiny, rough straw bed and slung it over one shoulder. I looked around the cramped room with resolved. I was going to make this work. No matter what it took, I was going to figure this out.

I grabbed my old-style key from the dresser and headed out the door, locking it securely behind me. I’d made that costly mistake the first day of my stay and lost the earrings that could’ve bought my meals and lodging for a week.

The manager—a man with a full head of brown hair and a beard to match—was knocking on all the doors, not just mine. I nodded to him cordially as I passed and headed down the old wooden staircase to the group dining room. His wife was cooking up something delicious, and I had just enough guli to spare.

I devoured my bowl of rice porridge and eggs as the sun light up the morning sky. I brought the bowl back to the kind-faced woman with short, curly hair with another nod.

“Still looking for work?” she asked as she accepted my licked-clean dish.

I nodded.

“You’ll find something. You’re too young and beautiful not to find something.” She sighed and headed for the kitchen.

I knew what something she was implying. There were no reputable dangye’s in the kingdom who would accept me, even to clean the floors. Scilla had seen to that. Lyjin tried to get me a spot within the Silver Dragonfly, but her mother and father said it would bring too much drama to the studio.

They were right. Employing me could’ve helped their business—the great disowned Phoenix rises as a Dragonfly—but only for a few weeks. When the gossip died down, everything would return to the way it was, and then Scilla would strike. Perhaps not a deathblow, but she would make sure the Silver Dragonfly was properly punished for disrespecting a wansil-yu.

I stepped out to the cool, humid morning. I walked the same pitted road as I had the last three weeks as I made my way to the lower east market district. The first business with a sign was a cheap coffee house. There was a tiny bell over the door that jingled as I made my way inside.

“You’re looking for help?” I asked the girl wiping down a table peppered in tiny sugar crystals.

She kept cleaning as she talked, moving from table to table. “We need a brewer. Good with li?”

“I can make forty percent clarity extracts and simple elixirs. I’ve grown herbs in a window box—

“We need a master brewer. Someone who can work the beans. What about your en? Can you keep a stable water temperature?” She blew a stray hair out of her face as she collected discarded plates covered in pastry crumbs.

I fiddled with the stray threads in my pant pocket. “I can control a few liters at a time.”

She tutted and shook her head. “Our smallest kettle is a hundred liters. Sorry, miss, I just don’t think it’ll work out.”

The ache of another failure dropped to the pit of my stomach like a stone, but I swallowed it down. I hadn’t lost yet. “I’m a Bastion student. I always achieve my goals, no matter what they are.”

She stopped loading her tray with dishes and stood upright for the first time. Her hands were worn and calloused. She had several burn scars up her arms, and recent singe marks in her black hair. The young woman looked me up and down, then smirked. “There’s nothing here for you.”

That smile stoked the fire of anger and warmed my cheeks. I nodded. “Do you know of any shops nearby needing workers?”

She hoisted her full serving tray and headed toward the back. “There’s a few places around the corner, but they don’t take people on merit alone. You’ll have to prove your worth.”

I gritted my teeth and suppressed the sour anger that begged for me to scream out. I was more than my lost name. I was much more than the school I attended. I was more than the pretty face that wasn’t as pretty as it used to be, or the hair that wasn’t as smooth.

“Thank you.” I spun on my heel as my throat burned. The door jingled open, and I marched down the street as my vision blurred with the tears of fury I wouldn’t let spill. I sniffed them back and found my next target.

The restaurant had a stage at the back and the sign on the door read: Dancers Wanted. I made my way past tables of older men dealing cards. A little early for gambling, but who was I to judge?

I found my way to the bar where a pretty girl who’s ry hid about twenty years of age cleaned a scratched-up glass. “You need dancers?”

She set the cup down and whipped the rag over her shoulder. “Show me what you’ve got.”

I took my time walking to the stage, cycling three deep breaths of ry as I did. The wood creaked as I took the steps to the black painted dance floor. There wasn’t much ry to work with, but I flicked my wrists and lit up my fans.

There was no music, so I hummed a slow burning tune as I twisted my hips and dragged my light-fans through the air. Golden con-trails made ribbons on the air as I circled and swooped, proving my worth. My ry was nearly depleted—and I couldn’t waste all my energy on one place—so I brought the dance to a slow conclusion with a kneeling bow.

The men at the gambling table whooped and clapped. “Hire her,” one noi-ne yelled.

Scilla’s biting voice broke through my head, “Beautiful women smile!”

I turned my lips up in a gentle grin that showed just enough teeth not to look fake and raised my head. I took the steps down and returned to the bar.

The woman pulled a small disc from under the cupboard and held it up. She infused it with ma and a light projection of my face emerged. She eyed the image of me, then me. Her brow pinched with pity. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

“Any other jobs I could do here? I’m strong, I could kick out rowdy patrons.”

She sighed. “We’ve got the muscle taken care of, and we can’t spare the coin for extra help we don’t need. I’m truly sorry we can’t help you.”

I nodded defeat. “Thanks for your time.”

“Wait, one minute,” she went through the back and emerged a moment later holding a box stack wrapped in a floral black cloth. She opened the bento and pulled out a dumpling, offering it to me.

“No, thank you. I’m fine,” I said, holding my hand up in rejection of the gift.

She pushed the cold dumpling closer. “You worked hard for nothing, and you’ll need the energy for your next one. Please, take it.”

My throat tightened and the blurry vision of hot tears returned. I knew how little these people had. I knew how many years Jiyong had barely scraped by to feed his munje-mute mother and five siblings, and what it cost him. I had to do this on my own.

“I can’t,” I said and turned for the door. The streets outside were bustling as the kingdomites woke and ambled their way to work. I breathed deep the scent of a hundred different meals being cooked for them.

One scent caught my mind’s eye—deep-fried dough and warm brown chocolate sauce.

Yuri…

“You can come work at the sewage plant with me, if you want,” her offer played over and over as I walked the streets, hunting for signs.

The idea of separating human waste from water for recycling was repulsive, but my reluctance was more than simple repugnance. I couldn’t take a handout. I had to earn this on my own.

I had to prove Scilla wrong.

“I can do this. I’m fine.”