These Gilded Seas

Chapter Twelve: Unseen Differences

A guard stops me as soon as I've stepped foot under the stone archway.

"Line's that way," he grumbles, pointing to a string of people. How did I miss that? I duck my head in embarrassment and shuffle over to the end of the line. Sam's already gone by now, so I just rock back and forth on my feet, studying the guards stationed at the doorway.

Mostly, they lean in and talk to the person passing through, but occasionally, they'll draw them aside and search their belongings. It's the men traveling alone that they target—a silly, sexist practice, if you ask me. I can't help but be thankful, though. It's their idiocy that will help me get past unbothered. I won't complain.

As the line shortens and the sun creeps closer to the horizon, I'm finally able to hear some of the conversations between the guards and those entering. Four people ahead of me, a woman and her young son whisper softly to each other until called to step up to the uniformed man.

"Names," he barks, staring down at the two of them. The mother mumbles the information he demanded. "Purpose for entering the city."

"We're visiting my sister," the woman explains, blissfully louder this time.

"What's your sister's name?"

"Jensen. Teresa Jensen."

The guard doesn't flash even a hint of emotion as he stares down at her. "I'll need to check your bags."

She nods and hands over the large sack that once hung over her shoulder. Her boy does the same with his own pack. The guard hands it off to another man, who begins to search through it. No one says anything, even as the second guard takes a ripe red apple from the woman's bag and pops it in his mouth.

"All clear," he says, but the chunk of apple in his mouth muffles the words. He hands the bags back to the other guard and his partner ushers them through. Still, no one remarks on how he just stole from her. The hair on my neck bristles with mistrust.

The line creeps forward.

Giving them my name won't be an issue, "Arielle" means nothing to them, but I'll have to make up a reason for entering the city. Visiting a made up relative? Seeking work? Sightseeing? Everything I think up has so many holes in it that I'm able to see straight through it.

And what happens if they search me? There's nothing in my bag that would interest them, spare a letter from an "uncle" about how my friend's in a necklace. But if they searched my person... then I'd be arrested. Without a doubt. My nerves take themselves up a notch, and I wipe my palms on my skirt to be rid of the sweat pooling there.

The next person in line is a man with a small cart. It's pulled by an aged gray horse, shorter than Milly was. The horse has a bristle of dark gray hair running from its ears to its tail. Maybe a different species of animal than Milly?

A white sheet covers the cart the steed is pulling. It looks like a snow-covered group of hillsides—all rounded lumps. I lean in and take a deep breath.

Fruit.

"Name." The guard's tone drips with boredom. If he hadn't just ignored his partner's thievery, I might feel sorry for him. After the man answers, he continues his monotonous interview. "Purpose for entering the city."

"To sell fruits from my orchard," the elderly man says. "I pass through this gate every week at the exact same time."

"Doesn't matter if I see you every day, old man. I still have to ask the questions." He snaps his fingers at the other guard. "Hey! Come search this cart." His partner pockets the half-eaten apple and walks over. The old man's posture shifts—just barely. The guards couldn't have noticed. He shoves his hands in his pockets and watches them carefully.