You know what they say—if you sit long enough on a crooked corner of Seebulba, everyone you've ever known, wronged, or fantasized about will eventually walk by. Even you.
Well. It happened.
I was sprawled on a fish crate, nursing a hangover and a swollen toe (don't ask), when I saw her. Me. But, like, the deluxe edition. I blinked. I blinked again. Thought maybe the fermented squid soup I'd had for breakfast was punching back. But nope. There she was.
Silken canopy. Four eunuchs with arms like marble columns, sweating under golden poles. Palanquin lacquered in peacock blue. Velvet curtains drawn aside just enough to show a glimpse of her—me—lounging in embroidered silks, toes dipped in rosewater, getting fanned by a boy who looked like he cried if you raised your voice.
Same face. Same eyes. Same smug little tilt of the mouth like she was five secrets ahead of the universe and couldn't be bothered to share. Except she had her hair all pinned up with jade sticks instead of greasy braids, and she wore earrings I'd once blown a merchant for just the privilege of touching.
I gawked like an idiot. She didn't look. Not directly. But her lips curled. A little. Just a little. Like she knew.
The palanquin turned a corner and was gone, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and superiority. I was still sitting there like an abandoned sock puppet, mouth open, when some dock boy tried to grope me. I slapped him out of sheer muscle memory.
Look, I know I don't have a twin. Not really. The temple barely kept records of my name, let alone potential womb-mates. But I swear on the Dragon's gouty talon, I saw myself that day.
Rich. Pampered. Carried around like a wine jug too precious to touch the ground. Not a smear of street dust on her.
So. What does that mean? That somewhere, in this gods-forsaken, sweaty city, there's a version of me who made better choices? Married a duke? Blackmailed a bishop? Actually read a contract before signing it with a blood-dipped titty stamp?
Or maybe… maybe that's the lie I tell myself so I don't weep into gutter water. Maybe she's just another brat playing dress-up, same as me. Except her mask fits tighter. Her game's older. Her silks don't tear as easy.
Still. If I ever find her again, I'm robbing that bitch blind.
And I'm keeping the palanquin.