The Harvest by K. Makansi Page A

across the letters on the second leaf, the transcription of the words Vale wrote in response to my message in the book.
    You have renewed my hope. Stay safe. Love always.
    I read it again and again, a wide smile on my face. You have renewed my hope.
    There is hope. I can feel it. I throw on my clothes for the day, paint my disguise on as best I can, and set out to find Shia.
    First I go to the apartment complex Fen pointed to last night when indicating where the three of them lived. I buy a flower from a street vendor and put on my best shy, sweet expression as I approach the doorman.
    â€œExcuse me,” I say. “I met a man named Shia the other day in Reunion Park and he asked for my courriel. I was so nervous I wrote it down wrong. He told me he lives here, but,” I blush and look away, “do you know where he works? I’d like to take him this flower. With my real courriel this time.”
    â€œ Désolé , mademoiselle,” the older man says, with a touch of charm, “I can’t tell you where he works. I can give you his flat number, though, if you want to leave your flower for him. Take it inside to the desk, and they will see that it is put in his box. He will get it when he returns.”
    I nod demurely. “Would you mind?”
    He writes it on a little v-scroll for me, and I thank him with a seedcoin and head inside. At the desk, I unroll the scroll, erase the 7W, and write: If you want to know more about LH and ET, meet me at the Pont du Rue Panet at 20h00. Watchmen aren’t the only ones telling lies . I tie the scroll to the flower and leave it with the woman at the desk who assures me, with an engaging smile, that she will make sure Shia gets it as soon as he walks in the door.
    The Pont du Rue Panet is the same little bridge where we stumbled on the Watchman assaulting Heron last night. I hope Shia will make the connection.
    I leave the flower and head out the back way, out to one of the city’s suburban parks, away from downtown. Today, after hearing from Vale and Bunqu, and with an engagement to keep later tonight, I have no desire to risk discovery.
    Will Shia be brave enough to meet me?

    The streets are empty, traces of light lingering in the sky as darkness falls lat er and later each evening. I draw in a deep breath as I watch a leaf swirl on the water’s surface, drifting lazily under the bridge. The air smells like spring time, like moist earth and promise. It’s well past eight and Shia still hasn’t shown, but I can’t bring myself to leave.
    Instead of tapping my feet or anxiously watching the streets, as I might have once done, I try to channel my inner Chan-Yu. I focus my eyes on a point in the distance—a rocky swell where the water gathers and foams before running under the bridge at my feet. I immerse myself in the motion of the stream. The swirls and eddies. The rocks, rough in some places, smooth in others. The way the last light in the sky falls on the stones, giving them an otherworldly glow. I lose myself in the delicate sound, the endless energy, the rush and flow of the water carried forever downstream.
    â€œAre you the one who left the flower?”
    The voice catches me by surprise, but I don’t startle. I turn and see the tall man with tight curls and a nervous, piercing gaze. Shia.
    â€œYes.”
    â€œWho are you?” he asks.
    â€œSomeone who can answer your questions.”
    â€œWhat questions?
    â€œI was here last night. I heard you talking to your friends, and I saw what happened with the Watchman.”
    He looks me up and down. In his canvas jacket, polished loafers, and neatly trimmed beard, he looks the part of the Okarian elite. He is , I remind myself. He took classes with Eli . He’s not the kind of person who would normally associate with someone who looks like me—with my dirty brown hoodie, baggy pants, and scuffed boots. He raises a challenging eyebrow.
    â€œYou might not like how