The Theft of Sunlight by Intisar Khanani (story reading .TXT) 📕

half of the city’s population is dedicated to having new clothes for the celebrations. She sits by her counter, winding up reels of lace and sorting them into the appropriate baskets.

“Will there be celebrating in your town as well?”

It’s the opportunity I’ve been looking for. “There were some festivities planned,” I say slowly. “But no one’s thought about it the last week or two.”

“Whyever not?”

“We lost another child,” I say quietly.

She sits back slowly, the lace forgotten before her. “The snatchers.”

I nod. “We don’t lose children very often—we’re a small town. Does it happen more here?”

“Every day.”

“Surely someone is trying to stop them,” I say, as if my wishing it would make it so.

“The snatchers are brutal. They kill or take those who discover them. And those who escape—you see what happened to my Andril.”

My eyes flick to her son. He is watching the cat again, but even now, as present as he is, there is an absence to his gaze.

“I—I’m sorry.”

“It is no fault of yours. He escaped them but didn’t make it to the Speakers in time. Eventually, word reached me of a boy who had been found and was being kept at a temple a day’s ride downriver. So my prayers were answered, and I had my son back.” She clears her throat. “I am grateful every day that he is with me, but I wish—I wish it had not cost him so much.”

“Did you ever learn how he escaped?”

She shakes her head.

I take a slow breath. “Are there others who have escaped? Whose families might have some idea how the snatchers work, or how they might be stopped?”

“Oh, child. These are dangerous questions. No one speaks of the answers. To do so is to invite the snatchers’ attention, and that is death, or worse.”

“Death?” I echo.

“You are perhaps protected from such realities in your town, but here . . . if the snatchers get word that someone is trying to bring attention to them—perhaps that they have some small detail gleaned from a child before their Blessing—the reprisals are quick and brutal. I have a friend whose daughter escaped. It was after those terrible days following the queen’s death.”

That had been bad news, certainly, but it hadn’t felt so terrible to us. “She was a good queen,” I say rather lamely.

The shopkeeper shakes her head. “She was, but I meant the spate of disappearances that happened over the course of the days of mourning. We must have lost near two dozen children in those three days.”

Two dozen children? That’s—I realize the city could easily hold ten thousand people and still have space for more—but over twenty children lost in a handful of days is almost beyond comprehension.

“My friend’s daughter was the only one who got away,” the shopkeeper continues. “She told the whole of her story before being blessed, and my friend’s husband went to every guardhouse he could find with her story. Somewhere between one and the other, he was set upon and beaten to death.”

I stare at her, horrified. “But—but how could they have known?”

“He was not quiet about what he intended. If they knew from the rumors spreading through his neighborhood, they could have easily tracked him.”

“Did the guards do nothing?”

“What were they to do with a dead body?”

That’s not what I meant, but it’s answer enough. They took no action with the girl’s story either. I rub my arms, chilled. Here is all the answer I need: acting on my own, seeking the truth on the streets, I will be able to stop the snatchers no more effectively than this man. And might lose my life in the attempt as well.

“So you see that you must be careful too,” the woman says, her voice kind. “I understand why you spoke to me, but do not ask anyone else lest you become a target yourself.”

I dip my head, but I can’t help asking, “Do you remember the girl’s story?”

“Whether I do or not, I won’t be sharing it. Didn’t you hear me, child? The telling of it could spell your death, or mine.”

“I understand,” I say, although I don’t. Surely she doesn’t think I’m allied with the snatchers? She’s trying to protect both herself and me, but that leaves all the rest of the children of our land at risk. Still, I doubt I can press any more answers from her.

Outside, the streets have dimmed, evening settling in, and I have a long walk ahead of me to the palace. My feet hurt, and I’ve no doubt the blisters along the bottom of my turned foot have burst. They will be a mess beneath the healer’s bandages. Well, there’s no need to go back to her. I know what to do with blisters. I’ll just go to Melly’s apartment and take care of them myself.

I bid farewell to the shopkeeper and start the trek back to the palace. The streets are just as busy as earlier despite the lengthening evening; apparently the city doesn’t go to sleep with the sun as Sheltershorn does. I’m grateful for the bustle; with so many folk around it feels safe enough to walk the main streets. But, unlike home, no one pauses to ask if I am all right, and those who note my limp look away almost immediately.

A man barrels around the corner not three paces from me, his shoulder slamming into mine. “Watch it,” he growls as I stumble to the side, arms pinwheeling out—and then my foot slides in a patch of mud and I come down hard on my knee.

I bend over, my breath hissing between my teeth, aware that the man has already hurried off. In Sheltershorn, everyone on the street would have hollered at him, told him to go back and make amends. My skirts are splattered with mud, but at least that was a softer landing than the cobbles that start up not twenty paces on.

“Are you all right?” a voice asks. I look up to find a young woman beside me. She’s