It’s the one that belonged to my mother. The one Bay forgot to bring to the morgue that day.
The ring is made of platinum and inlaid with brown and blue. My father gave it to my mother on their wedding day. It is extremely precious, because the blue is a gem called turquoise and the brown is wood, both rare materials from Above. My father had my mother’s name engraved inside the band, and then, when Bay and I were born, he had our names engraved there, too.
After my mother went up through the floodgates, Bay wore this ring every day.
Was she wearing it the day she went Above?
I can’t remember.
You’re not allowed to take anything valuable with you when you choose the Above. Only the clothes on your back. So did someone take this from Bay after she chose the Divide? And bring it to the deepmarket to sell?
Or was it gone before then?
Could Bay have sold it?
I shiver and stare, trying to make sense of what I see. Could this ring be a counterfeit, like the dirt sold in bottles? If so, it’s a perfect replica, and the closer I look, the more I recognize that silver band inlaid with wood and blue stone, smooth, circling.
“It’s not for sale,” says the older woman tending the stall, and the large, burly man next to her—her son?—folds his arms and glares at me.
“That ring is mine,” I say. “It was my mother’s.”
“What makes you think that?” she asks.
“It has the name Oceana carved inside the band,” I say. “And my name. Rio. And my sister’s name. Bay. No one else would know that. You couldn’t see the engravings while she was wearing it.”
“This ring did indeed belong to Oceana the Minister,” the woman says. She speaks my mother’s name with a touch of reverence, the way Elinor did earlier. “You’re right about that.”
“And it should be mine,” I say. “You could come with me right now to the temple, and every priest there would vouch for me. They’d tell you that I’m her daughter.”
“I’m sorry,” the woman says. “But I paid for it. If the boy who sold it to me stole it from you, then you need to take it up with him.”
“Boy?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “A young man brought me this ring. If he was a thief, that’s not my fault, but I will sell it back to you if you can come up with the money. I won’t even raise the price.” She seems pleased with herself for being so fair.
“But who was the boy?” I ask.
“He didn’t give a name,” she says. “But he had blond hair. He was young. Handsome. He looked well-off.”
The description could be any of dozens of people in Atlantia, but it also matches Fen Cardiff.
“When did he bring it to you?”
“Two days before the anniversary of the Divide,” she says. “I remember it well. I’ve been glad to have it. It’s a beautiful piece and serves its purpose nicely.”
I’m about to ask the woman what she means—what purpose can a ring have, except to be worn?—when a man comes up holding a tiny jar of water, much like the ones in the other stall that contain the fake dirt. “It’s five coin,” the woman says, and the man nods. He gives her the money and holds out the jar, and the woman takes it from him. She picks up my mother’s ring and drops it into the jar of water.
It’s a struggle to keep my voice level. “What are you doing?”
“You’re not the only one who recognizes this ring,” the woman says, holding up the jar to the faint deepmarket light. The ring clinks against the glass. “Everyone knows Oceana the Minister wore it on her blessing hand.”
The man watching is rapt. “Thank you,” he says.
“You’re pretending the ring has power to bless the water,” I say.
“No pretense about it,” the woman says, carefully fishing out the ring with a long, thin metal skewer. “You said yourself this was your mother’s ring.”
The man gapes at me. “Oceana’s daughter?” he asks.
“Never mind that,” the woman says. “It’s Oceana’s ring, and now your water is blessed. Off you go.”
After he takes the jar and leaves, the woman sighs. “I shouldn’t have said that about Oceana being your mother,” she says. “I’m sorry. You can’t have everyone following you around the deepmarket hoping that some of your mother’s magic has rubbed off on you.”
“My mother wasn’t magic.”
“I meant that figuratively,” the woman says. “But you do sound like a girl who takes things literally.” She polishes the ring and then puts it back in its case. “Of course, I suppose everyone knows who you are anyway, but it’s better not to draw attention to that fact. Although you’re doing your best to get noticed, standing there in those dripping clothes.”
“Why would everyone know who I am?” I ask. Atlantia is a large city. And my mother may have been a public figure, but Bay and I kept to ourselves. We always did a good job of blending in, or so I thought.
“There are thousands of us, but one Minister,” the woman says. “Anyone who ever bothered to enter the doors of the temple for a service probably had you pointed out to them at some point.”
This is not what I want to hear. I knew people paid attention to my mother, of course, but I always imagined myself slipping unnoticed through the streets and the deepmarket. It is true that Josiah and Elinor and Bien all knew who I was, though I assumed that was because they’d been told before I came down from the temple. “You didn’t recognize me right away,” I point out.
“My eyesight isn’t what it used to be,” the woman says. “And I didn’t expect the Minister’s daughter to be wandering around the deepmarket soaked to the bone.” Then she holds out her hand. “My name is Cara.”
I don’t care what her name is, and I don’t shake her hand. “You’re ruining the ring,” I say. “It’s not meant to be put into water—you’re going to make it rust, or damage the wood, or wear off the inscriptions.”
“Not everyone wants blessed water,” Cara says. “Some people only want to touch the ring. We’re careful about that, of course. Can’t have them stealing it. Some people want the ring to bless a scrap of fabric or an object from their home. And don’t worry. I’ve got a special oil to restore the moisture to the wood.”