“Yes. I’m fine,” Lu lied, noticing how deep the grooves around his mouth had become. His once-dark hair had, overnight it seemed, paled to gray. In his faded dressing gown and house slippers, he reminded her of one of the guests at the Hospice. The thought made her shiver. He still had six more years before they’d have to face that, and Lu tried hard never to think of it.

She tried hard never to think of a great many things.

He switched from German to English. “Can you go back to sleep? You still have a few hours before work.”

He looked hopeful, but they both knew she’d never go back to sleep now. Beyond the obvious horror of what gunfire during Curfew meant, there was something darker that prickled her skin and soured her stomach at the sound. Some ancient monster buried deep in her psyche blinked open yellow eyes and lifted its head, hackles raised.

That monster she feared more than anything else, even more than discovery by the Inquisitor.

“No. I think I’ll go in early today. We could use the extra credits.”

“All right. I’ll put the coffee on.” Her father swung shut the door, and Lu heard the shuffle of his footsteps all the way down the stairs.

She scrubbed her gloved hands across her face, rose from the bed, and went down the hall into the bathroom they shared. The dying rays of the sun filled their apartment with a dim red light, filtered through the cloud cover, soupy and opaque. She removed the lightweight night gloves, laid them on the ledge above the sink, and stared down at her bare hands.

Tattoos decorated the inside of both wrists. The left showed a birdcage, empty, its wire door cocked open. The right showed a trio of birds in flight, wings spread wide open as they soared. A constellation of tattoos decorated her body, including a quote from The Bell Jar, by Sylvia Plath, on her rib cage, the zodiac sign for twins on her right ankle—it spoke to her, for all its meaninglessness to reality; she was a Virgo, not a Gemini—and a fire-breathing dragon curled around her belly button, but the birds were her favorite.

When she was seventeen, she’d read Lolita by Nabokov—that one wasn’t on the banned list—and a quote from the book had stuck in her mind like a burr, refusing to shake loose. “I talk in a daze, I walk in a maze, I cannot get out, said the starling.”

The words had resonated in the deepest level of her heart. Lu understood exactly how that little starling felt. When she pressed her wrists together, seeing her own tattoo starlings fly free, it made her feel a little better.

Keeping a careful eye on the digital water meter on the wall above the tap, she brushed her teeth and washed her face, then combed her fingers through her long, wavy hair and braided it. The single plait fell nearly to her waist. She returned to her room and pulled on the Hospice’s standard-issue gray trousers and belted coat over the thin leggings and tank she’d worn to bed, then laced up her favorite pair of boots. The shoe vendor at the market had called them “combat” boots, a name Lu liked. She’d bartered ten water credits for them, a pricey trade but worth it; she spent most of her shift at the Hospice on her feet, and the boots were supremely comfortable, if ugly.

Lu didn’t care about pretty exteriors. She knew even the most beautiful things could be worm-eaten on the inside.

A quick check in the cracked mirror above the tiny bureau to make sure her appearance was in order, her usual stuck-out tongue at the reflection of the large red Third Form badge sewn into the lapel, then she made her way down the narrow staircase to the first floor.

Her father was in the kitchen, frowning at a pan of water on the stove. He turned when she came in, held out an empty tin, shrugged an apology. “Forgot to buy more matches. Can’t put the coffee on for another half hour. Sorry, liebling.”

The stove was wood burning, but also had electrical ignition switches, a hybrid necessity in a city where electricity was only available during certain hours. Lu needed neither, but her father had strictly forbidden any hint of zauber from her, no matter that they were inside and no one could possibly find out.

“It’s all right. I’ll get a coffee at work. And I’ll pick up some matches on the way home. Anything else we need from the market?”

Looking around the threadbare kitchen, her father made an amused noise she translated to Is there anything else we don’t need? Staring at the nearly empty cupboard shelves, he sighed. “It might be time for me to trade a few more books.”

“No.” Her emphatic response made her father raise his brows, and Lu shook her head. “I’ll ask for extra hours next shift. We’re not trading any more of your blacklisted books. It’s too dangerous.”

Her father chuckled and sent her a warm smile. “I think it’s not the danger you’re worried about, little bookworm. I think it’s which one of your favorites I might trade next.”

“Psh.” Lu waved the comment away, but he was right. Reading transported her to other worlds so much finer and more interesting than her own. She’d rather give her eyeteeth than give up any more books, no matter how hungry they became.

She crossed to the icebox, yanked open the door, and peered inside. She had to smother the pang of alarm at what little lurked inside. Putting on a bright voice, she said, “Okay. Breakfast. We’ve got a delicious-looking rind of”—unable to discern the color of the wedge of cheese beneath its layer of fuzzy blue mold, she sniffed—“cheddar. We’ve got a very perky head of cabbage.” Her father snorted. The cabbage was decidedly unperky. “We’ve got three cans of BioVite, two FitCakes, and something that looks like it used to be a sausage.” She paused. “Or maybe a banana.”

Her father peered over her shoulder. “We haven’t had fresh fruit in weeks. Whatever that thing is, it’s definitely not a banana.”

Lu’s sigh matched the one her father had made moments earlier. “All right. BioVite or FitCake?”

“Let me get out of my dressing gown before I’m forced to make such a gourmet decision, child.” He patted her on the shoulder and began to shuffle from the kitchen. Watching him go, shoulders slumped, hair in disarray, his gait that of a man utterly bereft of hope, Lu felt something inside her chest harden.

As soon as he’d vanished upstairs, she went to the stove, and pulled open the square firebox door. Then she lifted her bare left hand, flexed open her palm, and gave a small push.

The pile of wood inside burst into merry flame.

Lu shut the door, latched it, and stood watching the pan of water on the stovetop until her father returned.

He stopped short in the doorway. Dressed in meticulously clean but worn clothes that included a cardigan with mended elbows, and his trademark black fedora, he looked at the simmering water in the pan, looked at her bare hands, looked into her eyes with a question, with that familiar flare of fear in his own.

“Found a stray match in the cupboard,” she lied, turning back to the stove. “You can have coffee with your FitCake. Should make it go down a little easier.”

Her father was silent a long while, long enough for the water to boil and Lu to pour it into two mugs, and stir in the dried coffee crystals. When finally she turned and held out a mug to him, he took it with only a murmured word of thanks, not meeting her eyes. They sat down at the kitchen table together and ate their breakfast and drank their coffee, neither one willing to mention the gunfire or the stove fire or all the other unspeakable things that lurched and stomped through the landscape of their lives.

The bells inside the old cathedral began to toll, signaling the end of Curfew.

Her father whispered, “It’s Christmas Day.”

Lu nodded, surprised as always that his faith was still intact after everything. And that he dared to speak the word Christmas aloud. It was just as dangerous as what she’d done with the pan of water.