The Attic and the Locket
The measuring post stood at the center of Mid-Tier Square like a gallows dressed up as a monument, its brass markings gleaming cruelly in the late afternoon sun. Lila Hartwell hated it the way she hated wet socks and watery porridge—a small, constant irritation that never quite rose to the level of a proper grievance, yet never let her forget it was there.
She sat on the low stone wall bordering the fountain, chin propped on her knees, watching the Tall-folk cross the elevated skyways above the square. They moved like a different species entirely, gliding along the silver walkways strung between the Upper District towers, their long legs eating up distance in a handful of unhurried strides. From below, Lila could see the soles of their polished boots, the swish of fine fabric, the glitter of status-pins fastened to collars. None of them looked down. They never did.
"You're doing the face again," said Finn, dropping onto the wall beside her with the particular grace of a boy who had grown four inches in the last year and hadn't yet learned what to do with his elbows.
"What face?"
"The one where you look like you're about to start a riot with your eyebrows." He nudged her with…
