Cilla started. Then, after a moment, she said, “I … wasn’t planning to touch the floor.”
Slowly, once Amara was sure Cilla wouldn’t make another move for the paper, she let go. She couldn’t risk the bareness of Cilla’s skin so close to the splintered wood. Cilla shouldn’t even come near the edges of the paper. Even one small, spilled drop of blood would activate her curse, and then Amara would need to lure the harm her way, and she’d already hurt enough for today.
“I really wouldn’t have touched it,” Cilla reiterated, but for all her care, one misstep could mean her death, and Amara’s task was to not let that happen.
Even if—too often—she wanted to. No Cilla, no curse. No pain. Then she’d see that restrained smile on Cilla’s face, or they’d sit hunched over a book, thigh by thigh, and Amara didn’t know what she wanted.
It didn’t matter. If Cilla died, Jorn would make certain Amara did, as well.
“It’s colder every day,” Amara ended up signing. She couldn’t tell the princess what to do outside of emergencies, but this was within bounds. “Shall I find your gloves?”
A smile wavered on Cilla’s face. “I’ll fetch them myself. Thank you.”
Amara watched her rise and move for her bag. The curse meant Cilla needed to be fully aware of her every movement, which made her graceful and cautious at the same time. People would say it was simply her Alinean arrogance, but it went further than that: Cilla owned every step she took. Even when she ate, she did it gently to avoid biting her cheeks or tongue. That kind of thoughtfulness—the barely there sway of her hip, the deliberate way she crouched and her fingers plucked open her bag—drew the eye.
It shouldn’t. Amara averted her gaze and smoothed out the news sheet. She shouldn’t be reading, either, should do as she ought and search the floors, but she started with the far-right headline, anyway: Developments—In— She didn’t recognize the next word and read it slowly, mentally sounding the letters. Am—Ma—Lor—Ruh. Ammelore, the town. A tiny thrill ran through her. The next headline: Ruudde—Celebrates—Capture—
A lock of hair fell past her shoulder into her face. She recoiled at the scent of her own burned flesh trapped in the strands. Pressing her hand to her mouth, she kept going—Ruudde was the minister closest to the island they were hiding on, and that made him a threat, and that made him worth reading about—but the letters came slowly, far too slowly, and by the time Cilla sank down by Amara’s side with her hands safely gloved, Amara had only made it past the first few words.
“Bedam’s minister made a rare public appearance,” Cilla read, her index finger moving down the page, “to celebrate … Oh.”
“What does it say?” Urgency showed in every twitch of Amara’s fingers. Shouldn’t read this. Shouldn’t trust Cilla. If there was news on their enemy, though, they ought to know.
Cilla scanned the rest of the column. She read so fast, her dark eyes moving up and down, right and left—Amara couldn’t imagine what that was like. “They captured the Alinean loyalists—‘rebels’—who attacked Ruudde’s palace the other day. Ruudde’s palace?”
Amara doubted Cilla remembered the palace where she was born; Ruudde and the other ministers had slaughtered the Alinean royals and taken over the Dunelands when Cilla was only a toddler. Cilla scoffed, anyway. “Ruudde made an appearance to celebrate on the Bedam town square … a woman threw a stone … Ruudde retaliated …”
“Who’d be stupid enough to throw a stone at a minister? It wouldn’t hurt them.” Ministers didn’t have to be mages, and mages didn’t necessarily heal, but the current ministers were masters at both. They were trained mages, like Jorn, who drew on the spirits of the seas and winds for their spells in a way Amara had never been able to mimic. The spirits let her do nothing but heal herself, and slowly at that, with jerks and stutters and long pauses.
“I imagine it’s satisfying,” Cilla said humorlessly. “But no. Not smart. The article doesn’t mention the woman’s name.” That said enough. Nobody, least of all an official news sheet, would disturb the dead by calling on them.
Cilla stared at the page, her eyes unmoving, no longer reading. Amara understood. Ruudde had killed Cilla’s parents and siblings in the coup. He would’ve killed Cilla, too, had one of the palace mages—Jorn—not smuggled her out in time.
When Ruudde and the other ministers had discovered Cilla’s escape, they’d cursed her. And while that curse was active, she was too fragile to make her survival public. Anyone could kill her with a scratch. Plenty of hired mages had tried over the years. The only way to stay alive was to duck her head and run from town to town, which gave Cilla no chance of reclaiming her throne. That throne was in the Dunelands’ capital, Bedam, only hours away from where they were hiding now. They hadn’t been this close in years.
Amara wondered if that weighed on Cilla the same way it did on her.
Footsteps approached the inn room. Cilla stuffed the news sheet back into her topscarf. Amara crouched and pressed her hands to the floor. Her heart slammed. Jorn wasn’t supposed to return yet. He took long, slow baths, and given the mood he’d been in, he’d be in no rush to get back, and—
The door creaked open. Maart stood in the doorway, his waves of hair tangled from the wind. Amara’s breath hissed in relief. Not Jorn. He and Maart might have the same splotch of freckles and the same blocky jaw, the same splayed Dit nose and shallow Dit eyes, and both let their hair spill to their elbows in the old way, but the resemblance people always remarked on was lost on Amara. It had nothing to do with the hint of Alinean features on Maart’s face or even the age difference; Maart could simply never be like Jorn.
Maart could never scare her.
He hurriedly put down his bucket so he could sign. “Are you OK? Your hands?”
Amara showed the backs and palms—not a trace of her injuries left but her too-short nails—then glanced past him. Cilla had sat down in her alcove, leaning forward to keep her head in the light.
Maart turned to follow Amara’s gaze. “Princess.” His hands moved rigidly.
“I was just showing Amara a news sheet. Do you want to take a look, too? We’ve decided to keep up her studies.”
Had they?
“I’m meant to wash our clothes.” Maart took his eyes off Cilla the second he finished signing. He had to be more careful. Cilla would pick up on his reticence. A warning hovered on Amara’s fingertips, but she saved it for later, when they were alone.
“I’m … not certain I should keep studying,” Amara signed instead. She didn’t dare look away as Cilla’s eyes darkened, hope fading. “Thank you, though.”
The gratitude felt like a betrayal. At least Maart was so busy plucking the used clothes from their bags that he might not see her hands.
Cilla nodded. The heels of her boots brushed past the wood paneling under and beside the bed as she swung her legs left and right, as if she was trying to keep busy. It made her look younger. Cilla didn’t move like that often, but right now, her legs were swinging the same way any normal girl’s might, and that caught Amara’s attention just as much as Cilla’s self-possession did.
It shouldn’t, Amara reminded herself.
Maart sat by the bucket he’d carried in and worked stubbornly on. His breaths still came heavily. He must’ve rushed back to the inn, lugging that heavy bucket with him, worried sick. But with Cilla here, they couldn’t talk. Amara lowered her head and continued her work, dust and dirt tickling her nose. She held in a sneeze. For too long, the only sounds in the room were Maart’s scrubbing, the swishing of Cilla’s legs, Amara’s hands brushing the ground.
Finally, Jorn returned, his hair still wet, a bag of supplies in his arms. He put them away, ignoring Amara and Maart, and went back out. Cilla eagerly followed him to the pub downstairs. Amara waited for the door to shut behind them and sat upright. “That wasn’t smart. You can’t ignore Cilla like that.”
A leg of one of Amara’s winterwears flopped over the edge of the laundry bucket as Maart sh
oved it away, freeing his hands to sign. “I don’t care. What she did—”
“We don’t know if she told Jorn! And learning to read and write was my choice to make. Our choice. You’re lucky Jorn didn’t recognize your handwriting.”
“You shouldn’t thank her. You shouldn’t even be checking that floor! Let those splinters stab her instead of you. Let her die. Why do you even care about putting her on the throne?”
“I don’t.” Her hands moved snappishly. Any fool knew the Alineans should have the Dunelands throne back—they had never abused magic the way the ministers did—but what did it matter to her and Maart? Servants would stay servants. “I—no. Maart, I don’t want to fight. Let’s play a game,” she signed, but even as she did, she wasn’t sure what kind of game. Jorn had burned her practice papers along with her hands, and the only paper left sat in his bag. He’d notice if they took any. They’d once had a game board and pieces and a set of dice, but they’d abandoned those weeks ago when they’d fled a farm. “No, no game. Stories. Tell me about …”
“It still smells,” Maart said. A dripping wet topscarf rested on his lap. The soap reached to his elbows, and he flicked water and suds around with every word he signed. “The room still smells. Amara, I can’t … I should’ve done something. I should’ve fought.”
“We could hum,” Amara said, thinking back to the day before, when they’d started out with a tune and ended up pitching their hums higher and higher, until Amara could no longer match his and ended up laughing so hard her stomach hurt. They used to do that all the time, and that was the Maart she wanted right now.
He didn’t respond. Didn’t smile, either. His lips stayed in that same, by now too familiar, straight line.
Amara relented. “What could you have done? What’s your great plan? Look at me: I’m fine. You wouldn’t be.”
Maart’s skinny eyebrows sank and knitted together. This seriousness didn’t suit him. His signs slowed down with intention. “We can run.”
“He’d find us.” He’d kill them.
“We can run fast.”
“That’s not a plan.” Amara scoffed. “You’ll get us killed by talking like that, you idiot.”
Last month Maart might’ve grinned at that. Now, he simply drew back, stone-faced.
Amara hadn’t meant … She sighed. Her eyes shut. Maart was the only person in the world on her side. The only person she could talk to—and the only one she could shout at freely. And she needed to shout. Sometimes she didn’t think she could keep it all in. It simmered under her skin, pushing outward until her body no longer felt like her own.
She’d need to keep it there. Maart wasn’t the right person to shout at.
“I’m sorry.” Amara walked over and lowered herself to her haunches. She reached for the side of Maart’s neck. Her fingers ran over the raised skin of his servant tattoo, identical to hers but for the different palace sigil in the center. That was her answer. People would recognize those tattoos anywhere they ran, if they didn’t recognize their signing first. They’d deliver her and Maart to the nearest minister, who would punish or kill them for abandoning their duties—and if anyone realized Amara and Maart had betrayed the new regime by protecting the princess, they’d be just as dead, but their executioners would put a lot more thought into how.
Given Amara’s healing, they’d need to put thought into it.
Jorn had enchanted some of their possessions to act as anchors to let him track them. Even if they ran fast enough to escape the anchors’ reach, they’d have no food and no shelter and no way to get the money needed for either.
“It’s not right.” Maart’s hands moved reluctantly. “Standing there, doing nothing, while Jorn—while you—” He stopped at that, jabbing at Amara’s chest.
“It’s hard to watch. I know.” Amara bet it was harder to feel. She didn’t say that, instead inching closer, balancing on the balls of her feet. “Don’t talk about running.”
“Jorn can’t see.”
“Doesn’t matter.” Even this felt dangerous. They were too open here, too visible, with this entire wide room around them. Jorn would know. Somehow, he’d know. Maart was wide-shouldered and strong, but going up against a mage—even a mage like Jorn, who couldn’t heal—never made for a fair fight. Amara didn’t know what Jorn would do to Maart. Or Jorn might remember that he needed Maart functioning and he’d take out his anger on Amara, instead, and she didn’t—she didn’t want—
She sucked in a breath that stuck in her throat. She didn’t want to anger Jorn. That was all.
“You can’t ignore—” Maart started.
That only made her want to shout again. She chose the better option, rising and leaning in to smother Maart’s words with her torso. His hands stilled, turning into flat palms, still slick from the laundry water, against her ribs. As they slid across her skin, she kissed him. His lips were sticky-sweet from breakfast fruits. The older kind, overripe and dented, because that was all people like them got. They squeezed the fruits, anyway. Juice and pulp went down easier in hollow mouths.
Her teeth nibbled Maart’s lips, Alinean-full like Cilla’s. Bless his grandfather for passing those on. Amara hid a moan as Maart’s fingers crept higher on her chest. This close, the scent of him drowned out all others.
He smiled against her lips, and she smiled back, knotting her fingers into his topscarf. These were all the words she wanted right now.
he good thing was, when you puked often enough, you learned where in the toilet bowl to aim in order to minimize splatter.
The bad thing was, you automatically shut your eyes in the process. In Nolan’s case, that meant switching between feeling his knees on cool tiles and acid in his throat to witnessing Amara and Maart in the alcove bed, leaving him with mental whiplash and voyeur guilt and—in short—terrible aim.
“Nolan?” Pat thumped a fist on the bathroom door. “You, uh, need anything?”
Nolan wiped his mouth with too-thin toilet paper. Then he yanked off some extra sheets, slammed his hand to the roll to keep it from spinning endlessly, and wiped the toilet seat, too. “Did Mom send you up?” He sounded pathetic. If it’d been Mom out there, he’d have cleared his throat and aimed for a laugh, but he didn’t need to with Pat—
—Maart was kissing Amara, slick lips on her neck, the dip of her collarbone—
“—texted me to check on you.” Nolan could almost hear Pat frown. “But if I can help …”
“Probably not.” He crawled upright. His legs tingled with numbness from the knees down. He barely kept his balance as he leaned in to flush, then half stumbled, half hopped to the sink, using a single, sleeping foot and no crutches. They were still downstairs. Idiot. At least the bathroom was small. He ended up crash-landing on the sink with both elbows. Stuck between dry-heaving and panting, he stared at the mirror. He looked pale. Not pale-pale, like Mom, but paler than his normal, even brown, which made those bags under his eyes stand out even more.
Another surge of nausea hit. He pressed a fist to his sternum to quell it. The movement reminded him of before, in the Walgreens back room, and a phantom burn flared in his hands and faded straightaway. He ought to just shut his eyes until the nausea passed. If he had to deal with Amara’s pain, shouldn’t he be allowed the good parts, as well, no matter the guilt—
—Amara’s hand ran down Maart’s side, heat spreading across his skin and hers, and she hardly felt the wall patterns pressing into her back or—
—Pat shoved open the door. Probably a good thing. Whenever Nolan wanted to get sucked into Amara’s world, it took forever to wake up.
“I heard you flush,” Pat said by way of justification.
“I hate these pills.” Nolan stuck his head under the tap. Cold water. For more reasons than just cleaning up. Puking and sex—two surefire ways of feeling awkward around your thirteen-year-old sister. Not that she looked thirteen. Pat took after Dad, tall and unapologetic and dark, and with Nolan bent over like this, they were almost the same heigh
t.
“Weren’t you feeling better?” she said. “I thought you got used to those pills weeks ago.” She fiddled with her gloves. Summer in Arizona, and she wore gloves. Leather ones, with cut-off fingers and metal spikes across the back. Nolan didn’t know how she managed.
“I messed up the timing. Took two doses too close together.” The taste of acid coated the back of his throat. He rinsed his mouth again.
“Are these pills better than the old ones, at least?”
“Which old ones? There’s plenty to choose from.” Nolan managed a laugh—a little-sister laugh, a big-brother laugh—but not much of one, and apparently he wasn’t the only one feeling awkward, since Pat was still twisting the spikes on her gloves one by one. Pat didn’t hesitate often. Then again, they didn’t talk about his condition often, either. Nolan preferred it that way. She shouldn’t have to worry about her screwed-up brother’s supposed epilepsy.
That was the diagnosis: epilepsy. To be specific, a rare type of photosensitive epilepsy that triggered absence seizures on blinking. Seizures that came with hallucinations. The EEGs were works of art, the symptoms didn’t add up, and the so-called seizures never responded to medication—but it explained everything, from the overstimulation to the flares of pain and the worthless attention span. It had also explained why a five-year-old Nolan would mention flashes of noise, people who didn’t exist, visuals he couldn’t explain. He claimed those had gone away years ago, but the pain was harder to hide.
The numbness from kneeling so long had now shifted into full-on pins and needles, assaulting his leg with every twitch of movement. Eyes open, he told himself. He was almost relieved when Pat pointed at the inside of his arm. “What’s that?”
He glanced at the faded ballpoint scribbles that stretched across his flesh. Dit letters. He’d practiced writing them the other night at the same time Amara had, and he’d forgotten to scrub them off. The letters along his arm aligned in a firm grid. His ballpoint couldn’t vary line thickness properly, so the lines weren’t as neat as Cilla’s or even Amara’s meticulous attempts and ended up looking cheap, almost fake.
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