by Kaylin Lee
Zel took charge, sending the twins to bed and Weslan to his pallet before guiding me into my room. Tenderly, she helped me wash the blood from my hands and slipped me into my oldest nightgown. As if I were five years old again, she held me as I sobbed. When I’d calmed, she tucked me into bed and left the luminous burning low.
The tears came in even more waves after Zel left. Just when I thought there could be no more tears left, I had to dry my face on my sleeve again. Abandoning any attempt at sleep, I sat up in my bed and turned the scrap of red cloth over in my hands.
When my father was near death, he’d called me to his bedside. Zel had come with me, holding me by the shoulders so I would stand at a distance and not risk coming too close.
“Take care of Gregor,” he’d rasped, his face gray but still softened by a gentle smile. “We’re all he has left. Take care of him, Ella girl. Promise me.”
I’d promised in a wavering voice, still confused about what was happening to my father, to everyone. For years afterward, I’d obediently gone to see Gregor every day, pestering him with questions about whether he had enough victus and clean water or whether he needed me to help clean his shop the way Zel had me cleaning our bakery. It wasn’t until I was older that I realized what my father had intended—during my daily visits, Gregor would take care of me. And he had. Without his help, Zel and I would never have survived this long.
And now, I’d destroyed him. I wrapped my arms around my chest as another sob ripped through me. It was all my fault. Gregor, the brewer, the attack on my neighbors.
If I’d never asked for help with the proposal and hadn’t involved other merchants in our experiment, this never would have happened. Thankfully, no other lives had been lost in the attack, but all I could think about was Gregor.
I clenched my fist around the rough red fabric and squeezed my eyes shut, rocking back and forth on the bed. Was it so wrong that I wanted to give merchants in Asylia a chance to try something different, a chance to grow and thrive in a way they couldn’t on their own? Was it so wrong that Weslan had made the best of his expulsion and found a way to use his powers to build something amazing? Why was I being punished for doing something good?
Tears streamed down my cheeks, the salt burning my worn, raw skin. Was I just supposed to give up now? The bakery stand would either be bankrupted by government fees, or Weslan and I would end up in prison. Gregor was gone forever, and the other merchants would never help us with the petition. What was the point anymore? And yet, how could I give up when so much had been sacrificed already?
Images assaulted me, and I hunched over on the bed, pressing my face into my hands in a desperate attempt to shut them out. The ribbon snake, lifting its head to look at me, as though ready to strike with invisible fangs. The nameless girl’s limp hand on the ground beside broken pieces of our lemonburst cake. Gregor’s kindly eyes, lifeless, staring up at the night sky as his blood drenched my nightgown.
Once again, I was trapped. I couldn’t continue, not without putting us all at even greater risk. But if I gave up, how would we ever escape? Worse, all the death and injuries would mean nothing. I’d be letting the Blight win. Why did they care so much about us, anyway?
I looked at the red fabric in my hand. For weeks now, I’d thought I was going mad, imagining those red scraps and messages. But there was no way I could have known that the Blight would attack shops on our street. The last message had been a promise of reprisal. That meant the message I’d seen on this fabric could not have come from my own mind. It had come from the Blight.
I’d planned to turn the scrap over to the Quarter Guard to help with the investigation—as though they didn’t know it was the Blight—but the message in black thread had disappeared. Now the red cloth was blank with no trace of the words I’d seen immediately before the blasts went off.
I thought back over the strange imaginings I’d seen in the last few weeks. How many of them were real all along? What was the Blight trying to do to me? And why did they hate me so much?
If only I could talk to Zel or Weslan about it, but the evidence had disappeared. No doubt they’d think I was regressing, hallucinating after the blast on our street brought back bad memories of the attack on my school.
I scrubbed the tears from my cheeks. Gregor was dead, but I was alive. And until I was dead too, I wasn’t completely helpless. I could still do something. And I would.
~
“We have to do it,” I said firmly, ignoring Weslan’s frown. “We can scrub the names and any identifying measures from the other merchants, but we still have to do it. If the Blight doesn’t like what we’re doing, then that’s all the more reason to proceed, right? It means we’re on the right track.” I scowled. “Anything that makes the Blight that angry seems like a good idea to me.”
Weslan searched my face for something, and I wondered what he was thinking. Finally, he relaxed, though his brow remained furrowed in a small frown. “I'm with you. But I want you to promise something. Stay anonymous, no matter what. Don’t let anyone who sees the proposal know you wrote it. They know we’re using magic at the bakery, but they don’t know we want to change things in the city for everyone. And if you’re anonymous, you’ll be protected from charges of treason.”
I stalled for time, shoving my frustration into the dough I was kneading, turning it and folding it over, then pressing it down with my fists. “If I keep my name out of it, isn’t that cowardice? Besides, what if they refuse to consider an anonymous proposal? They have to know I’m serious.”
“It's not cowardice, Ella. It's wisdom. If you truly want to win, then you need to stay alive so you can try again if you don't win this time. You can't win if you’re executed for treason.”
It made sense. As much as I wanted to push forward, no matter the cost, he was right—there would be no victory in my death.
I started as Weslan placed his hand on my shoulder and pulled me around to face him. I stared up at him, smiling inwardly at the smudges of flour on his sculpted cheekbones.
“Now, you answer me this,” he said. “How are you planning to get the prince to read the proposal?”
I bit my lip. I’d been putting off this conversation for days.
He bent down so I couldn’t avoid his gaze. “If you want me to move forward with this, you need to tell me, Ella. I’m not doing anything else until you do.”
“I know this sounds crazy, but the selection ball is coming up in two days.” I forced the words out in a rush, suppressing the whirlwind of nerves in my chest. “We need to get the proposal directly into the prince’s hands, right? Well, what if I go there, dressed as a Procus lady, and attract his attention? I'll disguise the proposal as a gift or a note or something, and give it to him to read later. All you need to do is dress me up so that I can get in, so that no one else will know that I don't …” I couldn’t finish because of the dark look on his face.
“So you want Prince Estevan’s attention,” he spat. “I suppose if you had him on your side, you would be able to do anything you wanted.”
“Well, yes, of course.” I was confused. I hadn’t expected him to like the plan, but I hadn’t thought he’d be so angry.
“And you want me to beautify you, as if you were a power-hungry Procus lady, to attract a man with the nickname Beast? A nickname he has most certainly earned, by the way.” Weslan’s tone took on the sarcastic twist it had often held when he first came to the bakery.
“But I thought he was a reformer.”
“Prince Estevan is a monster, Ella. He may be making political and regulatory reforms, but that doesn't mean he's a good man. You cannot trust him.” Weslan was looking at me so intensely I thought I might melt under the pressure.
“This isn't going how I thought it would,” I said. “I don't care if he's a good man or not. I just want—”
“Oh, really? You don't care. I see.”
Clearly, he didn’t. I went to the sink, washed the sticky dough from my hands, and dried them on a
towel before turning to face him again. “I mean, all we need is for him to listen to our proposal, to see that what we want is what's best for the city. I want him to realize that this would truly change things in Asylia. This is probably my only chance to get the prince’s attention. My only chance to get him to listen.”
Weslan still looked skeptical. “You want to dress up and go to a ball where the prince is ostensibly looking for a wife, and you want to get his … attention … just so you can talk about regulatory reform?”
I shook my head rapidly. “No. I don’t want to talk about it. That would be terrifying. I was thinking … I don't know … I could dance with him once and then put the proposal in his hand and tell him to read it later. Maybe he would think it was a note from some Procus lady. And then he would read it after the ball and realize our proposal makes perfect sense.” Why was Weslan was being so difficult?
“Ella.” Weslan sighed. “That's not how men think. It’s just … not. He's not going to just think that you're an interesting person who is giving him a note about regulatory reform. He's a womanizer, Ella. He's going to think you want something else.”
I scowled. That wasn’t my problem. “It doesn't matter what he thinks. All that matters is whether he takes the proposal or not. I only need to get the proposal into his hands and catch his attention long enough for him to realize that we are more than just another group of commoners asking for a favor.”
“That's another thing that worries me. If we catch his attention and he realizes how much we can change things, he might decide to … put a stop to that.” He looked at me, and I stared back at him, neither of us willing to budge.
Finally, as though I could pull him over to my side, I reached out and put my hand on his. His warm skin strengthened my resolve. “Weslan, I'm doing this. Please help me. We've made it this far together. This is our one shot for the bakery to survive. If we don't try this, you'll probably be fine. Your powers have grown, and no doubt the mages will want you back when they find out. But this is it for me. For Zel and the girls. If this doesn’t work, we're going to have to take our chances in the Badlands or try to get to another city and hope things are better there.”
Weslan leaned closer, as though my grip on his hand had pulled him in. The hunger in his eyes made me fall silent. He moved his hand to grip mine, and then ran it up my arm with a gentle touch that had me longing for more, sending goosebumps over my skin. “I'll do it, on one condition. You save a dance for me at the end of the night.”
I stared at him, my heart pounding in my chest. Was he serious? He couldn’t be. And yet I’d never seen him look more serious. Warmth emanating from his body pressed against my skin, and I fought a strange urge to inch closer to him. Then it occurred to me that we were alone in the kitchen, late at night, and his hand was on my bare arm.
He seemed to realize this at the same time, because he released me and turned away. I watched his shoulders tense for a moment, and then he said, “Just go to bed.” His voice roughened, and he gestured to the dough. “I’ll finish that. We'll figure this out in the morning.”
That night, sleep eluded me. He couldn’t be serious. Could he? A mage and a kitchen girl? And could I? A picture of two golden-haired, tan-skinned children flashed before my eyes, a boy with Weslan’s cheekbones and a girl with my green eyes. I curled around the sudden pain in my chest.
What was this burning, hungry feeling? It was beyond desire, beyond hope. It was too much. I wanted him too much. And now, I had to wonder. Would it be so bad to be tied to a mage, if it meant I got to be with Weslan? And what if our proposal did set the mages free? Everything would be different. Perhaps …
I ran my fingers along the side of my face, stroking the wrinkled skin of my scar and doing my best to shove the burgeoning hope back down. It was impossible. Hadn’t I learned my lesson by now? I had to stop wanting things that were beyond my reach. I drifted off to sleep with my hand covering my scar, and dreamed of achingly slow dances and perfect, golden hair.
~
A noise came from behind me, and I turned away from reviewing the small, inky words of my final proposal, all cramped on a single page. Zel stood inside the kitchen, a worried look on her face. “I've just been to the front door. Inspector Cyrus came.”
My shoulders tensed. “Why did you answer the door? What did he want?”
“I just … I wasn’t thinking. I happened to be coming down the stairs when he knocked, and I knew you were busy with the proposal. He asked me a few questions about the bakery and then left. But he seemed so … happy to see me. He didn't mention anything about the tax or setting the trackers on us. But I couldn't shake the feeling that he'd gotten exactly what he wanted. I'm worried we haven't seen the last of him. And now you're going right into the hands of the very people who have the most power to do us harm.” Zel’s face crumpled. “You're taking much too much risk tonight. It's not worth it.”
Of course, Zel would try to dissuade me when my mind was already made up. I took her hands in mine. “Don't you see? Inspector Cyrus is the reason I must do this. He's not going to leave us alone. Now that he's gotten a little bit from us, he's not going to stop. He’ll keep demanding more.”
I expected Zel to argue with me, to reassure me that everything would be fine like she always did. But this time, she was silent. The encounter with the Inspector had shaken her more than she would admit. I kissed her cheek. “It's time for me to get ready. Can I use your room? I need a full-length mirror.”
Zel gave me a small smile. “I suppose.”
I climbed the stairs to her room, donned the borrowed black outfit, and reviewed my proposal again. My stomach ached with nerves, and sweat dripped down my back as I hunched over the proposal.
Zel’s room was hot and stuffy from a day of baking in the summer sun. The twins thumped around on the roof. No doubt they’d gone up to escape the heat the moment the sun went down.
I’d written and rewritten the proposal so many times that I should have had it memorized by now. Yet I was so nervous I could barely remember any of it. I had included the figures from the bakery and the other merchants, modified to mask our identities, and my forecasts and suggestions. They were laid out for the world to see.
I had attempted to multiply the effect of mage-craft tools in each shop based on an estimated number of similar shops in the city. It was infuriating to take such a big idea and condense it to smeared ink on a single piece of paper. But it wasn't my fault that the petition day was worthless. If the prince wasn't going to listen to me in the official setting, I had to get the information to him another way. Hopefully, I wouldn’t get kicked out of the ball. Or worse. I was a commoner who didn’t know her place, and Asylia’s ruling class would show me no mercy if I were recognized.
Weslan knocked and then entered through the open door. “Ready?”
“I think so.” I set the proposal gently on the desk before me. “Let's do this.”
He came up behind me as I stared into the mirror, evaluating my appearance. I had set him a ridiculous task. Nobody would mistake me for a Procus lady. What had I been thinking?
My scar, though it had faded significantly, still curved along the side of my face from temple to jaw. My terrible light-green eyes stood out against my skin. My messy dark hair wouldn’t stay in its bun. I looked like a common kitchen wench.
Weslan met my gaze in the mirror for a long moment. Could he read all the doubts on my face? He opened his mouth to speak and then shut it. He placed a hand on my shoulder, and a cloud of golden sparkles enveloped me.
I couldn’t help the thrill of excitement. Finally, I would get to see myself in one of his designs. The sparkles disappeared. Instead of a long, shabby black dress, I was wrapped in pale blue silk that spilled off my shoulders and hugged my every curve, wrapping around my body in impossible twists and turns, until it spilled onto the floor around me in an extravagant train. The fabric shimmered and glittered with subtle, magical light, brightening the dim room arou
nd us. It was the most beautiful dress I’d ever seen.
Not beautiful. Stunning. Striking.
Dangerous.
Weslan’s reflection looked oddly … hungry, but he didn't say anything. Instead, he raised his hand and ran it over my hair with the gentlest of touches. My dark, wild tendrils and loose waves transformed into a pile of sleek, voluminous curls at the crown of my head, with several loose curls hanging down around my face, hiding my scar perfectly. Then a warm wave a magic washed over my face.
I closed my eyes to enjoy the sensation. When I opened my eyes again, my reflection glowed with an otherworldly light. My lips shone a soft pink color. My eyes were lined with something like dark kohl, and my lashes were longer and darker. I blinked. How had he done that?
Weslan stepped toward me and reached around me as though in an embrace.
I met his eyes in the mirror, afraid to move.
He watched me carefully as he ran his hands up my arms. Goosebumps followed his touch, and a pair of white silk gloves materialized, racing up my arms and ending above my elbows. I didn’t look like a commoner anymore, that was for sure. I didn’t look like a Procus lady, either. I looked like a siren.
Weslan’s voice in my ear was husky. “I think you'll get his attention.” His hands were still on my arms, and his chest warmed my back.
I ached with the urge to lean into him, but I held myself upright. I couldn’t take the chance that I’d mistaken his feelings. “What about the proposal?” My voice sounded husky too. I cleared my throat.
He moved one hand down to my hip, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the mirror’s reflection, and the heat of his hand seemed to burn through the fabric of the dress. “There's a pocket,” he said. He took the proposal from the table, folded it, and slid it into the secret pocket.
I glanced down. Two scruffy black slippers peeked out beneath the hem of my extravagant ball gown.
