by Stacey Jay
“Show me,” I order through a tight jaw. “Now. Run. I’ll follow.”
I set off after the boy, sprinting hard across the green and up the path to the Hill Gate, past fields of stiff cornstalks browning in the winter chill. I run, and try not to think about losing her before she’s even mine.
GEM NIGHT falls early in winter. Sometimes, I light my lamp right after dinner and practice reading or writing with the paper and charcoal Isra gave me—I’m trusted with flint to light the lamp and can ask for extra oil if it burns out.
But most nights I still choose darkness and the moonlit view out my window.
I stand and watch the roses. They are the only flowers still blooming, as obscenely red as they were in autumn when I was captured. When I was first moved to my new quarters, I would watch the path through the garden late into the night, expecting to catch a glimpse of Isra, hoping to learn more of the roses’ secrets. But after the evening when I told her the story of the girl and the star, she never came again.
Her absence is disappointing, like so many things about Yuan’s ruler.
Now, as I do what exercises I can in my small sitting room, I watch the garden path for soldiers. I memorize the timing of their patrols. I find the weaknesses in their guard. I store away everything I learn and pray to the ancestors that I get the chance to use the information. Taking possession of a rosebush is essential, but getting it to my people is what matters most.
Not if you can’t work the magic. If you can’t, the roses will be no good to anyone, and you will have failed the Desert People all over again.
I grit my teeth and bend my knees more deeply, squatting up and down with the heaviest of my new books balanced on either shoulder, building the strength in my legs, though my muscles still tremble in protest.
I’ll learn the magic. I’ll get the truth from Isra. She already tells me more than she knows. More than she should ever tell an enemy.
I tell her nothing that matters. I tell her stories to earn her sympathy and lower her guard. I labor hard beside her and keep my temper in check, slowly winning her trust. I tease her into thinking we are friends. I play the damaged weakling, sighing and groaning and stumbling through my work in the field even though I’m getting stronger every day. By spring I will be completely healed.
If she lets me out to gather the bulbs in a week or two and I return, she will let me out again to gather herb shoots in the spring. That is when I will return to my people. I will bring them the roses and hope and life. I will see my son.
I have to believe he’s still alive. Our chief knew these months would be hard. She will have had the women dry the cactus fruit harvest so it can be rationed throughout the winter. The men will find small game in burrows beneath the sand; the women will boil poison root until the poison is gone and only the mealy meat remains. The Desert People will live to see spring, and I will bring them hope and magic.
With a soft grunt, I shift the books from my shoulders to the floor, stacking one on top of the other. I stand on top of them, dipping my heels down and up, building the strength in my lower legs, the running muscles.
I will have to be fast. By the time I escape, every moment will be precious. Every moment is precious now, but there’s nothing I can do. Not yet. The best use of my time is to spend it getting stronger, and gaining the further trust of the queen.
I should have kept my mouth closed today. I don’t owe Isra the truth, and the Smooth Skins’ outcasts are nothing to me. Let them suffer. They have food and safety, two things my people would give a year of their lives for. And their queen cares for them. In her way. Enough to worry about whether they are soft and pleasing to the eye.
Phuh. Her obsession with Smooth Skin beauty is disgusting. All this from a girl who can’t even see. She’s planting a garden of dreams to cure an imaginary disease she’ll never bear witness to, when with a word she could abolish the outcast camp and end the custom that displeases her.
“Queen of fools,” I mutter.
It’s days like these that remind me why I hate her. I’m grateful for every one of them. I can’t afford to forget. I can’t afford to enjoy the way she sighs with happiness when I finish a story. I can’t afford to admire how hard she works. I can’t let myself grow comfortable on the dirt beside her as we share bread and apples from the basket she brings. I can never take her muddy hand in mind and promise her that the winter will end and the pain and loss she feels will fade the way mine did after my mother’s death.
I can certainly never tell her that she is out of her mind, and all the rest of her people with her, if they don’t see the beauty in her. In her green, green eyes, in her smile big enough to light a room, in the way she walks like she’s dancing with the ground beneath her feet, each step careful and graceful and—
“Fool,” I whisper as I step off the books and move closer to the window.
I grit my teeth and direct my gaze toward the roses—reminding myself why I’m here—just in time to see a woman creep from the shadows of the orchard. I can’t see her face or what she’s wearing in the dim moonlight, but I know immediately who she is.
Isra. I recognize her walk, the way her hips sway beneath her clothes, the careful reach of her toes as she moves across unseen terrain. I know her. I do. Even in the dark.
The knock on the door is soft, but it still makes me jump.
I feel like I’ve been caught doing something worse than staring out my window. Maybe I have. I can imagine what Gare would say about my knowing a Smooth Skin girl so well.
The knock comes again, and I turn slowly to face the door. My evening meal came hours ago. There shouldn’t be anyone near my room until morning. The Smooth Skins have great trust in their locks and keys.
The only time I’m guarded is when the soldiers escort me to the queen’s garden.
So who is here now?
The flap at the bottom of the door swoops open, and a small package slides along the floor. I tense on instinct, my claws shuddering in their beds.
I approach the bundle carefully, keeping an eye on the still-swinging flap of wood through which my meals are shoved. This is the first time something else has come through. I squat beside the package and unfold the linen holding it together. Inside is a piece of paper with simple words written in an even hand, and a thick coil of rope with a large hook on one end.
I begin to sound out the words on the paper, but haven’t gotten past
“Gem, I need—” before the sound of a key turning in the lock makes my head snap up and my claws extend.
I lift my arms as the door swings open to reveal Needle, Isra’s maid, standing on the other side. Her large brown eyes get even bigger when she sees my claws, but she doesn’t scream or turn to run. She only blinks and swallows and points a thin finger to the package.
Having my claws out begins to feel … strange.
“Ridiculous.” That’s the word Isra uses for the hated dresses she’s forced to wear to the Smooth Skin eating rooms and the endless Smooth Skin banquets. In some ways, Isra is a stranger here, too. I know that. I know that’s why Bo treats her like an invalid and her advisors treat her like a child. Still, I didn’t expect this note. There are some words I can’t work through, but I understand enough to decipher its meaning.
I finish, and I am … shaken.
If anyone finds out what she’s done, she really will be locked away in that tower of hers. Not even a queen can go against her city’s wishes like this and not be punished. At least, not a queen like Isra, a blind, broken queen without the love of her subjects or the trust of her council.
I have to stop her. And if I can’t stop her, I will have to help her. I may hate her, but I need her. She’s the only reason I’m allowed out of this room, my only chance to steal a future for my people.
I hand the paper to Needle, who wastes no time tearing it to pieces.
She’s loyal to Isra, then. That’s something. Maybe not enough to keep the soldiers from discovering mine and Isra’s a
bsence, but it’s something. I take the rope with the hook and begin to move past her, but she stops me with a hand on my arm.
I look down and down and down at her. She is half a meter shorter than Isra and more fragile in every way, but the stubborn glint in her eyes reminds me of the queen.
Her lips move without sound. I watch her, and after a moment I think I understand her silent plea.
Keep her safe. Please. Keep her safe.
Maybe Isra does have the love of at least one person.
“I would never hurt her,” I assure Needle in a hushed voice.
She stares up at me for a long moment before stepping back and pointing to the end of the corridor, where a window large enough for a Desert Man to crawl through opens out onto the royal garden. The guards passed down the path outside the barracks only a few moments ago. I should have just enough time to reach Isra, talk her out of leaving the city, and get back to my cell undiscovered.
I don’t waste my breath telling Needle more lies. I turn and run.
9
ISRA
I step into the garden, shaking all over, but not from the cold. I’m barely aware of the cold. I’m racing inside. My pulse rushes like the river beneath the city, wild and reckless and angry.
And frightened. I’m frightened, too.
I’ve been frightened my entire life, but that fear was different from this. The former was a monster hiding in the shadows at the end of a long, winding lane. This fear is Death reaching for my throat with both hands, so close that I can hear his cold breath seep from his lungs.
Junjie tried to keep the news quiet, but there was little chance of that. The court is still in mourning. There is no music or dancing or playacting to provide entertainment. The only thing to do is talk, and the ladies and gentlemen of the court excel at that, especially when the subject of discussion is something so compelling.
And terrible.
A crack in the dome. It was all anyone could whisper about: “Is it truly there?” “What caused it?” “How long will it take to assess the damage?” “What will Junjie do to ensure the safety of the city?”
Not, What will Queen Isra do? No one thought to seek my council.
Junjie was the one they turned to for guidance. My name was never spoken, but I was at the heart of every hushed conversation that drifted to my giant ears. If the dome is cracked, it will be seen as a sign that the covenant is weakening. If the injury can be easily repaired, the panic may pass for a time, but the damage is already done.
I press my fist against my lips to hold back the whimper rising in my throat. I knew the day of sacrifice would come, but I didn’t expect it would be so soon. My life can’t end now, not when I’ve scarcely had the chance to live it.
I lean over, resting my palms on the bed surrounding the roses, digging my fingertips into the rough stone. I take a deep breath, grateful for the cold air that softens the roses’ perfume. I don’t want my head filled with their ominous stench. I wouldn’t have come here at all, except it seemed the safest place to meet Gem.
I focus on my breath until it grows smooth and, finally, my heartbeat slows.
I can’t lose hope. The crack might not be a crack at all. It could be detritus from the desert stuck on the outside of the glass, a trick of light, or … something else entirely. ( Please, please, let it be something else.) The fissure is too high up for it to be seen clearly, even with a spyglass. The soldiers will have to send a man to take a closer look, which means rigging the rope-and-pulley system the city hasn’t used in half a century.
Bo says it will take at least three days to set up the equipment, and that he will be the one to strap on the harness and be hauled out into the void to assess the situation. He promised to keep everyone away from me until then, and to alert Gem’s guards that the Monstrous won’t be working in the field for the rest of the week. I told Bo I wanted to be alone while I waited to see what effects giving up my morning tea will have on my constitution, but I know he assumed it was fear that made me retreat to my tower.
He seemed afraid, too. His arm shook as he escorted me to my door.
His lips trembled when he pressed a kiss to my cheek.
I touch the place now, and swear the patch of skin still feels colder than the rest. It was the first time Bo has dared a kiss since the night he thought we were both infected with poison from Gem’s claws.
“Maybe he only kisses queens who are about to die,” I say aloud, fighting the sudden urge to giggle. There’s nothing funny about the mad thing I’m about to do. There is nothing funny about what will happen if Bo fails to keep his word. If Junjie or his guards enter the tower and discover my absence, they’ll know Needle was keeping my disappearance a secret.
They’ll jail her. Or worse.
Probably worse.
The smile on my lips prunes into a worried pucker. Needle is taking a terrible risk to help me prove I’m a queen with more to offer my people than my blood. I can’t forget that for a moment. I will go carefully and quickly, as soon as my eyes arrive.
I’ll have Needle to thank for that, too. If she can manage—
The sound of boots scuffing along the path interrupts my thoughts. I pull my shawl farther over my head and crouch down by the wall, hoping the shadows will conceal me. I hold my breath as three soldiers—maybe four, it’s difficult to tell— scuff, scuff by on the other side of the circular planter.
If they’d taken the other fork in the path, they would have seen me.
My breath rushes out in an unsteady stream, and my legs suddenly feel wobbly. I sit down hard, the paving stones grinding against my sit bones through the padding of my old gray overalls layered over my new green ones. I have on long underwear, too, and a shawl and sweater. It will be cold in the desert.
The desert. I’m going out into the desert. This isn’t a plan; it’s an act of desperation. But what choice do I have? There isn’t time to waste. I have to trust my instincts and hope with everything in me that luck is on my side.
And Needle’s side. And Gem’s.
Gem. What if he doesn’t meet me in the garden? What if—once released from his room—he runs for the nearest gate? What if he kills the soldiers guarding it and escapes into the desert, never to return? He’s still weak, but there’s a chance he might try it. Maybe even a good chance.
I push my shawl back around my shoulders, feeling trapped by the heavy wool, but before I can drop my arms back to my side, I feel it—a vine snaking around my wrist and pulling tightly.
I almost cry out in surprise, but manage to stifle the sound at the last moment. The guards are still too close; I can’t afford to make any noise. I try my best to quietly wrench my wrist free, but the roses are stronger than I realized. The vine tugs my arm up and over my head, drawing my hand into the thick of the flowers’ nest. I clench my fist—hoping to protect my fingers—only to feel a thorn meaner than any I’ve yet encountered dig into the thin skin between my knuckles.
“Ah!” I gasp as blood spills, hot and sticky, down the back of my hand, making my true eyes fill with tears even as my borrowed eyes open on the city.
I see a tower— my tower—rising from the surrounding fields like some spiny creature from another world. The roses have never shown me the building where I’ve spent my entire life, but I recognize it immediately: the sharp gold curves of its many roofs, its red stone walls and balcony jutting from the top like a stubborn chin.
My borrowed eyes swoop toward the entrance at the tower’s base, where a boy with a silky black braid, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips that any woman at court would envy stands clutching a pair of muddy slippers. The boy is Bo—there is no mistaking those lips—and the slippers are mine, the ones I threw into the flowers the night of my coronation.
Bo lifts his hand to knock on the door, while, far away in the garden, my heart beats frantically in my chest. Bo has come to return my slippers, and to demand to know how I managed to lose them in the first place, no doubt. There’s an anxiou
s look in his eyes, tension at the edges of his mouth, and an almost guilty twitch in his neck as his head turns from side to side, making sure the other guards’ eyes are averted.
I suddenly realize what a good job Bo has done of hiding his true feelings. He cares for me more than I’ve assumed—there is genuine concern in his expression—but he also fears for my mind more than I ever would have guessed. He worries I’m more than odd. He worries I’m touched by my mother’s madness, and that one day the queen he’s come to care for may become a madwoman who’ll try to kill her children in the night.
I don’t know if it’s the roses’ magic or my own intuition, but I am certain that is what Bo feels. And I’m just as certain that he won’t leave my tower without knowing how I managed to leave my shoes in a flower bed only feet from the Monstrous’s cell.
I have to go. I have to go back to the tower. Now.
No sooner is the thought through my mind than the thorn withdraws from my flesh and the vine loosens its grip on my wrist. I pull my hand back to my chest, pressing it tightly to my sweater until I feel the bleeding stop.
Breath coming fast, I draw my knees to my chest. I am preparing to leap up, run back to the tower, and hope I can make the climb up to the balcony without being spotted by Bo or the guards—when the greater implications of what has just happened hit hard enough to make my bones weak all over again.
The roses knew. Somehow they knew what I was planning and they don’t want me to go. They showed me just enough to make me afraid, before setting me free.
But should I really be afraid? I wonder as I scoot away from the containing wall, out of the roses’ reach.
It’s late, nearly midnight. Bo knows better than to come to my rooms at this hour. If he finds the door locked and neither Needle nor I answer, he might very well decide to leave and return tomorrow. Tomorrow, when Needle will be at the tower to tell him I’m not feeling well and turn him away.
Now that there’s no thorn buried beneath my skin, that scenario seems as likely as the one I fear. More likely. But the roses didn’t want me to think clearly; they wanted me to run along back to my prison. It could be they simply have the interests of the city at heart—it is dangerous for me to leave, to take such a risk when I am unmarried and the covenant is unsecured—but the vision felt more insidious, the inexorable grip of the vine more possessive than concerned.
