by Ann Aguirre
Page 47
Thinking of what he’s suffered and suffers still, tears fill my eyes, the first I’ve allowed since I wept in Jael’s arms. These can’t fall. I will them away, turn them to ice. I squeeze my eyelids shut until the weakness passes. I can’t allow it.
When I sense someone behind me, I turn and find March waiting, half in shadow. I should’ve known he wouldn’t let me down, no matter the cost to himself. In this light, I can’t see his eyes—best he doesn’t see mine.
“Ready?” he asks.
In the frosted pane, I see a slow progression of faces, people I’ve loved and lost. I carry their shadows in my skin. Then I turn from the window, setting such memories aside for a time when I can afford to indulge in them.
Like my first glimpse of Ithiss-Tor, cloud shrouded and indistinct, the future awaits.
