by Bree Barton
Yet no other visitor had spotted a red-haired woman standing in the water. That troubled her most of all. She could no longer trust her mother, her father, and certainly not her sister. But after the numb haze of the last few months, Mia was beginning to wonder if she could trust herself.
Trust your heart, even if kills you.
She rolled her eyes. It had, in fact, killed her.
“Rest easy, Raven.” Zai rapped his knuckles gently on the table. “If this woman was your mother, then she’s safe and well, only two days ahead of us on the voyage to Valavïk. She seemed like the kind of woman who gets what she wants.”
Mia smiled a little. That did sound like her mother.
“I’m curious about your family,” said Zai.
“I’m curious about yours,” said Mia, deflecting. “You haven’t said a word about them, though you seem to have put as much distance between you and them as possible.”
He shifted. “There isn’t much to say. My family herds reinsdyr in the heartlands and lives off the land. Yours?”
“Oh, they’re into this and that.” Magic. Murder. “What brought you to White Lagoon?”
“My ambition. I wasn’t going to stay in Kom’Addi for the rest of my life. I wanted to see more of the world.”
“Me too,” she said. “As a child I wanted to be an explorer.”
“And here you are.” He tipped his head toward the ocean around them. “Exploring.”
“Something like that.”
Zai’s black hair had freed itself from the leather band again. She watched him sweep back the loose strands. The fact that she found him handsome—that she could even be thinking about another boy when Quin remained in the Kaer, waiting to be rescued—was an equation she didn’t know how to solve.
“You know,” she said, forcing a yawn, “I’m quite tired. Perhaps we could discuss sleeping arrangements?”
“Of course.” He stood and cribbed the last green apple from the hanging basket, then leaned against the wall, slicing it into quarters with a pocketknife. “You’ve seen the cot in the corner?”
She had absolutely seen it. It was tiny and—most important—had no twin.
“Oh. Are we going to—”
“The cot is yours, of course.”
“But where will you sleep?”
“I don’t sleep much. When I do, I can sleep standing up.”
“You don’t mean that.”
He slid his blade under the surface of the apple, loosing the skin from the flesh. “That might be an exaggeration. But I sleep as soundly sitting as I do lying down.”
The thought of sleeping on the cot while Zai sat on the bench—staring at her, since the bench directly faced the cot—was mortifying.
He handed her a tart apple wedge speared on the blade of his knife. When she took it, she caught him studying the indigo frostflower on her wrist.
“I’m sorry I offended you with my fyre ink,” she said.
“I know you didn’t mean any harm. It’s just that visitors come here with no understanding of what the marks mean. They take Addi symbols of great significance and treat them like pretty ornaments to wear on their skin.”
Mia cringed. That was precisely what she’d done.
“What does the frostflower mean? If you don’t mind me asking.” Her eyebrows shot up. “Is my mark actually a compass?”
“Yes and no.” He gestured toward her wrist. “May I touch you?”
Her heart climbed up her collarbone and nestled in the back of her throat.
“Yes.”
Zai traced a finger over the ink, petal by petal. If Mia closed her eyes, she could pretend his touch fired a cavalcade of chills up her humerus and across her clavicle.
“In nature frostflowers grow above the fyre ice pits—the old pits—in the heartlands. Even long after the pits were emptied, the flowers continued to grow. They’re not as fragile as they look.”
His finger lingered on her mark.
“The bloom represents the Elemental Hex.”
“Hex as in a hexagon with six sides? Or a kind of spell?”
“Both. Do you remember my mark?”
“Not really,” she lied. “Can I see it again?” Even if she couldn’t feel sensations of pleasure, she could still look.
Zai’s mouth lifted in an almost smile. “I’ll show you the original sketch tomorrow. I gave it to the ink painter so he could blade the fyre ink. But I rendered the mark myself.”
Mia was surprised. Zai struck her as more of a craftsman than an artist. All day she’d watched the way he double- and triple-checked every rope knot, how thoroughly he ran his fingers over the railing. Whenever he found a splinter, he dug out a scrap of coarse paper and patiently sanded the offending wood down to a fine gleam.
“I didn’t take you for an artist,” she said.
“I didn’t take you for an explorer. You seem to hate the sea.”
She cocked her head. “I suppose you’re right. I always wanted to sail the four kingdoms, but somehow I neglected the fact that to do so would involve actual sailing.”
Zai walked to the cot and brushed it off with his hand. He tried to plump the tragically flat pillow. It didn’t plump, but Mia was touched by the effort. There was a lumbering gentleness to him that made her want to rest her head on his shoulder.
“Sleep well, Raven. Når päivö aukoja, fura liekki.” He handed her the thin pillow. “When day breaks, frost becomes a flame.”
She dreamed of the wooden box.
Mia was choking on her own tongue. She balled her fists and smashed her knuckles into the lid, over and over. Wood slivers stuck to her skin as she fought her way out of the coffin.
Only after she’d tumbled onto the forest floor did Mia realize she was not alone.
Pilar d’Aqila stood between the trees, watching. She reached for the quiver on her back. Nocked one fojuen arrow. Drew the bow.
Mia tried to speak, but the words turned to dust in her mouth. The arrowhead glimmered red, still wet with blood. Was it Karri’s? Quin’s? Or someone else’s?
It’s over, said Pilar.
She loosed the string.
Mia awoke clenching both fists. Her breathing was erratic, panicked; she willed herself calm. It took a moment to remember she was on a boat, not in a box. Also, she wasn’t dead.
A mouse scratched at the walls. A boat mouse? Did those exist?
She lifted herself on her elbows.
A candle flickered on the round table. Zai hunched over a stack of loose papers, drawing feverishly. The scratching wasn’t a mouse, but a piece of charcoal being raked across the page.
He was so focused on what he was doing he didn’t notice her approach. When she reached for one of his sketches, he flinched.
But Zai didn’t stop her as she picked up the papers and began leafing through them. She saw a drawing of the port, the boats rendered with perfect precision, all crisp lines and billowing sails. She saw the alehouse, patrons nursing their spirits in various states of inebriation. She saw a family gathered around a fire wearing striped wool scarves in what she imagined would be festive Jyöltide colors if not rendered in charcoal grays.
“Zai,” she murmured. “These are lovely.”
“Running an alehouse can be tedious work. You find things to do to pass the time—whittling, playing dice, sketching. It’s always a welcome change of pace when a pretty girl stumbles through the front door.”
Was he talking about her?
“Probably not when she’s literally stumbling,” Mia blurted. She brushed the loose curls out of her eyes, attempting to regain her composure. “Would you render me?”
Zai set his piece of charcoal down on the table. It rolled sideways, tilting with the boat before nesting in a deep groove.
“I don’t render people.”
“I just saw a sketchbook full of people.”
“They’re strangers. I don’t draw people I know.”
“But you don’t really know me, do you?”
<
br /> “I can’t render you, Raven.” His voice was gruff. The sea waves churned and slapped against the boat, reminding Mia of a sound she couldn’t quite place.
He took the sketches from her hands. As he did, they splayed apart like a silk fan. Mia caught a glimpse of red amidst the charcoal. A shock of scarlet in a sea of black and gray.
Her fist closed around the page. She felt Zai stiffen, but before he could stop her, she wrenched the paper free.
And there she was, clear as day.
Mia’s mother.
Chapter 23
Bite-Sized
ZAI HAD RENDERED WYNNA Rose flawlessly. She sat tall on an alehouse stool, two thumbs of rai rouj in her hand. Long wavy hair pinned at her nape in the Luumi style. Most of the sketch was in charcoal, but he’d made her eyes a greenish-gold hazel and stained both her hair and the drink with some kind of rosy pigment. She was not smiling.
Mia sank onto the cot, still clutching the sketch of her mother. On one hand, she was thrilled. Zai had met her mother. That meant they were definitely headed in the right direction.
On the other hand, she was livid.
“Why didn’t you show me this?”
Zai lowered his head. “I didn’t want to upset you.”
“If you’d shown me I would have known immediately it was her!”
“When you thought you saw your mother at the lagoon . . . I don’t know how to explain it. It’s like you went wild with grief. When you described her to me, I knew immediately she was the woman who had come to my alehouse. And I knew I could take you to her. But I thought, if I showed you this sketch and you saw her image . . .” He shook his head. “I wanted to spare you any additional pain.”
“And additional delusions, you mean.”
“Raven, whatever you saw—”
“You think I’m unstable. A danger to others.”
“Not to others,” Zai said carefully. “But maybe to yourself.”
The walls were closing in. “I’m not crazy.”
“I never said you were.” He walked to the cot and sat beside her. The frame sagged under his weight.
“Your mother made an impression on me.” He gestured toward the sketch clenched in Mia’s fist. “That’s why I drew her. She had a ferocity in her, a wildness. I think you have it, too.”
“Wild isn’t the same as crazy.”
“I know.”
“I saw her, Zai. I know I did. She was right there.”
The paper was crimped on one edge from Mia’s fingers. She sat the sketch on the pillow, as gently as she might have tucked a child into bed.
“I don’t know what’s happening to me.”
She dropped her head in her hands. A moment later, she sensed a dull thud across her back.
Mia looked up to find Zai’s arm around her shoulders. She let him pull her close, her body snug against his broad chest. She knew his skin was warm, but she couldn’t feel it. Such a kind, simple gesture only made her feel more broken, more alone.
If this was her life now—if this was a permanent side effect of dying—why live at all?
A sound sliced through the quiet. Outside Mia heard the low murmur of voices, then the splash of oars.
“All hands on deck!” came a muffled shout. “You’re about to be boarded by pirates!”
The voice was swallowed by raucous laughter, followed by a hearty, “Good Jyöl!”
Mia and Zai hurried onto the deck.
A wooden canoe bobbed on the waves. Nelladinellakin sat tall at the stern, wearing a sparkly purple gown that seemed entirely inappropriate for sailing. Nell looked gorgeous, her long legs folded into the small canoe, an oar balanced on her knees.
At the other end, Ville struggled to heft an oversized cask of ale onto his shoulders—and nearly toppled over the side.
“This ale might actually kill me. Permission to board, Captain?”
Mia glanced at Zai to see if he’d expected this, but he looked as shocked as she was.
“Ville?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
“You didn’t really think we were going to let you two have an adventure all by yourselves, did you? Where’s the fun in that?”
Nell beamed and waved. “Hello, Raven, Zai! I hope this is a pleasant surprise, at least maybe halfway pleasant?”
“I’d settle for a quarter pleasant,” Ville said. “Good Græÿa, this thing is heavy.”
Mia’s heart lifted. Nelladine and Ville provided a terrific distraction. Perhaps this was why people had friends: to distract them from their own bottomless despair.
But being with people was also exhausting. She could handle Zai; spending time with him felt easy. Nell and Ville, on the other hand, were more vivacious. Between all the laughs and jokes and banter, Mia had to work extra hard to pretend to be normal.
“This will be fun, like our very own Jyöltide celebration!” Nelladine gathered the velvet folds of her plum gown as she stood. “One big happy family piling into a snug little boat!”
“Family?” Zai cocked an eyebrow as he helped Nell into the boat.
“Oh, shove off, Zai.” Ville slapped him on the back. “You know as well as I do we’re the best family you’ve got.”
It took Nelladine all of three minutes to excoriate Zai for how poorly he’d stocked the kitchen.
“You were going to sail to Valavïk on this?” She held up a paltry pouch of carrots and strips of cured meat.
“We have potatoes,” Zai countered.
“Three days of boiled potatoes?” Nell lifted one from the hanging basket. The eyes were sprouting green buds.
Ville plopped a crate of baked bread and milk jars onto the stone slab in the galley. “Leave the poor boy alone! We’ve brought libations and sustenance, so the great potato crisis is averted. Though I must say, Zai: she does have a point. Your hospitality could use some work.”
Mia had yet to see Zai blush, but as he turned toward the deck, his cheeks were flushed. Ville stepped in front of him, blocking his escape.
“Why don’t you and I make supper for the ladies?”
Zai lifted a brow. “You cook, Ville?”
“I second that,” Nell joined in. “When have you ever cooked a day in your life?”
“Never too late to start,” Ville quipped. He picked up a linen towel and looped it around his waist like an apron. “I hear women like a sensitive man.”
Nell appraised him, hands on hips. She sighed.
“Do you think you can manage to cut the cabbage?”
“I was born to cut cabbage.”
“Highly debatable.” Nell dug into the crate and pulled out a purple head of cabbage. She handed Ville a sharp knife. “Slice on a diagonal. Bite-sized pieces, please.”
Nell turned back to the crate, then stopped, her attention arrested by a mustard-yellow mug. She lifted it off the stone slab, inspecting the work from top to bottom. Then she set it back down with a hard clank.
“I don’t know why you buy this garbage, Zai.” She sighed. “The craftsmanship is insulting. Look at the bleed on that glaze!”
Zai started to respond, but he was drowned out by the sound of screaming.
Ville had sliced open his hand.
Chapter 24
A Little More Magic
THE KNIFE HAD CUT clean through the webbing between Ville’s thumb and forefinger. Thin streams of blood spilled over his wrist, his palm.
Mia couldn’t tear her eyes away. All she could think about was Princess Karri, the arrow buried deep in her belly. Mia had tried so hard to save her. She had failed.
“Ville,” Nell shouted. “Stop waving your hand around. Don’t be such an infant! Give it here.” She snatched him by the wrist and pulled his face level with hers. “Do you want me to help you?”
He whimpered a response.
“I need to hear you say it. ‘Help me, Nell.’”
“Help me, Nell!”
She took his hand between hers. Nelladine’s skin was deep brown, but her palms were light
er, creased like pink satin. She placed them on either side of Ville’s injured hand and squeezed.
Instantly he stopped howling. Swallowed. Stared.
Mia watched, mesmerized, as the webbing regenerated. Tiny filaments of tissue stitched themselves back together. In under five seconds the gash was gone completely.
Safe to say, Nelladine had magic.
She smiled and patted Ville’s arm. “There. Better?”
Gingerly he touched his fingertips to the webbed folds.
“Thanks, Nell. I owe you one.”
Zai’s face relaxed. “You sure you’re all right, Vi?”
“Dandy and fine. Nice to have someone who can always put me back together the way the sweet goddesses intended.” He winked at Mia. “In other words: as charming as ever.”
Nell groaned. “I should have put you back another way.”
Mia couldn’t believe how normal they were all acting, like this happened every day.
She gestured toward Ville’s hand. “Can I see it?”
“For you, Angel of Ashes? Anything.”
She wasn’t trying to be coy. She wanted to examine the wound.
But there was no wound. When Mia had mended Quin’s arrow wound all those months ago, it wasn’t as if the tissue didn’t hold the memory of the damage: it sutured a fishbone scar around the gash. Ville’s skin gave no indication it had ever been anything but whole.
What baffled her most, though, was how, when Mia healed someone, she was decimated for hours, wrenched and depleted, like a cloth wrung from both ends. Nelladine strode over to the galley slab, humming to herself as she parceled a bud of garlic into cloves. She popped a clove into her mouth and swallowed it whole.
Nell appeared to have paid no energetic cost whatsoever.
“How did you do that?” Mia asked.
“What? Eat a garlic?”
“No.” She nodded toward Ville. “Him.”
“Oh, that? That’s nothing, I’m sure you’ve done it yourself.”