Chapter 10 #2
It’s then that I realize he’s not scolding me.
He’s telling me he believes his friends deserve another chance.
Just when I think the weighted silence may sever us both in two, his frame relaxes and he presses his hands together, and a silvery light dances across his fingertips. He reaches out to my bleeding ear.
“Alana mentioned you don’t like to be touched,” he says hurriedly. Not at all the steadfast, confident tone he uses with the guests or the cold, accusatory tone he used before. “Will you let me help you?”
My chest warms thinking of how kind Alana’s been despite the pressure she’s under.
And he cared enough to listen to her. My brow furrows, but I nod.
I won’t have him thinking I’m afraid of his Morphia.
When his fingers touch the stinging tip of my ear, I don’t feel cold and clammy as usual.
Instead, I relish the warmth and buzzing energy of the gentle pressure of magic.
He stretches the skin of my ear with his fingers, and the sensation shifts from the sharp stab of pain to a dull tingling. It takes me a moment to realize what he’s doing.
He pulls his hands away and says, “Done.”
I touch my finger to my ear and feel dried blood but no wound. When I gape back at him, he looks away, almost shy. “How did you…” I drop my hands to my sides and try again. “You’re not a mender. How did you do that?”
He winces from a deep gash in his pointer finger—the price for using his magic. Blood runs down his hand, and he wraps it with a cloth from his pocket. “Shifters can alter body parts. I’ve gotten good at growing back the tips of ears. It’s one of Charmaine’s favorite tactics.”
My lips go numb. “She cut off my ear? I thought she nicked it!”
Ivander lets out a quick laugh that lingers like the bubbles of champagne. He stifles the sound the moment he hears the echo, but I don’t want him to stop. This is the first time he’s laughed for me. “What difference does it make? Either way, it hurts.”
Despite myself, I purse my lips to keep from smiling. Ivander reminds me of the books on Morphic gifts Leith used to read aloud that didn’t make sense to me until I saw the magic in action.
But I don’t have years to waste. The longer it takes for me to earn his trust, the more time he spends thinking I’m stealing his friends’ retrials. “You still could have warned me better,” I say, indignation returning. “About the hallways, for example.”
He reaches out for the silks again. “I did warn you to be careful after dark.”
“Yeah, I know this isn’t a vacation for us,” I snap.
“Do you? You really want to know what happened out there? This place”—he gestures wide above his head—“doesn’t keep Morphia contained.
It keeps it imprisoned. Just like it imprisons us.
” His glinting eyes fall flat. He releases his grip on the silks.
“And I would hazard a guess that the raw Morphia on this ship is fighting back.”
“Fighting back?” It doesn’t make sense to me. Or maybe I don’t want it to.
“It’s not just the Morphia, though,” he says. “The bosses are all non-Morphics, but they exploit the raw Morphia from our jars by using it without restraint. After losing their own Morphia, they’ll risk anything to be close to it again. It’s changing them.”
I know what I can do with a temperamental gift, one I’ve honed since childhood.
I can’t imagine it in the hands of a reckless boss with power over others.
Even I can’t control my magic sometimes.
“If it’s dangerous, then why does the council keep the Celestial?
” Why doesn’t Father speak up about this?
He arches a brow as if he thinks the answer is obvious.
“They need us. They need Morphics for their healing, for their craftsmanship, for their militias, but they don’t want us unchecked.
Don’t want us to get too powerful. Making this place has given the high class a vacation and the council access to raw Morphia at will.
It keeps us from getting too influential. ”
It doesn’t take a genius to wonder why my father’s the only Morphic on the council.
My father and I always talked about making things better for Morphics, but he rarely mentioned the ship.
If the Celestial ’s system is broken, that doesn’t mean we can’t fix it.
Father believes in this place for some reason.
My great-grandfather invented it for a reason and oversaw its creation.
I was proud of this place. Of my family’s contribution to stopping the war.
The Celestial felt like a just punishment—a fair way to achieve retrial.
Now I’m wondering what we’ve done. If we’ve not stopped a war, but created one.
“I didn’t mean to overwhelm you,” he says, the edge finally leaving his voice. “I’ve been here awhile. I see how things are.”
But I’m not upset with him for this. For leaving me to the hallways at night? Yes, I’m angry. For telling me why I don’t deserve a retrial like his friends? Annoying, although he may have a point. For telling me the truth about this place? No. It’s the most honest anyone’s been with me.
He points to stage left. “I laid something out for you.” When I don’t move, he continues. “The bosses will find a way to punish you if you don’t let off steam in the right way. Don’t take your frustration out on them, on your family, or in crew mess. Take it out in here.”
Still not sure what he’s talking about but with my curiosity winning out, I walk to the wings on stage left.
I push my way through cables and hanging black curtains to see a costume draped over a prop table.
It’s a two-piece silver dance costume with dewdrop rhinestones across the bodice.
Shifters can alter clothes too, and Ivander’s transformed the material so that the rhinestones fall like raindrops.
The bottoms are connected to the bodice with a thin strip of sheer, glittering fabric that moves like a waterfall.
I’m afraid the material might slip off my body like the liquid it resembles. Where is he going with this?
“It’s easier to move in than your uniform,” Ivander calls.
I don’t know what makes me do it. Maybe I’m invigorated by the idea of ripping off my bloodstained uniform. Maybe it’s the idea of sticking it to the bosses in a different way by disobeying the curfew. Maybe I don’t want Ivander to think I’m intimidated. Either way, I shrug into the silver costume.
By the time he calls, “You don’t have to wear it,” I’m already dressed.
I unlace my boots and pull my hair free from its bun and walk back onto the stage.
When his eyes drop to me on the stage floor and he slides down the silks, I become more aware of my exposed skin.
The droplets of rhinestone water cascade along the curves of my body but stay concentrated in the areas I’d want to keep covered.
He cocks his head as I walk toward him. “Your hair’s got more red in it than I realized.”
It’s such an odd thing for him to say. I cross my freckled arms over the thin line of fabric down my abdomen. “Yeah,” I mumble to the floor.
Any discomfort I feel falls away as Ivander pulls the silk fabric toward me.
He’s not staring at me. He’s wholly focused on the silks.
“This is the only time we don’t have to be prisoners.
This”—he extends his hand and the silk to me—“helps prevent burnout.” He’s wrapped his hand in the silks so I don’t have to touch the exposed skin of his palm.
I pause, not sure I’m ready to climb an unstable scrap of fabric hanging from the battens. Especially when my spotter has openly admitted that I threaten his friends’ chances at life beyond the ship.
“I’m not going to let you fall,” he taunts as if he can sense my thoughts, annoyed I would even consider this possibility.
“You better not,” I mutter, but I grab his hand.
Even through the silk fabric, I feel the warmth of his skin against mine.
He pulls me tight against his body. “Is this really necessary?” I mutter.
Self-preservation wins over embarrassment as he pulls us both up the silks, and I fasten my arms around his neck.
I’m grateful for the fabric of my costume and the silks that mostly separate my skin from his.
The muscles in his body contract with each pull of his arms. The swooping feeling in my stomach reminds me of falling from the roof of my estate when I tied Eliza’s embroidered pillowcases to my arms and tried to fly.
When we’re high enough above the stage that it really does feel like flying, he tilts his chin down to look at me. “Do you trust me?”
My heart slams in my chest, but I keep my voice even. “Why would I? You lured me here to scare me and almost got me killed.”
“You’re right. Probably should have stayed in your room.”
Annoyance makes my panic at being so high in the air dissipate. “But then I wouldn’t have had the pleasure of your company.”
Ivander stifles what might have been a laugh if he let it go. He reaches to the batten above our heads and unravels another long tongue of blue silk. It occurs to me as he does it that he’s hanging on to our silk with one hand. “Careful,” I say breathlessly.
He wraps his lower feet in the silks with practiced ease. “Reach out and grab the other set of silks.”
“What? No!” No way am I doing this. But his scrutinizing gaze dares me to try, and I don’t want to figure out how to get down on my own.
I keep one arm wrapped around his neck and lean back. It takes two tries before I snag them. He’s managed to wrap the silks around his abdomen and both feet. “Now, I’ll show you how to do a foot lock.”
“This high up?” I squeak.
He nods. “And once you’re stable, you’ll transfer to your own silks.”
“No way. What if I fall?”
Ivander flashes a wicked grin. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
Once I get the foot lock down, he shows me splits and arabesques on the silks.
Even when practicing simple moves, sweat glistens on my skin and my muscles shake with the strain.
I don’t do more than watch him with my feet balanced in my silks, but now that I’m suspended in midair, I see why he likes it.
Up here we’re untouchable, free from the prying eyes of guests and bosses.
I can almost forget why I’m here and just have fun.
He’s not thinking so much when we’re in the air. He talks to me like he might to Alana or Niko. He tries not to get frustrated when I forget moves he taught me five minutes ago. Being here at night feels like a secret. And he’s right. The exercise is fun.
I have no idea how long we stay in the air.
Finally, he transfers to my silks and helps me slide down.
We’re both breathing hard, and the effort of holding on to him makes my arms tremble.
As we slide in a slow, steady descent, I reach for the core of energy inside me.
I want to show him what I can do. I may be a Damarcus, but I deserve my retrial too.
Light energy vibrates in my fingers as I pull forth a few spirits.
The spirits of blue butterflies with large wings flutter around our heads. Ivander’s eyes dart back and forth as he watches the pattern of their flight. When we touch the ground, he reaches out to stroke one, but his hand goes through it. Not solid, this time.
“I’ve never seen resurrection,” he admits. “It’s beautiful.” The word slips out, as if he didn’t mean to say it. He lets go of me, dropping his arms to his sides fast.
I swallow the lump in my throat. Few people call it beautiful. Not like they actually believe it. Leith did, but even he said I needed to be careful sharing my gift in case I summoned the wrong person and caused trouble. Bringing spirits back from the dead sometimes scares people.
I shake my head. “It may look that way, but my Morphia has changed recently. I’m hurting people.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Ivander pauses. “You’re not ashamed of your Morphia.”
It’s true. I’ve never been ashamed. Teachers used to punish me for using too much, but Father taught me to hold my head high. Lysandra taught me not to take anyone’s shit.
He nods to stage left. “Get your uniform. I’ll take you back to your room.”
When I gather my clothes and boots and return to the stage, he fixes me with a pointed look. Any softness I saw in him earlier is gone, replaced by his usual scowl. I maintain eye contact despite the way my gaze wanders along his defined collarbone, glistening with sweat.
“Remember what I said. You’re always going to get off easier as a Damarcus. Anytime you get in trouble, my friends could end up paying for it.”
No argument there. I don’t want anyone else paying for my mistakes. “But it’s not my fault if the others help me. You may have decided I’m not worth a retrial, but your friends haven’t.”
Ivander shuts off the spotlight, leaving the silks dangling from the battens. “It’s getting late,” he says, changing the topic. “I have an early call time.”
I follow him off the stage, down the aisle, and to the great double doors of the theater. After an uncomfortable silence, I ask, “What about the ship? What if the floor tries to eat me again?”
“There’s a trick I learned from an older staff member when I first joined.
If you concentrate on a memory—a strong one—while you’re walking at night, you’ll have some protection.
The ship absorbs our Morphia when it consumes us, so it’s always trying to lure us into dangerous parts to keep us from getting back to the safety of our rooms. The memory buys you time.
The longer you keep your focus, the better chance you have of finding a room and shutting the door.
” Seeing my dubious expression, he adds, “Of course, it doesn’t always work.
Staff members have walked right off balconies before, minds consumed by the ship.
Most Morphics do their best to never get caught in the hallways at night and get back to their rooms as soon as they can. ”
I think back to the girl muttering to herself with her eyes shut. Was she trying to concentrate on a memory? Clearly, a memory isn’t always enough. I give him a shaky nod.
I search for a memory to use on the walk back to my room. Not much comes to me.
The only one I can think of is the memory of flying on silks with silvery butterfly spirits fluttering around me. And though I try to banish Ivander from the memory, I can’t seem to get him out of my head.