Chapter 21 #2
“Edmund! Guinevere!” The mom barrels toward the sinking boat, and Marcella snaps out of it, running for her and catching the woman by the waist.
There is a full crowd now, everyone watching with somber eyes and thin lips at the display unfolding before them.
“I’m sorry,” Marcella murmurs, the emotion pressing against the words not at all faked. “But I can’t let you kill yourself by running onto a sinking ship.”
The mother whirls around on Marcella. “If my children die,” she cries, tears falling steadily down her cheeks while her eyes are punctuated by cold lines. “I may as well already be dead.”
Marcella feels a warm prick in her own eyes, and she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth before it can tremble. Her heart, her chest—the entirety of all she is—aches at the thought of facing life without Gray Nightenjoy.
He came into her life like a flash of brilliant light, becoming someone so pivotal, she didn't realize he had become a pillar to her very foundation until he was just stolen away, toppling her world around her. When she wouldn’t speak—grief too heavy on her tongue—he came to her room every single day and laid quietly on the bed opposite her so she didn’t have to be alone.
When she refused food, Gray saw to it that she would eat.
At least… something. When she was willing to give up, he helped her hold on.
When she sobbed over Lyra, over Griff, he held her.
When she feared going into classes for the first time, he held her hand. He was there for her.
Since the beginning, from the very first moment their paths crossed, he had always shown up for her.
And now he’s just—what? Gone?
A sob pounds in Marcella’s chest, but she refuses to let it out in front of all these people.
Instead, she turns her back on the ugly scar sure to permanently mar her heart.
She is seconds away from guiding the mother away from the scene, too, but then a series of hushed murmurs and gasps buzz through the quay.
One by one, spectators lift stiff fingers, pointing at something behind her.
Marcella whips her head over her shoulder, something a lot like hoping blooming in her chest.
A choked gasp escapes her at what she sees.
Gray treads across the dock, onto the base of the stone quay.
He is dripping wet, soot-stains still somehow pressed into his tattered clothes.
His face looks dirty, though not as dirty as Marcella is sure it was before dipping into the water.
A trail of fresh blood rolls down from his temple.
But he is alive—beautifully, perfectly, astonishingly alive. And perhaps most notable of all—
He is carrying two children.
One is draped loosely over his back, the boy’s wounded arms clinging to Gray’s neck, while a small girl with red-tinted hair lays unconscious in his arms. She has burn marks on her face, and her lips are a chilly blue.
Gray has removed his cloak and wrapped the small girl inside it, but… it doesn’t look like it’ll be enough.
The mother sprints for Gray, meeting him halfway. She is a frantic mess, seeming to want to check over her son but knowing she needs to attend to her too pale daughter. He hands the child over to her, carefully removing the stirring boy from his back next.
“Guinevere?” the boy rasps beside his unmoving sister. “Guinevere?”
The mother begins pressing forcefully against the girl’s sternum, but she makes no more than two movements before Nuri rushes to her knees beside the mother.
“I’m a healer, and a student at Bathara,” she offers by way of explanation.
The mother blinks furiously, but ultimately nods her head, a small whimper of panic slipping past her lips. “Please,” she murmurs. “Save her.”
Nuri wastes no time, golden light pouring from her palms. Kiran steps forward, his hood firmly in place, and cups a flickering flame in his palm, hovering it over the girl’s body, controlling the temperature with such precision, it does no damage to the child’s skin.
A few heart-stuttering minutes pass. Eventually, the girl coughs, her skin flushes, and the burn marks littered across her body fade.
Her eyes flutter open, and she sits up, confusion pinching her delicate features.
Yet the moment her mother’s face enters her focus, the child throws her arms around her mother’s neck and nestles into her like safety is a place and she has returned to her haven.
Danger cannot touch a child when locked in her mother’s arms.
The crowd erupts with claps and cheers, joyous to witness a happy ending in a world filled with cruel, bitter ends.
One man with a bushy white mustache waltzes over to Marcella, his quality tunic and trousers telling her he probably holds some position of power within the town.
“My dear girl,” he says, voice jubilant.
“Whoever is that boy, and what in the name of the gods have I just witnessed here?”
Marcella gazes at Gray, who watches the boy, small girl, and their mother reunite in a trembling, tear-stricken embrace, his soft eyes crinkled at the corners. She smiles, the action as genuine and helpless as anything she has experienced since the attack on Bathara.
“His name is Gray Nightenjoy,” she says.
Then she tells the man everything.
Marcella watches Kiran as he paces in front of the burning hearth, chatter from the front of the modest inn ringing softly in the distance. He glides a hand absently along his jaw as he swims in his thoughts.
After the dizzying spectacle, their group had to reorient their attention back to the captured Rogues.
The identified leader—the man Nuri was fighting, with the long black hair and scar marring his eye—was confirmed to have a Skull Trader tattoo hidden on his forearm.
Currently, he finds himself bound and kept in the inn’s cellar, nothing but a thin bedroll and a pot to keep him company.
Well, until Kiran makes a decision, that is.
The man refuses to talk, and Kiran is growing restless. Desperate, even. He hasn’t told Marcella exactly what information he is trying to extract—though based on his stricken features, she suspects it has to do with Casimir Vivaldri or something of the like.
“Gray’s illusionary magic would thrive in this scenario,” Marcella offers from her nearby tufted chair, attempting to lessen the weight of his decision. “You can make the man see and feel all kinds of things to loosen his tongue, and there would be little risk to it.”
Kiran halts his pacing, shooting her an uncharacteristically disparaging look. “Please,” he scoffs, though not with malice. “You and I both know the last place Gray Nightenjoy should be anywhere near is a… physically involved…interrogation.”
Marcella huffs an absent laugh, not sure if she appreciates or is irritated by the delicate way he attempts to put it.
“He might surprise you,” Marcella pushes.
“I think there’s more to him than just noble deeds and moral will.
” She remembers that first judgment. The way he had grabbed the man later identified as his cousin, Huxley, by the shirt, gold flickering in his eyes.
Marcella thought she had imagined it, but later, when Lyra finally discussed all the details with her, what she had seen in that moment was confirmed.
Kiran shakes his head, the curves of his lips tugging up gently.
“Well, let’s not go out of our way to taint the best of us, hm?
” Marcella opens her mouth to speak, but before she can, Kiran raises a silencing hand.
“Besides,” he continues. “Whatever information the man has, I want to be the only one to hear it. It’s just…
” he trails off, taking a moment. “I never have been good at this part of gathering intel.”
“Let me guess,” Marcella quips dryly. “Draven and Finlay were better?”
He laughs. “Much, much better.” There is a fondness to his words, which is odd, considering the subject matter.
Still, Marcella feels no need to press the issue, and Kiran clearly has no desire to keep talking about it. So, she reorients her attention to the piece of parchment clasped between his fingers. The parchment which has remained permanently within his grip since receiving it.
She nods toward the item. “What’s that?”
He frowns down at the parchment before bringing it up to his face, scanning its contents once more.
Marcella thinks this is the third…fourth…
no, definitely fifth…time he’s done so, his brows heavily wrinkled as he stares at the letter.
“It’s nothing.” His tone betrays him, yet he continues on anyhow.
“I sent correspondence to my parents letting them know I was nearby. I was planning to make a stop at my family’s home, Emberthorne, before going back to Bathara. But…”
“But…?” Marcella pushes.
The wrinkle in his brow deepens. “But I just received word back from them informing me they are unavailable to take visitors at this time. Including myself.”
“And that’s odd?” she asks, not having the slightest idea what is and isn’t normal for a Great House Heir.
“Very,” he replies. Marcella considers probing, but before she gets the chance, Kiran folds the letter neatly and stuffs it into his pocket.
“No matter,” he says, shaking his head while his brows do a little jump on his forehead.
“They are probably just preparing for the upcoming Winter Solstice ball. I’m not sure why, but I’ve heard Talderine has spared no expense this time around.
Supposedly, they are giving it some extravagant theme this year. ”
“What’s the theme?”
He shrugs, shifting back into his usual demeanor. “No one knows yet. They’re waiting to make a grand announcement.”
“Who’s making an announcement?” Rhea strides into the sitting area and plops herself down on the chair adjacent to Kiran, sinking back and immediately propping her feet up on the mahogany table.