Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
In the morning, I wash my face and brush my teeth. A few hours of sleep have helped more than I expected.
The coffee shop opens at six. By half past, I have choked down the coffee and cancelled an aircraft I no longer need. The barista gives no sign that she understands, yet the message is received.
I buy the pastry on the way out. Habit, mostly.
Outside, the space beneath the window is empty. No mismatched coats. No cracked red fingers held out of a sleeve.
I wait a moment longer than there is any reason to, then put the bag in my pocket and walk on.
People move on down here. A warmer doorway. A relative who has stopped being ashamed of them.
That is all it will be.
I take Mina the long way round to the old government apartment so she can have a proper walk.
I throw the ball for a while, and she tears across the grass like something feral—boundless, joyful and utterly indifferent to the fact that I can scarcely keep my eyes open. While she runs, rolls and investigates something dubious beside the far hedge, I think about Cáel.
About how I am going to handle today.
I have decided I will not mention what I know about the betrothal. If he does not raise it, neither will I. What would I even say? What can I say about a sister who is not truly a sister any more, not in any way that counts?
Vivian.
Three years older and everything I am not: brilliant, beautiful, successful.
She entered the Games before me and returned a victor, and my parents could not have been prouder. Neither could I at thirteen, watching my big sister compete.
Proud is not quite the right word, though.
Not for what I felt inside.
I played it off with all the bravado of a teenager, acting as though it were spectacular, as though I were unaffected, but I was quietly horrified. They screened the Games on the enormous television in the family theatre.
We had popcorn.
I ate while my stomach churned, and afterwards, I went to my room and was sick. Even after Vivian returned home safely, I had nightmares for years.
And yet I never trained.
Never prepared.
I told myself everything would be fine. Our bloodline, our magic, our family name. I would enter the Games and emerge a victor, just as she had.
I was lazy, confident and utterly hollow. I read books and watched television. My family treated me like a princess in public and a ghost in private, and I told myself that was fine too.
Vivian tried to warn me more than once.
I blocked her out.
Not until the date arrived did I understand what I had done. I saw myself clearly: unprepared, overconfident and completely alone.
What matters now is Vivian. I imagine she loves this man, because what is there not to love? He is handsome and perceptive, and he smells extraordinary—
My thoughts stop dead.
I shake my head.
What on earth is wrong with me?
I decided long ago that relationships were not for me. The question was settled.
So why him?
Why now?
I will remain professional and protect him from whatever is happening in this city—even if I have to protect him from myself.
I whistle for Mina.
She bounds towards me, and at once I see something is wrong.
A wet green smear stains the fur along her neck.
Fox poo.
She reeks.
Gagging, I check the time.
Fifteen minutes until I meet Cáel, and my dog smells as though something has died on her.
Right.
The government apartment I still pay for. Its bathroom will have to do.
I kick the broken door open, and Mina charges in behind me.
My eyes sweep the apartment.
No unwanted visitors.
As ever, the place is a mess. The kitchen is gone.
Years ago, someone kept breaking in and removing it piece by piece until I gave up replacing it and had the pipes capped.
The plaster has all but disintegrated, and the walls, layered with unflattering graffiti from countless visits, drip with vitriol aimed at me.
The bathroom is the only room that still functions.
The toilet was kicked from the wall long ago, taking part of the floor with it. A sheet of marine ply now bridges the gap—solid enough, and I have stopped thinking about it. The bath’s deep brown enamel hides most of the mould, though not the smell.
The entire apartment carries the sharp, close reek of rodents, sometimes so strong it is difficult to breathe.
I lay my coat across the capped pipes where the sink once stood, then add my top. There is no chance I will allow even a trace of fox poo to touch either of them.
I point towards the bath.
Mina grumbles, then, with the martyred dignity of a dog who knows she has no choice, steps inside.
The shower over the bath still works and, against every reasonable expectation, produces hot water almost immediately. The boiler, it seems, remains functional.
No shampoo. No towels.
Yet warm water and a thorough scrub are better than nothing.
Stripped to my sports bra, I crouch beside the bath and get to work.
The sigils have faded to pink again, and the silver one has gone quiet with them, scarcely visible unless I know where to look.
Whatever came back to me up there has already drained away.
My ribs object immediately, and within minutes, my back trembles from the effort.
Ten minutes pass. She needs two hours of scrubbing—the fox poo has seeped deep into her ruff—but I keep her coat in good condition, so at least it is not matted.
I am making progress when a knock sounds and the front door swings open.
“In here. Just a minute!” I call.
Mina takes that as her cue to shake.
Stinking water flies everywhere, mostly on me.
I let out an undignified squeak.
Evidently alarmed, Cáel bursts through the bathroom door, then stops and stares at me, on my hands and knees beside the bath.
“She rolled in fox poo,” I explain. “It won’t be a moment. I didn’t want it in your car.”
He makes an indeterminate noise and withdraws towards the front door. Moments later, one large hand reappears with a bottle of expensive shampoo, no doubt retrieved from the car.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
He nods.
“Thank you.”
I work the shampoo into Mina’s neck. When I glance towards the doorway again, a large, fluffy white towel lies folded on the floor.
“Aren’t you a posh girl?” I tell Mina.
She flops flat in the bath, offended by the shampoo, if not the water. I roll her over, scrub the other side, rinse, repeat, then turn off the shower and spread the towel wide.
The instant the water stops, she springs upright and shakes.
I catch most of it with the towel, then haul her out and rub her dry. My combat trousers are soaked through at the knees.
Once she is merely damp, she bolts from the bathroom.
I rinse my arms with a little shampoo, then look down at myself.
Sports bra.
Wet trousers.
And I have been talking to Cáel Valera the entire time.
I groan softly.
Cáel is enough of a gentleman not to stare at me in my sports bra. Hopefully, that means he has not noticed the sigils—or how far they extend.
I dry my arms on the clean side of the towel, pull on my top and coat, then fold the towel and carry it, along with the shampoo, into the hall.
I do not bother rinsing the bath.
In the hallway, Cáel stands very still while Mina, clean and damp, sits before him, staring up at his face with unwavering intensity.
He stares back.
I hand him the shampoo.
“I’ll get the towel laundered—”
“Keep them,” he says. “Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
He heads towards the door, then pauses to look around the apartment.
“You need to get that door fixed.”
“The management company sorts it. They always do.” I follow him outside.
“So it happens often,” he mutters, more to himself than to me.
I huff out a laugh as I wedge the door shut.
I know exactly what the place looks like. He holds back half of what he could say, and I appreciate the kindness.
I ignore the freezing air that seeps through my damp trousers as we head towards the car. Fox poo makes even the most composed dog owner act first and consider the consequences later.
At the car, I am better prepared. I have brought Mina’s seat belt harness. I clip her into the back seat, then take the front passenger seat.
Cáel turns up the heater until warm air blasts across my wet legs.
My heart skips at the small kindness, which I painfully ignore.
“Where to?” I ask.
“Have you eaten?”
Mina has.
I have not.
I usually manage on one meal a day, and the pastry is still in my pocket.
“Then we eat first.”
He pulls into the traffic.
As the streets slide past, I realise where we are going.
We are heading back up.