Chapter Forty-One #2
fence gate. Sure, it hurts worse than fire, but it’s not going to kill me.
Focusing on anything but my fingers, I realize my gown is gone. In its place, I wear a simple linen shift with a braided leather belt that leaves my legs bare from the knees down. It’s light and cool and clean, and I’m grateful for it.
Muffled voices filter in through the beaded curtain. Eliset is with a customer. How long have I been here? Hours? Days?
I must have dozed off, because I’m startled when Eliset enters, bringing a pitcher and mug. “You’re awake! Good. I need you
to get gone.”
“What?” I say, trying to leverage myself up onto my elbows. “How long—”
“Two days. You were in worse shape than I realized. Here, drink this.” She thrusts a mug at me.
I sip gratefully of lukewarm but fresh water.
“I was able to save one knuckle on your forefinger, one and a half knuckles on your middle finger. If you keep those bandages
clean and fresh, you’ll get a lot of use out of that hand yet.”
“Thank you.” I tell myself that losing a few knuckles doesn’t seem like too high a price to pay for everything that happened.
“Had to stretch your skin hard to stitch it over the stumps, so take care not to touch anything for at least a week.”
Eliset’s gaze on me is steady as I finish my mug of water. Now that my mind is clear, I notice her wild hair poking out of
a hundred braids, her sparkling nose ring, the thick line of kohl around her eyes. She’s a less refined version of the potentat.
I set the mug on the table.
Eliset says, “Now go. Everyone’s abuzz about a Grimsvolder woman who stole the future prince consort away from the Sundereve Ball. Not saying that’s you. But my shop has seen its share of troubles, and I won’t have you bringing down more.”
I swing my feet over the side of the cot to stand. The world teeters but steadies as my legs remember how to be legs. “I understand.
I can’t thank you enough for—”
“Your pack is waiting for you at the counter. Everything is inside, just as you left it. But I did take that gown after all.
In exchange, I packed you a loaf of bread, some oranges, and a heap of fresh bandages. You should change them daily. Now off
with you.”
As I leave Eliset’s Elixirs, it’s obvious my body is not right; I’m wobbly on my feet, my vision is blurred, and I feel as
weak as a newborn kitten. The air is too hot, the sky too bright. My face itches like it’s covered by a thousand ants, and
when I scratch, bits of skin peel away beneath my fingertips. I try not to scratch.
I wander toward the nearest canal, simply wanting to be near water. I should return to the palace to fetch Blackwind, but
if everyone there believes I stole their prince, the palace won’t be safe for me.
I need time to heal. Figure out what to do next.
My knees quiver with the sudden memory: waking up alone in the forest to find that Titus had left me behind, too injured and
weak to take care of myself. Tracking him down that night was my salvation. This time, I can’t follow.
The road opens onto a fountain square. Children splash in the water; one rider pulls his horse up for a drink. Market stalls edge the square. One merchant sells fruit; another, bolts of fabric. Light glints off a jewelry stand featuring blown-glass bangles, beaded necklaces, even a few wind chimes.
Beside it is the least adorned stall I’ve yet seen in Cathira, manned by a bald Suratian man standing behind a plain counter.
The stall’s only marking is a sign hanging over his head with big block letters that read ICE MAKER.
His line of customers is huge. Everyone holds some type of water container—pitchers, jars, pots, but mostly waterskins.
I’ve never known anyone with my exact Gift before, and I’m overwhelmed with the desire to meet him. My heart is in my throat
as I take my place at the end of the line.
While I wait, gradually inching toward the counter, I nibble on some of the bread Eliset left me. I have no appetite, certainly
not for bread, but I have a feeling I’ll need the sustenance. At least I hope so. I intend to ask for a job.
Finally I reach the front of the line. “Sorry,” the man says, scooping up some coins from the counter. “I’m closing for the
day.”
This is not how our conversation was supposed to start. “It’s not even noon!”
“Girl, I’m worn out. Got nothing left. Come back tomorrow. I do my best work first thing in the morning.” He reaches up for
the sign to take it down.
I say, “I can help with that.”
“The sign’s not heavy, not even for an old man like me.”
“No, I mean . . . I’m an ice maker too.” My heart beats like hummingbird wings. I’ve just revealed my Gift to a perfect stranger.
I’m offering to reveal it to everyone.
He has gone very still. Then he pulls his hands away from the sign. Looks me up and down. “Got caught thieving, did you?” he says, indicating the bandages on my left hand.
“Got caught using too much magic.”
His eyes widen, and he looks me over once again as though reassessing. “You froze your own fingers?”
“It was a special circumstance. It won’t happen again.”
“You have a Diamond Household ring. I’ve never seen a Grimsvolder girl with a potentat’s ring before.”
I shrug it off. “Trying to make my own way. I need a job. Seems like we could help each other?”
He chews on the inside of his cheek, considering. Then: “Let’s see what you’ve got. You!” He waves at the woman in line behind
me. “What have you brought me today?”
I step to the side, and the woman lifts a giant waterskin onto the counter.
“Leather is best,” the stallkeeper explains to me, like a master instructing an apprentice. “Especially for this much water.
Clay and glass pots often burst when water is turned to ice suddenly. Well, do your thing.”
I take a deep breath, reach for my thread of magic. It occurs to me to ask the customer, “How cold do you want it? Chilled
water? Ice? Colder than ice so it lasts a long time?”
The stallkeeper’s mouth opens, closes.
The customer says, “You can make it colder than ice?”
“Is that what you want?”
She nods wordlessly.
I unstopper the waterskin and dip the forefinger of my right hand into the neck until I feel wetness.
Freeze.
Not too much, not too little. Even when I’m weak and wounded, it’s as easy as creating ice floes in a lake.
I push the stopper back in and hand it to the woman. “Don’t touch it with your hands for a while or you’ll get an ice burn.
It will melt naturally over time.”
The stallkeeper reaches over and touches the side of the waterskin, which is now bloated and as firm as steel. “Oh,” he says.
“Interesting.”
The woman lays three Suratian coppers on the counter and walks away, wisely holding the waterskin by its ties.
“How many more times can you do that before Gift-starving?” the stallkeeper asks.
“Eight or ten, I think,” I tell him. “A lot more if someone just wants regular ice.”
He whistles. “Your Gift is a lot stronger than mine.”
“Between the two of us, we could go all day,” I say. “Working in shifts, stopping to eat and rest.”
He’s nodding as I talk. “You’re hired. For today. One third of everything I make. If it works out, we can talk about something
long-term. My name is Aspen.”
“Bria.” I reach for his offered hand, and we shake on it.
We spend the next hours turning water into ice, or sometimes just chilled water. Aspen seems like a good boss, offering orange
juice and jerky throughout the afternoon to keep me fueled, giving me plenty of breaks. Our pile of coppers behind the counter
grows larger and larger.
The air of the market square turns coral with the lowering sun, and customer traffic thins. I’m lifting my hand to freeze yet another waterskin when Aspen’s large fingers settle on my forearm. “You’re barely on your feet, and I won’t have you Gift-starved on my watch. We’re done for the day.”
He apologizes to the customers still in line, but firmly waves them off.
“Where are you staying tonight?” he asks me.
“I haven’t worked that out yet.” My left hand is throbbing, and my bandages feel damp with blood and sweat. I need to clean
my finger stubs and change their dressings as soon as possible.
“There’s space on my floor if you want it,” Aspen says. “My wife can have a look at those wound dressings for you. If you’ll
work for me again tomorrow, that is.”
Relief is like a giant bubble in my chest. A place to stay. Someone to look at my fingers so I don’t have to.
My voice is a little quivery when I say, “Yes, that’ll do.”