Chapter Fifteen #2
Glenn nods, eyes shining. “I promise I will deliver whatever you can pocket for him. To help the boy out, but only for his sake.”
“Thank you.”
“Avery, you were…” He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “You were always going to be the one that Jeremee married.”
A hiccup escapes my lips, and I cover my mouth.
“I couldn’t pledge to him, you know this,” he says, voice shaking. “But I would’ve been happy when you took my place.”
“I hoped we’d reach a time when anyone could pledge to another.”
“Perhaps we will, even if he won’t.”
Tears stream down my cheeks at the thought, at infinite time stretching on like an endless river, some of us following the flow of the current while others slip under, forgotten.
“Jeremee didn’t like to choose,” I say.
Glenn lets out a hoarse laugh. “He didn’t.”
“But perhaps he would’ve chosen you instead, if he could. If it were allowed.”
“I don’t know.” His voice breaks. “You should hate me.”
“I don’t. Do you hate me?”
“No. You understand what it was like to be loved by him. And how large a hole his absence has left behind.”
The scrap of Glenn’s shirt is damp in my hand, and I clear my throat, my body weary, my heart heavy. “When I’m paid, we can meet in private for Benji’s coin so as to not upset the others.”
He nods, looking away. “I am sorry, Avery.”
Before I can say I am sorry, too, the door closes and I am left alone in the corridor. With the absence of light, of company, of possibilities, I do not know where to go, what to feel, or even which faith to follow. All I want is to curl up in a ball and call out for my mother.
Instead, I make my way through the chattering and chaos of the Nest, swiping up a small plate of food.
Climbing the stairs, I reach the servants’ hall outside Kassandra’s apartments.
The mistress whose fate I am tied to. Who leveled a complaint against Jeremee, which Benji now carries.
Who used me to arouse herself for the king. My loathing for her returns.
I could go back to the Pith, but there is nowhere to sleep, no one I feel like explaining myself to, not even Lila and her kindness. Staring down at my plate of chicken and bread and beans, I feel ill. It is too much of what I do not want. But it is not all for me.
I wrap up the pumpernickel roll in the cloth napkin and leave it outside Briar’s door.
I knock but do not wait for an answer. When I reach my room, I strip off the silk and work out until I am covered in sweat, my muscles aching, then sit on the scratchy blankets of the cot and eat in silence.
Eat to keep up the strength of a body I would like to retire from, just to feel free of the weight of grief.
I finish the meal in this newfound loneliness disguised as privacy.
Brushing away the crumbs, I throw on a loose tunic and slip on the golden moth ring once more.
Every constant in my life has been stripped away, everything and everyone but the vital organ with which I was born—my genius.
It is mine, not just a tool for service, and it’s stronger than most. So is the desire to disappear.
So I lace.
I lace back to the Pith, the sparks of laughter filling my ears.
I lace to the hallways outside the Nest.
I do it again, reveling in the transmutation, the act of dissolving only to be violently remade, shoulders slamming stone, knees scraping, body shivering and mind numb. Again and again, I become nothing, then something.
I lace back to my room, sweaty, exhausted, buzzed. When I close my eyes to the pink light of dawn, I welcome the fatigue and become nothing once more.
—
The next morning, Lila collects me and laces us to the Pith, my genius still spent.
“You’ll get used to it,” she says. “Soon, you may be able to lace a few times a day.”
“I thought my genius was done maturing,” I reply.
She shrugs. “Maybe it needed more of a challenge than just cleaning.”
A week passes while the fog of loss remains.
It turns out the king has many duties that take him away from the palace.
As a smaller House, yet the most powerful, Reign requires less work compared to Illusion.
The Pith feels almost overstaffed. There are messenger faeries, packers, dishers, moppers, food runners.
It’s as if any duty a Scarp may perform in Illusion has several designated roles in Reign.
In the downtime, Lila offers me new soaps for my skin, and even a little pot of cream for after the bath.
“It’ll soften calluses,” she explains.
“A servant with soft hands?” I almost laugh.
“I suppose the royal family doesn’t view us like servants. More like…”
“Pets?”
Lila grimaces. “They still pamper their pets?”
I take the soaps. Lila redirects me to Fern to help nurture my wavy hair, for hers is coiled.
“We have different soaps for different hair.” The cook rummages through a box of extra items. She hands me a rosemary-scented bar. “Give it a try.”
Perhaps an old part of me would deem this unnecessary, but the new me is so very tired in my bones.
I still bathe in the shared Illusion washrooms, but when I rub the soaps into my skin and hair, I sigh.
It feels luxurious and refreshing, and I want to cry.
I remember to tuck the soaps away in my room to cherish them.
I rarely sleep that week, between my workouts and my attempts at lacing foods to the tunnels in the blue hours of the night, when the Day Crests have yet to rise.
Fern and Lila have already explained that I can eat any food left out, but still, it feels like a trick.
Like a halfling guard is waiting around the corner to catch me and shove spikes under my nails.
The first time had been a bowl of strawberries sitting on the center table, like overplump teardrops of summer.
I waited until I was sure no one was around, then snatched a handful and laced.
Stretched thin, gasping, it has become a thrill that I have managed.
My knee scratched against stone as my body re-formed outside my room.
Sticky red juice dripped from my hands, the strawberries gone.
Every night I have tried to lace food back to Illusion, to the Nest and the tunnels beneath. Every night I have failed. The food always disintegrates. I could keep stealing from Illusion, but it would be much more difficult without the cover of being Kassandra’s current Night Crest.
As my first week draws to a close, I find the creditor’s counter, the Nest a loud, dirty bustle that I both miss and want to escape.
I don’t see Benji in line. We haven’t spoken since I laced into his room, and missing him is a constant ache.
Offering my hand, the teller pricks my finger, and I pay my remaining balance to my debt.
“Congratulations,” he says. “You’ve paid enough to disappear your thinned ring, and another.”
“What?” I blink.
He takes my hand, pricking it again. My arms tingle, and I gawk down at the sight.
Nine on my left arm, nine on my right. Over a month ago, I had twenty from wrist to shoulder.
But I didn’t work harder for it. In fact, I worked less. I just happen to be closer to the center of power. Is this how nobles and highly esteemed halflings feel?
What a load of bullshit.
Staring down at my arms, I finally understand that greater effort does not inherently mean greater impact. In fact, those with the longest hours, the hardest work, the greatest pains would be the Unluckies. The poorest of us all.
Rage chases me up the stairs to my room. My fists tighten and tingle with a fury that I try to rub out on my old cotton skirts.
A burning smell singes my nose.
I stop on the stairs, halfway between above and below, and gasp.
My skirts smolder with shadowy handprints seared into the cotton. I yank at the fabric, warm to the touch. Turning my pulsing palms upward, I see that they are red and mottled, as if I’ve been burned. Yet it doesn’t hurt. It’s as if I am doing the burning.
Checking in with my genius, I find the organ thrumming and active, almost satisfied.
A late-blooming ability with fire. Just…just like my mother.
What is going on?
My genius only hums in response.