I’ll learn the magic. I’ll get the truth from Isra. She already tells me
more than she knows. More than she should ever tell an enemy.
I tell her nothing that matters. I tell her stories to earn her sympathy
and lower her guard. I labor hard beside her and keep my temper in check,
slowly winning her trust. I tease her into thinking we are friends. I play the
damaged weakling, sighing and groaning and stumbling through my work in
the field even though I’m getting stronger every day. By spring I will be
completely healed.
If she lets me out to gather the bulbs in a week or two and I return,
she will let me out again to gather herb shoots in the spring.
see my son.
I have to believe he’s still alive. Our chief knew these months would
be hard. She will have had the women dry the cactus fruit harvest so it can
be rationed throughout the winter. The men will find small game in
burrows beneath the sand; the women will boil poison root until the poison
is gone and only the mealy meat remains. The Desert People will live to see
spring, and I will bring them hope and magic.
With a soft grunt, I shift the books from my shoulders to the floor,
stacking one on top of the other. I stand on top of them, dipping my heels
down and up, building the strength in my lower legs, the running muscles.
I will have to be fast. By the time I escape, every moment will be
precious. Every moment is precious
further trust of the queen.
I should have kept my mouth closed today. I don’t owe Isra the truth,
and the Smooth Skins’ outcasts are nothing to me. Let them suffer. They
have food and safety, two things my people would give a year of their lives
for. And their queen cares for them. In her way. Enough to worry about
whether they are soft and pleasing to the eye.
imaginary disease she’ll never bear witness to, when with a word she could
abolish the outcast camp and end the custom that displeases her.
“Queen of fools,” I mutter.
It’s days like these that remind me why I hate her. I’m grateful for
every one of them. I can’t afford to forget. I can’t afford to enjoy the way
she sighs with happiness when I finish a story. I can’t afford to admire how
hard she works. I can’t let myself grow comfortable on the dirt beside her
as we share bread and apples from the basket she brings. I can never take
her muddy hand in mind and promise her that the winter will end and the
pain and loss she feels will fade the way mine did after my mother’s death.
I can certainly never tell her that she is out of her mind, and all the
rest of her people with her, if they don’t see the beauty in her. In her green,
green eyes, in her smile big enough to light a room, in the way she walks
like she’s dancing with the ground beneath her feet, each step careful and
graceful and—
“Fool,” I whisper as I step off the books and move closer to the
window.
I grit my teeth and direct my gaze toward the roses—reminding
myself why I’m here—just in time to see a woman creep from the shadows
of the orchard. I can’t see her face or what she’s wearing in the dim
moonlight, but I know immediately who she is.
the careful reach of her toes as she moves across unseen terrain. I know
her. I do. Even in the dark.
The knock on the door is soft, but it still makes me jump.
I feel like I’ve been caught doing something worse than staring out
my window. Maybe I have. I can imagine what Gare would say about my
knowing a Smooth Skin girl so well.
The knock comes again, and I turn slowly to face the door. My
evening meal came hours ago. There shouldn’t be anyone near my room
until morning. The Smooth Skins have great trust in their locks and keys.
The only time I’m guarded is when the soldiers escort me to the queen’s
garden.
So who is here now?
The flap at the bottom of the door swoops open, and a small package
slides along the floor. I tense on instinct, my claws shuddering in their beds.
I approach the bundle carefully, keeping an eye on the still-swinging
flap of wood through which my meals are shoved. This is the first time
something else has come through. I squat beside the package and unfold
the linen holding it together. Inside is a piece of paper with simple words
written in an even hand, and a thick coil of rope with a large hook on one
end.
I begin to sound out the words on the paper, but haven’t gotten past
“Gem, I need—” before the sound of a key turning in the lock makes my
head snap up and my claws extend.
I lift my arms as the door swings open to reveal Needle, Isra’s maid,
standing on the other side. Her large brown eyes get even bigger when she
sees my claws, but she doesn’t scream or turn to run. She only blinks and
swallows and points a thin finger to the package.
Having my claws out begins to feel … strange.
“Ridiculous.” That’s the word Isra uses for the hated dresses she’s
forced to wear to the Smooth Skin eating rooms and the endless Smooth
Skin banquets. In some ways, Isra is a stranger here, too. I know that. I
know that’s why Bo treats her like an invalid and her advisors treat her like
a child. Still, I didn’t expect this note. There are some words I can’t work
through, but I understand enough to decipher its meaning.
I finish, and I am … shaken.
If anyone finds out what she’s done, she really will be locked away in
that tower of hers. Not even a queen can go against her city’s wishes like
this and not be punished. At least, not a queen like Isra, a blind, broken
queen without the love of her subjects or the trust of her council.
I have to stop her. And if I can’t stop her, I will have to help her. I may
hate her, but I need her. She’s the only reason I’m allowed out of this room,
my only chance to steal a future for my people.
I hand the paper to Needle, who wastes no time tearing it to pieces.
She’s loyal to Isra, then. That’s something. Maybe not enough to keep the
soldiers from discovering mine and Isra’s absence, but it’s something. I take
the rope with the hook and begin to move past her, but she stops me with
a hand on my arm.
I look down and down
I understand her silent plea.
.
Maybe Isra does have the love of at least one person.
“I would never hurt her,” I assure Needle in a hushed voice.
She stares up at me for a long moment before stepping back and
pointing to the end of the corridor, where a window large enough for a
Desert Man to crawl through opens out onto the royal garden. The guards
passed down the path outside the barracks only a few moments ago. I
should have just enough time to reach Isra, talk her out of leaving the city,
and get back to my cell undiscovered.
I don’t waste my breath telling Needle more lies. I turn and run.
barely aware of the cold. I’m racing inside. My pulse rushes like the river
beneath the city, wild and reckless and angry.
And frightened. I’m frightened, too.
I’ve been frightened my entire life, but that fear was different from
this. The former was a monster hiding in the shadows at the end of a long,
winding lane. This fear is Death reaching for my throat with both hands, so
close that I can hear his cold breath seep from his lungs.
Junjie tried to keep the news quiet, but there was little chance of
that. The court is still in mourning. There is no music or dancing or
playacting to provide entertainment. The only thing to do is talk, and the
ladies and gentlemen of the court excel at that, especially when the subject
of discussion is something so compelling.
And terrible.
A crack in the dome. It was all anyone could whisper about: “Is it
truly there?” “What caused it?” “How long will it take to assess the
damage?” “What will Junjie do to ensure the safety of the city?”
Not,
my giant ears. If the dome is cracked, it will be seen as a sign that the
covenant is weakening. If the injury can be easily repaired, the panic may
pass for a time, but the damage is already done.
I press my fist against my lips to hold back the whimper rising in my
throat. I knew the day of sacrifice would come, but I didn’t expect it would
be so soon. My life can’t end now, not when I’ve scarcely had the chance to
live it.
I lean over, resting my palms on the bed surrounding the roses,
digging my fingertips into the rough stone. I take a deep breath, grateful for
the cold air that softens the roses’ perfume. I don’t want my head filled
with their ominous stench. I wouldn’t have come here at all, except it
seemed the safest place to meet Gem.
I focus on my breath until it grows smooth and, finally, my heartbeat
slows.
I can’t lose hope. The crack might not be a crack at all. It could be
detritus from the desert stuck on the outside of the glass, a trick of light,
or … something else entirely. (
.) The
fissure is too high up for it to be seen clearly, even with a spyglass. The
soldiers will have to send a man to take a closer look, which means rigging
the rope-and-pulley system the city hasn’t used in half a century.
Bo says it will take at least three days to set up the equipment, and
that he will be the one to strap on the harness and be hauled out into the
void to assess the situation. He promised to keep everyone away from me
until then, and to alert Gem’s guards that the Monstrous won’t be working
in the field for the rest of the week. I told Bo I wanted to be alone while I
waited to see what effects giving up my morning tea will have on my
constitution, but I know he assumed it was fear that made me retreat to my
tower.
He seemed afraid, too. His arm shook as he escorted me to my door.
His lips trembled when he pressed a kiss to my cheek.
I touch the place now, and swear the patch of skin still feels colder
than the rest. It was the first time Bo has dared a kiss since the night he
thought we were both infected with poison from Gem’s claws.
“Maybe he only kisses queens who are about to die,” I say aloud,
fighting the sudden urge to giggle. There’s nothing funny about the mad
thing I’m about to do. There is nothing funny about what will happen if Bo
fails to keep his word. If Junjie or his guards enter the tower and discover
my absence, they’ll know Needle was keeping my disappearance a secret.
They’ll jail her. Or worse.
Probably worse.
The smile on my lips prunes into a worried pucker. Needle is taking a
terrible risk to help me prove I’m a queen with more to offer my people
than my blood. I can’t forget that for a moment. I will go carefully and
quickly, as soon as my eyes arrive.
I’ll have Needle to thank for that, too. If she can manage—
The sound of boots scuffing along the path interrupts my thoughts. I
pull my shawl farther over my head and crouch down by the wall, hoping
the shadows will conceal me. I hold my breath as three soldiers—maybe
four, it’s difficult to tell—
If they’d taken the other fork in the path, they would have seen me.
My breath rushes out in an unsteady stream, and my legs suddenly
feel wobbly. I sit down hard, the paving stones grinding against my sit
bones through the padding of my old gray overalls layered over my new
green ones. I have on long underwear, too, and a shawl and sweater. It will
be cold in the desert.
The desert. I’m going out into the
of desperation. But what choice do I have? There isn’t time to waste. I have
to trust my instincts and hope with everything in me that luck is on my side.
And Needle’s side. And Gem’s.
weak, but there’s a chance he might try it. Maybe even a good chance.
I push my shawl back around my shoulders, feeling trapped by the
heavy wool, but before I can drop my arms back to my side, I feel it—a vine
snaking around my wrist and pulling tightly.
I almost cry out in surprise, but manage to stifle the sound at the last
moment. The guards are still too close; I can’t afford to make any noise. I
try my best to quietly wrench my wrist free, but the roses are stronger than
I realized. The vine tugs my arm up and over my head, drawing my hand
into the thick of the flowers’ nest. I clench my fist—hoping to protect my
fingers—only to feel a thorn meaner than any I’ve yet encountered dig into
the thin skin between my knuckles.
“Ah!” I gasp as blood spills, hot and sticky, down the back of my
hand, making my true eyes fill with tears even as my borrowed eyes open
on the city.
I see a tower—
the building where I’ve spent my entire life, but I recognize it immediately:
the sharp gold curves of its many roofs, its red stone walls and balcony
jutting from the top like a stubborn chin.
My borrowed eyes swoop toward the entrance at the tower’s base,
where a boy with a silky black braid, high cheekbones, and bow-shaped lips
that any woman at court would envy stands clutching a pair of muddy
slippers. The boy is Bo—there is no mistaking those lips—and the slippers
are mine, the ones I threw into the flowers the night of my coronation.
Bo lifts his hand to knock on the door, while, far away in the garden,
my heart beats frantically in my chest. Bo has come to return my slippers,
and to demand to know how I managed to lose them in the first place, no
doubt. There’s an anxious look in his eyes, tension at the edges of his