Hanne shrugged. “I don’t know,” she repeated.
You know, Nina thought. You know what that bigoted bastard would do, but you’re too afraid to admit it.
Nina wanted to take her by the shoulders and shake her. She wanted to pull Hanne onto a horse and ride until they reached the shore. But she couldn’t think about any of that, not if they were going to free the girls in the fort. Adawesi. We fight. And Nina knew fighting meant using all the tools at her disposal—even Hanne’s guilt.
“You owe it to your father to keep this secret.” Nina felt sick saying those words, aware of the effect they would have. Hanne owed Brum nothing, but Nina forced herself to continue. “If he knew you were Grisha, it would put him in an impossible position. His reputation and his career would be at tremendous risk.”
Hanne slumped at the desk and put her head in her hands. “You think I don’t realize that?”
Nina crouched down before her. “Hanne, look at me.” Nina waited, and at last Hanne looked up. Her vibrant eyes were dry but anguished, and Nina knew that pain was not for herself but for the embarrassment she’d cause her father. “This country … this country does terrible things to its women and to its men. Your father thinks the way he does because he was raised to. But I can’t help him. I can’t fix him. I can help my sister. I can help you. And I’ll do what I have to in order to make that possible. If that means batting my lashes at your father and convincing him I’m a model of Fjerdan woman-hood, I’ll do it.”
“It’s disgusting. You looked at my father as if he were an incarnation of Djel.”
“I looked at your father the way he wants to be looked at—like a hero.”
Hanne ran her calloused thumb down the length of the old wooden desk. “Is that what you do with me?”
“No,” said Nina, and that, at least, was the truth. She had told Hanne countless lies, but she’d never flattered, never manipulated her in that way. “When I said you were talented, I meant it. When I said you were glorious, I meant that too.” Hanne met her gaze, and for a moment, Nina felt as if they weren’t stuck in this classroom or even this country. They were someplace better. They were someplace free. “Our first job is always to survive,” she said. “I won’t apologize for it.”
Hanne’s lips twitched. “Have you always been this sure of yourself?”
Nina shrugged. “Yes.”
“And your husband didn’t complain?”
“He complained,” Nina said—and suddenly she had to look away, because it was not some fictional merchant who had come to mind but Matthias with his strict propriety and his disapproving glower and his loving, generous heart. “He complained all the time.”
“Was he quick to anger?” Hanne asked.
Nina shook her head and pressed her palms to her eyes, unable to stop the tears that came, not wanting to. Saints, she was tired. “No. We didn’t always agree.” She smiled, tasting salt on her lips. “In fact, we almost never agreed. But he loved me. And I loved him.”
Hanne reached across the desk and let her fingers brush Nina’s hand. “I had no right to ask.”
“It’s okay,” said Nina. “The hurt just still catches me by surprise. It’s a sneaky little podge.”
Hanne leaned back, studying her. “I’ve never met anyone like you.”
Nina knew she should lower her head, make some comment about reining in her boldness of spirit, demonstrate that she gave a damn about Fjerdan ways. Instead, she sniffled and said, “Of course you haven’t. I’m spectacular.”
Hanne laughed. “I would cut off a thumb for a thimbleful of your confidence.”
Nina brushed her tears away and squeezed Hanne’s hand, felt the warm press of her palm, the calluses of her fingers. Hands that could sew. String a bow. Soothe a sick child. It felt good to take this small bit of comfort—even if it also felt like she was stealing.
“I’m glad I met you, Hanne,” Nina said.
“Do you mean that?”
She nodded, surprised at how much she did. Hanne might not be loud or reckless with her words, she might bow her head to her father and the Wellmother, but she had never let Fjerda break her. Despite her curtsies and her talk of family honor, she had remained defiant.
Hanne sighed. “Good. Because my father wants you to join us for dinner tonight after he tours the factory.”
“When does he return to the capital?”
“Tomorrow morning.” Hanne’s gaze was steady, knowing. “You’re planning something.”
“Yes,” said Nina. “You knew I would. I won’t act until he’s gone. But I’m going to need your help.”
“What do you want me to do?”
A great deal. And none of it will be easy. “I want you to become who your father always hoped you’d be.”
NIKOLAI WAS GETTING BETTER AT calling the monster, but his mood seemed to be growing darker. He was quieter and more distant at the end of each visit with Elizaveta, though it was Zoya who had to face drowning. By now they didn’t think Elizaveta had any real intention of killing her, but the monster still seemed to believe the threat was real—a fact that didn’t sit well with Zoya. Thanks to her lessons with Juris, she suspected she could break through the amber walls the Saint erected around her, and when the sap began to rise around her legs, it was hard not to try. But she wasn’t there to prove her strength, only to help Nikolai make the monster rise.
From general of the Grisha army to bait for a monster. It was not a position she enjoyed, and only the progress she’d made in Juris’ lair kept her temper from getting the best of her.
Today, she’d arrived at Elizaveta’s spire early. Yuri and Nikolai hadn’t yet shown up, and the Saint herself was nowhere to be found. Or was she? The great golden chamber hummed with the sound of insects. If Juris was to be believed, they were all her.
Six sides to the chamber. Six sides to each amber panel that comprised its soaring walls. Was this why the Little Palace had been built on a hexagonal plan? Zoya had seen the shape repeated in Grisha buildings, their tombs, their training places. Had it all begun with Elizaveta’s hive? There were tunnels leading from each of the six walls. Zoya wondered where they led.
“You were one of his students, weren’t you?”
Zoya jumped at the sound of Elizaveta’s voice. The Saint stood by the table where the thorn tree she’d grown still sprawled over the surface.
Zoya knew Elizaveta meant the Darkling, though student was not the right word. Worshipper or acolyte would have been more accurate. “I was a soldier in the Second Army and under his command.”
Elizaveta slanted her a glance. “You needn’t play coy with me, Zoya. I knew him too.” Zoya’s surprise must have shown, because Elizaveta said, “Oh yes, all of us crossed paths with him at one time or another. I met him when he had only just begun his service to the Ravkan kings. When I was still in my youth.”