He closed his eyes. “And all I can come up with is ways of getting the goats into the library.”
I choked on a laugh and it came out my nose—the approved royal fashion, of course.
“I love you,” Elián said.
“What?” All this talk of our death, and yet it was that that made me squawk.
“I love you laughing. I just—” He reached out toward me. I tensed. He stopped, his hands midair. “It’s just— You look so different. With your hair down.”
In my haste to follow Xie, I’d simply left my hair in its ponytail. It hung past my waist.
“Different?” I was not sure if that was good or bad. It was utterly ridiculous that, in the face of death, I wanted to know which.
But I wanted to know which.
Elián nodded. “Real different. . . . Can I . . . ?” He reached around behind me, and I felt his fingers fumble at the nape of my neck. My whole skin shivered in the warm night. He was close to me, and I could smell the soap on him—the same as the soap on Xie’s hands—and I imagined how those hands would taste. Lye, like an electric shock to the tongue. Elián worked the knot open, and then lifted my hair from my spine and spread it over my shoulders like a cape. Hair has no nerve endings, and yet every brush of my hair across my throat made me glitter and jolt.
I was thinking about electricity, suddenly. And not in punishment.
“I’m not going to go quietly, Greta.” There was no defiance in his voice. It was soft as a lover’s whisper. “They’ll have to drag me off.”
“You might surprise yourself.” I put my hand on Elián’s knee.
He looked down at it. I could see his throat move as he swallowed down his fear. “Might, I guess. Life is full of surprises.”
He turned to me. Our legs bumped. I was aware of our knees sorting out their borders, my hand still on his thigh, my hair puddled in my lap. My hair was sectioned and smooth from its tenure in braids, and lay in shining pieces, like cords from an unplaited rope. Elián took a cord in each hand and wrapped it round and round, until his wrists and hands and arms were bound by my hair—until we were tangled so close together that I could feel his breath on my lips.
“You’re so strong,” he said.
And he kissed me.
My hand flew up, and I swear for a moment I meant to push him away. Instead, I put my fingers along the ridge of his jaw. Our noses bumped. His knee pushed inside my thigh and my legs fell open. The tug of my hair on my scalp as he reeled me in was incredible—it felt like heat building, it felt like a thousand urgent prickles. He kissed me and I kissed him and there was not enough air. There was not enough time. Weeks. Days. He was desperate, and I was desperate, and we were out of time.
His tongue, his knee pushing deeper. I gasped something—maybe it was wait—but also I bit his lip. We were going to die together, and it felt like here and now.
“Time to—”
It was Da-Xia’s voice. I pushed away from Elián, flushed, gasping.
Xie was standing two tiers above us. She was more than a silhouette. It was obvious that she could see.
“Time to go,” she said, and her voice cracked. “There are proctors out tonight.” She took a step back as if to fade into the darkness.
“Wait, Xie—” I staggered up. My mind felt like an empty cage. Everything had flown out of it. My hair was mad and the ties of my shirt were looser than they should have been.
“Goodness,” Da-Xia said, watching me fumble to arrange my shirt. I think she was trying for light, but she seemed stunned. “My Princess of the Icy Places—there’s hope for you yet.”
Elián, curse him, laughed. “Get her away from those protocol officers and there’s no stopping her.”
“Shut up,” I said. I was glad of the dark. I was blushing as only a redhead could.
Elián shut up. “I didn’t mean—”
“Come,” said Xie, before Elián could specify which part he hadn’t meant. “We’re pushing our luck.”
“Greta,” said Elián.
“Let’s go,” I said, and pulled away from him. Xie led us back to the Precepture, where Atta—silent again—was sitting by the wall. Together the four of us went through the cellars, the kitchens. We came out of the refectory and into the hallway—
And there was the Abbot, standing quietly. Two proctors flanked him.
“Greta,” he said, as if I were alone. “Couldn’t sleep?”
13
DREAMLOCK
I asked you to come to me, Greta, if you couldn’t sleep,” the Abbot chided. The Abbot had showed me the grey room to scare me into giving up my power. And that hadn’t worked. So, next— I should have realized there would be a next.
The proctors came in like sheepdogs and cut me out from the herd, away from the others. I went, stiffening my back as if swan wings were attached to my shoulder blades. “I know, good Father,” I allowed. But I did not apologize. And I did not explain.