Leaning back, I grab the drops of black mugplant mixed with ash. Even with my jaw clenched, the agony of spreading the mixture into the fresh cut drags a slew of curse words from between my teeth. It hisses and melts, and my already-shaky arm begins shuddering so hard that I’m going to either vomit or pass out.
I grab one end of the strip of torn undergarment and secure it in my mouth and wrap the other end around the new marking as many times as the length will allow before tying it off. I wipe down the blade I stole last night on the rest of the wadded cloth and slip it beneath the loose floorboard. Finally I reach over to toss the material into the smoldering fire.
I’m sorry.
I can’t even whisper the words aloud. Grief—guilt—whatever it is, it keeps my lips shut for the redheaded girl whose summers I’ve replaced with forever-winters.
As if in response, the orange flames lick up around the cloth and then ignite in hunger. The warmth hits my face and dissipates just as fast as the fabric. It leaves me shivering and my stomach lurching. And before I can swallow it down, I’m throwing up into the fireplace, heaving what’s left of last night’s dinner onto the coals.
When the gagging stops, my face is hot and the fire is out, and I’m clinging to the cold stone mantel, my cheek pressing against it while I swear at the floor to quit dancing. Eventually, when it does, I ease back and glance around for something to clean up the mess. But there’s nothing—not a mop, not a cloth. Unless I use one of Adora’s dresses.
I consider it for two seconds, imagining her expression. Which brings a wry smile to my face. Hmm. Probably not.
I’ve only been here three days, but I already know enough to hope Breck’s in a gracious mood today.
I leave the mess and walk to the mirror. Just as I’m about to pull my shirt on, I catch the reflection of my bandaged left arm. Thin. Trembling. The tattooed memorials like an unforgiving trellis of scars, travelling up my shoulder and dipping down beneath the side of my breastcloth all the way to my stomach. The hideous focal point was made in my awkward six-year-old hand. An inked-in cross for the two parents who’d died before realizing the extent of the curse they’d birthed.
I look away and yank the tunic on, hating the fact that no matter how much penance I create, I can never blot out the shame.
Breck’s knock on the door comes just as I’ve finished plaiting my hair into its thick braid with pebbles and shells. She doesn’t bother to wait for a response—just walks in with tea and porridge as I bend down to tie the straps on my soft boots.
She coughs. Then she sniffs and crinkles her round face. “Gimpy hulls! What in Faelen’s name did you do in ’ere? You try startin’ a fire again? How many times I gotta tell you not to mess with stuff you ain’t good at? An’ what the kracken is that smell?” She drops the breakfast tray onto the table and hustles to the hearth, where she pauses. And sniffs again. This time her expression goes cautious. “Did you . . . vomit?”
I cringe apologetically. “Last night’s dinner didn’t sit well. I swear I’ll grab a bucket and clean it later.”
“You ever ’ear of usin’ a squatty pot, or are you too much an idiot for common sense?”
“I’m sorry. I promise I’ll clean it later,” I murmur loud enough so she’ll hear me. And so she’ll know I’m leaving.
Three days in Adora’s house and I’ve got the hang of the passageways. I’m outside within four minutes and gulping in the purple-dawn air, hoping it’ll soothe the ache inside my chest. Clouds are curling in from the ocean as fast as the sun is cresting the snowcapped Hythra peaks. I slow my stroll to watch the glow materialize on the path and try to ignore the scavenger birds circling the charred, still-smoking mountainside. When the sunbeams hit the trees nearest me, it sends their quivering dew droplets into the pond below. I pause. Narrow my gaze. The ripples have disturbed a school of fish the size of my arm. No.
She doesn’t . . .
But yes. She does. The illegal, silver-finned piranhas immediately bob to the surface in a lather—excited by my shadow and the scent of the wounds on my arms.
I look up at the frog-lady’s window and wonder what in litches her obsession with flesh-eating animals is. Is she really that disturbed? A chill flits across my skin, and I’m suddenly grateful for the growing humidity. I’m also abruptly aware that the frog-queen is standing right where I’m staring, watching me beneath today’s apparent choice of flaming-orange hair matched by a carrot-colored suit.
Her gaze meets mine and doesn’t waver.
What do you do up there all day? If Breck’s assertions are true, Adora doesn’t even sleep—she just sits in her study eating glass, smooching men, and orchestrating war plans for the king.