“You can’t be serious.”
Her stepmother and stepsister were quaking with fear and staring up at her with wide eyes. Cinder couldn’t begin to imagine why they were here—what Levana wanted with them.
Then it hit her.
She would be stuck here, with them, until her execution.
She dragged a hand down her face, hating Levana so very, very much.
Forty-Three
In Winter’s dream, she was standing in the kitchen of a little farmhouse on Earth, or what her imagination thought a farmhouse on Earth must be like. She knew it was Scarlet’s home, though she’d never been there. She stood at a sink overflowing with dirty dishes. It was vital that she get them all clean before everyone came home, but every time she lifted a plate from the suds it shattered in her hands. Her fingers were bleeding from all the shards, turning the bubbles red.
When the seventh plate cracked in her hands, she stepped back from the sink with an overwhelming sense of failure. Why could she never do anything right? Even this simple task turned to disaster at her touch.
She fell to her knees and began to weep. The blood and soap puddled in her lap.
A shadow fell across her and she looked up. Her stepmother stood in the doorway, acres of fields and Earth’s blue, blue sky laid out behind her. She was holding a bejeweled comb in her hand, and though she was beautiful, her smile was cruel.
“They love you,” said Levana, as if they’d been in the middle of a conversation. She came into the kitchen. The hem of her regal gown trailed through the soapy water on the floor. “They protect you. And what have you ever done to deserve that?”
“They love me,” Winter agreed, though she wasn’t sure who they were talking about. The people of Luna? Cinder and her allies? Jacin?
“And they will all pay the price for their adoration.” Coming around behind her, Levana began brushing the comb through Winter’s curls. The touch was gentle. Motherly, even. Winter wanted to weep with longing—how she had yearned for a mother’s touch—but there was fear in her too. Levana had never been so kind. “They will come to know all your weaknesses. They will learn how flawed you truly are. Then they will see how you never deserved any of this.”
A sharp pain stitched into her skull as one of the comb’s tines dug into Winter’s scalp. She gasped. Her head started to throb.
A growl drew her attention back to the door. Ryu was standing with his paws spread in defense, his teeth bared.
Levana stopped brushing. “And what do you care? She betrayed you too. She allowed that guard to sacrifice your life for hers. You cannot ignore her selfishness.”
Ryu prowled closer. His yellow eyes flashed.
Levana dropped the comb and stepped back. “You are an animal. A killer. A predator. What do you know of loyalty or love?”
Ryu hushed and lowered his head as if chastised. Winter’s heart opened to him. She could tell he missed her. He wanted to play fetch, not be berated by the queen’s cruel words.
Winter raised her hand to her stinging scalp. Her hair was damp. She looked down at the fallen comb and saw that the pool of dishwater had become thick with blood.
“You are wrong,” she said, turning her face up to the queen. “You are the killer. You are the predator. You know nothing of loyalty or love.” She held her hand out to Ryu, who sniffed it, before settling his warm head down on her knee. “We may be animals, but we will never again live in your cage.”
*
When she opened her eyes, the farmhouse was gone, replaced with shabby walls and furniture and window curtains covered in regolith dust. Her eyelids flickered as she tried to ward off the heavy drowsiness and a throbbing headache. She could still smell the pool of blood, and her scalp still ached from where the comb had punctured it.
No, from where she had hit the corner of the table.
Someone had laid her out on the sofa. Her feet dangled off the edge.
“Hey, crazy.”
Winter pushed her hair out of her face and found a towel wrapped around her head. She looked up at Scarlet, who had brought a dining chair into the front room and was sitting on it backward with her arms settled on its back. She was wearing her hooded sweatshirt again. Most of the stains were gone but it still looked worn and ragged. So did she, actually. Her eyes were rimmed with red, her face blotchy and flushed. Her usual ferocity had dulled to bitter exhaustion.
“Iko told us what happened,” she said, her voice withered and cracked. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here, but I’m glad she was.”
Winter sat up. Iko sat cross-legged on the floor, picking at a thread of skin fiber that had been torn open in her chest. Thorne was standing with his back against the main door. He was wearing the partial uniform of a Lunar guard and she had to look twice to be sure it was him. She listened, but the house was otherwise silent.