“Anywhere you like. Just be quiet so I don’t make a hideous mess of this poor boy.” She laughed at Wylan’s expression of terror. “I’m kidding. But do stay still. This is slow work, and you’ll need to be patient.”
She was right. The work was so slow that Jesper wasn’t sure anything was happening. Genya would place her fingertips beneath Wylan’s eyes or over his lids, then step back and examine what she’d done—which as far as Jesper could see was nothing. Then she’d reach for one of the glass cases or bottles, dab something on her fingertips, touch Wylan’s face again, step back. Jesper’s attention wandered. He circled the room, dipped his finger in the clay, regretted it, went searching for a towel. But when he looked at Wylan from a little more distance, he could see that something had changed.
“It’s working!” he exclaimed.
Genya cast him a cool glance. “Of course it is.”
Periodically, the Tailor would stop and stretch and give Wylan a mirror so that he could consult on what looked right or wrong. An hour later, Wylan’s irises had gone from gold to blue and the shape of his eyes had changed as well.
“His brow should be narrower,” Jesper said, peering over Genya’s shoulder. “Just a little bit. And his lashes were longer.”
“I didn’t know you were paying attention,” murmured Wylan.
Jesper grinned. “I was paying attention.”
“Oh good, he’s blushing,” said Genya. “Excellent for the circulation.”
“Do you train Fabrikators at the Little Palace?” asked Wylan.
Jesper scowled. Why did he have to go and start that?
“Of course. There’s a school on the palace grounds.”
“What if a student were older?” said Wylan, still pushing.
“A Grisha can be taught at any age,” said Genya. “Alina Starkov didn’t discover her power until she was seventeen years old, and she … she was one of the most powerful Grisha who ever lived.” Genya pushed at Wylan’s left nostril. “It’s easier when you’re younger, but so is everything. Children learn languages more easily. They learn mathematics more easily.”
“And they’re unafraid,” said Wylan quietly. “It’s other people who teach them their limits.” Wylan’s eyes met Jesper’s over Genya’s shoulder, and as if he was challenging both Jesper and himself, he said, “I can’t read.” His skin went instantly blotchy, but his voice was steady.
Genya shrugged and said, “That’s because no one took the time to teach you. Many of the peasants in Ravka can’t read.”
“Lots of people took the time to teach me. They tried plenty of strategies too. I’ve had every opportunity. But it’s something I can’t do.”
Jesper could see the anxiety in his face, what it cost him to speak those words. It made him feel like a coward.
“You seem to be getting along well enough,” said Genya. “Aside from your associations with street thugs and sharpshooters.”
Wylan lifted his brows, and Jesper knew he was daring him to speak up, but he remained silent. It’s not a gift. It’s a curse. He walked back to the window, suddenly finding himself deeply interested in the streets below. That’s what killed your mother, do you understand?
Genya alternated between working and having Wylan hold up the mirror to guide her through tweaks and changes. Jesper watched for a while, went upstairs to check on his father, fetched Genya some tea and Wylan a cup of coffee. When he returned to the clay room, he nearly dropped the mugs.
Wylan was sitting in the last of the afternoon light, the real Wylan, the boy he’d first seen in that tannery, the lost prince who had woken in the wrong story.
“Well?” Genya said.
Wylan fiddled nervously with the buttons on his shirt.
“That’s him,” said Jesper. “That’s our fresh-faced runaway merchling.”
Genya stretched and said, “Good, because if I have to spend another minute smelling that clay, I may go mad.” It was clear she was tired, but her face was glowing, her amber eye sparkled. This was the way Grisha looked when they used their power. “It would be best to revisit the work anew in the morning, but I have to get back to the embassy. And by tomorrow, well …” She shrugged.
By tomorrow the auction would be announced and everything would change.
Wylan thanked her and then kept on thanking her until she physically pushed them out the door so that she could go find Zoya.
Jesper and Wylan took the lift back up to the suite in silence. Jesper glanced into the master bedroom and saw his father asleep atop the covers, his chest reverberating with deep snores. A pile of papers was scattered on the bed next to him. Jesper tidied them into a stack—jurda prices, listings of farm acreage outside cities in Novyi Zem.
You don’t have to clean up after us, Da.
Someone does.
Back in the sitting room, Wylan was lighting the lamps. “Are you hungry?”
“Famished,” said Jesper. “But Da’s asleep. I’m not sure we’re allowed to ring for food.” He cocked his head to one side, peering at Wylan. “Did you have her make you better-looking?”
Wylan pinked. “Maybe you forgot how handsome I am.” Jesper raised a brow. “Okay, maybe a little.” He joined Jesper by the window looking out over the city. Dusk was falling and the streetlamps had bloomed in orderly formation along the edges of the canals. Patrols of stadwatch were visible, moving through the streets, and the Staves were alight with color and sound again. How long would they be safe here? Jesper wondered if the Kherguud were tracking Grisha through the city, seeking out the houses of their indentures. The Shu soldiers might be surrounding the embassy even now. Or maybe this hotel. Could they smell a Grisha fifteen stories up?
Periodically, they could see bursts of fireworks over the Staves. Jesper wasn’t surprised. He understood the Barrel. It was always hungry for more—money, mayhem, violence, lust. It was a glutton, and Pekka Rollins had offered up Kaz and the rest of the crew as a feast.
“I know what you were doing back there,” Jesper said. “You didn’t have to tell her you can’t read.”
Wylan took the miniature of himself from his pocket and propped it on the end table. Young Wylan’s serious blue eyes stared back at them.
“Do you know Kaz was the first person I ever told about … my condition?”
“Of all the people.”
“I know. It felt like I’d choke on the words. I was so afraid he’d sneer at me. Or just laugh. But he didn’t do any of that. Telling Kaz, facing my father, freed something in me. And every time I tell someone new, I feel freer.”
Jesper watched a browboat vanish beneath Zentsbridge. It was nearly empty. “I’m not ashamed of being Grisha.”
Wylan ran his thumb over the edge of the miniature. He wasn’t saying anything, but Jesper could tell he wanted to.
“Go ahead,” Jesper said. “Whatever you’re thinking, just say it.”
Wylan looked up at him. His eyes were the clear, unspoiled blue Jesper remembered—a high mountain lake, an endless Zemeni sky. Genya had done her work well. “I just don’t get it. I’ve spent my whole life hiding the things I can’t do. Why run from the amazing things you can do?”
Jesper gave an irritated shrug. He’d been mad at his father for almost exactly what Wylan was describing, but now he just felt defensive. These were his choices, right or wrong, and they were long since made. “I know who I am, what I’m good at, what I can and can’t do. I’m just … I’m what I am. A great shooter, a bad gambler. Why can’t that be enough?”
“For me? Or for you?”
“Don’t get philosophical on me, merchling.”
“Jes, I’ve thought about this—”
“Thought of me? Late at night? What was I wearing?”
“I’ve thought about your powers ,” Wylan said, cheeks flushing pinker. “Has it ever occurred to you that your Grisha ability might be part of the reason you’re such a good shot?”
“Wylan, you’re cute, but you’re a whole lot of crazy in one little glass.”