“If there were time to rest, I would have let you bury your friends,” he replied, his voice neither cold nor warm. A rush of sorrow stole my breath as I thought of Yuliya lying in her infirmary bed, stiff and silent awaiting her plot in the ground.
The prince’s gaze moved past me without meeting my eyes and fastened on the troika. “There’s a little food here if you’re hungry.” He handed me the satchel and walked around me to the sleigh.
I followed him. “That’s very kind of whoever lives here.” I bit my lip. “Do you know them?”
His shoulders broadened as he inhaled a large breath. “I thought it wiser to stop here and pass the village entirely. I”—he cleared his throat—“might be recognized, and that would only slow us down.”
He stepped into the sleigh. The length of his breeched legs made the maneuver seem easy. This time I didn’t shun him when he offered his hand. He pulled me up with a strength that made me feel light and hollow like a nesting doll. But that delicate feeling vanished when the toe of my boot caught the lip of the sleigh. I yelped as my nose collided with the prince’s chest. Apparently there was no hope of me entering a troika gracefully.
“Excuse me,” I mumbled, my cheeks burning as I peeled away.
A bit of color also flushed his neck. He’d likely never been accosted in such a manner. Once more, his eyes fell to my nose, rather than holding my gaze. I began to wonder if I had some unknown deformity.
“You’re bleeding,” he observed.
I touched my nose, and a trickle of warmth slipped down to my mouth. “Oh.”
“Here.” He reached into his breast pocket and retrieved a handkerchief. As he passed it, something fluttered to the ground. The folded piece of paper.
Blood forgotten, I ducked to fetch it just as he did. The paper fell open. Rows of cramped handwriting filled every space. The only words I made out before Anton snatched the paper away were midnight and Morva’s Eve.
He stood abruptly. His cape rustled as he tucked the letter back inside. I remained kneeling and stared at the scratched floor of the sleigh while I chastised myself for my boldness. How would I excuse myself? After a moment, I settled for, “I’m sorry I caused you to drop that.” Awkwardly rising to my feet, I pressed the handkerchief to my chin, where my blood now dribbled.
The flush on Anton’s neck darkened to an angrier shade. Fire blazed along my nerves, but I tamped it down. It didn’t belong to me. I had nothing to be incensed about.
His jaw muscle taut, he sat on the bench of the sleigh and took up the reins. As he was about to snap his wrists and rouse the horses, his brow twitched. He glanced down at the mossy-green blanket beneath him, as if just remembering he’d last put it somewhere else.
I sat beside him. “Was that your mother’s?”
His eyes jerked to mine, smoldering like coals.
“Did she have it on her when she died?” I pinched my lips closed as soon as I’d asked the question. The answer was yes. The peaking fury rolling off of him confirmed it. Perhaps now wasn’t the time to bring up what I’d felt when I touched the embroidered threads. I’d meant to say something to curb his frustration, but I’d only made it worse.
His brows drew together in a flat, unflinching line. “Do you wish to discuss the death of your friend?”
I shook my head and instinctively reached for the black ribbon on my wrist.
“Then do not speak to me—ever again—about my mother.”
“I was only—”
“Ever. Again.”
I swallowed and nodded. My hands flexed as I fought to contain his rage that made my legs shake, my heart pound, my pulse flood my ears.
He blinked, checking himself. My breath came easier. He must be fighting to dam his emotions.
“You should eat something, then rest,” he said, and looked down at the handkerchief I held to my nose. Did he realize the difficulty I’d have in eating right now? “I hope to make it as far as Isker by nightfall. It would be better for us both if you went back to sleep.”
“I’m not tired.”
“I don’t care.”
I crossed my arms over my chest. “Perhaps if we cannot talk of your mother, we can discuss what will happen at midnight on Morva’s Eve.” Feya help me, I couldn’t restrain myself. How was it possible when I felt exactly what he felt about me? His contempt for my impetuousness kept making that self-same trait multiply like a magician’s trick.
His eyes flashed, ready to strike me with lightning. He parted his lips, then clamped them shut again as he deliberated how to answer—how to deal with me.
My body trembled all over, completely at a loss of control. Half of me inwardly begged him to calm himself—calm me; the other half welcomed his rage and how far he could push my limits.
A mad twist of a grin pulled at his lips. “Is this me, Sonya?” He gestured to my coiled tight arms, my clenched fists. “Are you nothing more than my reflection?”