Текст книги "Of Beast and Beauty "

Автор книги: Stacey Jay

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why do you want me, Isra?”

“I—I need your help. And your father promised you would—”

“Don’t be stupid. You know what I mean.” His hands skim over my

body, one teasing the skin at the back of my neck, the other tracing the

column of my spine from top to bottom before smoothing around to my hip

and squeezing tight, fingers digging in until my belly flutters.

I shiver, and I know he knows the reason why. My lips part and my

breath rushes out, but I don’t scramble away. I close my eyes and count

slowly to ten and try to remember how hurt I was when he compared me

to all the other knots he has untangled.

But it’s so hard. Because he’s right. I do want him. I wanted him

before, and I want him even more now. I want to banish the ugliness

between us with my lips on his. I want to kiss him until his blood runs fast

and he whispers my name in his thick, needy voice instead of his tight,

angry one.

Words only bring pain; we should use hands instead. I lift my hand to

his face, smoothing my thumb across the hint of whiskers on his cheek.

“Answer me,” he whispers, fingers slipping into my hair.

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not an answer.” His jaw muscle leaps beneath my fingers.

“Why? Because I’m here, and we’re alone? You’d have done the same with

any boy?”

“No, it’s not …” I lick my lips, torn between the painful truth and a

painful lie. I decide on the truth. At least there’s nobility in that. “I’ve never

felt like this,” I confess. “I’ve never kissed anyone the way I kissed you. No

one has ever … touched me like that.”

“Why not?” he asks, his voice only the tiniest bit kinder. “I can’t

believe there aren’t Smooth Skin boys who would tolerate your ugliness in

order to have the queen in their bed. Your king will have power. That’s the

Smooth Skin way, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I say, blushing in spite of myself at his casual mention of my

bed. “And there has been some … interest. Bo kissed me once, more than

once, I guess.” I twine my arms around Gem’s neck, unable to resist the

temptation of his skin. “But he didn’t make me feel anything like this.” I try

to move my lips to Gem’s, but he turns away, and my mouth bounces off

his jaw.

“Why is that? Why do you believe you desire me more than you

desire one of your own kind?”

I swallow. “I …” I’m suddenly sure what he’s after, and just as sure I

don’t want to give him his answer. “I don’t know.”

“Tell me,” he demands. “I want to hear you say it.”

I shake my head.

“Is it because you’re tainted?” he asks, his tone so sharp, I wince.

“Because you’re ugly on the outside and wicked on the inside? That’s why

you’re drawn to a monster?”

I don’t say a word. I don’t have to.

He makes a disgusted sound. “I feel sorry for you, Isra. I really do.”

I draw my arms back to my chest and slide from his lap, feeling dirty

and small and more wrong than ever before.

“You make yourself miserable,” Gem says, “and refuse to let anyone

keep you from it. I’m a fool, but you are … I don’t have a Smooth Skin word

for what you are.”

I cross my arms and fight the urge to cry. “What about you, Gem?

Why do you want me? I thought Smooth Skins sickened you.”

He’s quiet for so long that I don’t think he’s going to answer, but

finally—“I told you, I’m a fool.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He grunts and falls silent again. After listening to the wood pop in the

fire and the wind howl beyond our shelter for what seems like hours, I

decide to consider his unwillingness to answer a small victory. Ignoring the

tears still pressing against the backs of my eyes and the filthy feeling I know

no bath could wash away, I lie down and close my eyes. My body needs the

rest, even if sleep seems impossible.

Seems impossible, but obviously it isn’t. I’m halfway there by the

time Gem lies down behind me and tucks one heavy arm around my waist,

fitting his front to my back with such gentleness that I don’t startle from my

near sleep as much as drift to the surface of myself like a bubble.

“When I thought you were dying …” His arm tightens, pulling me

closer. “I would have done anything to keep you with me,” he whispers into

my hair. “Anything.”

I put my hand over his and leave it there in silent acceptance of his

not quite apology. No matter how much his words hurt tonight, I don’t

want to fight. I need him too much. And he needs me. There will be no

garden for my people, or food for his, if we’re at each other’s throats.

And what he just said leaves little doubt that he cares for me. No

matter how misguided he thinks I am, he cares. He really does.

The thought is thrilling.

And petrifying.

I will be married very soon, and Bo will come to my bed, and he will

give me royal babies and they will become kings or, if they’re unlucky,

queens, and I won’t live to see them fully grown. That is my future. It is

inescapable.

It makes me want to push Gem away and curl up in a tight, lonely

ball.

It makes me want to turn in his arms and shed my two pairs of

overalls and peel off my long underwear and reveal everything to him, do

everything a man and a woman can do—no matter how the thought

terrifies me—because I’m more terrified I’ll never have this chance again.

But in the end, I’m a coward.

Leaping blindly from a balcony ledge or walking out into the desert is

nothing compared to this. I can’t afford to be any more haunted than I am

already, and a night with Gem would haunt me, I have no doubt.

THIRTEEN

BO

A dead snake. It’s only a dead snake—mangled skin and a bit of dried

entrails dropped by a bird as it flew over the city—now stuck to the glass.

That’s all. No crack in the dome, no danger, no sign that the covenant is

weakening. Just a festering dead thing that will be washed away if the rains

ever come again.

I give the signal that I’ve finished my examination, and Father

personally reels me back in from my great height above the city. But even

when my feet touch down on the stones atop the tallest building in Yuan,

I’m still floating inside.

Isra is safe. For now. And now is all I want to think about.

“It’s nothing. Just a snake skin,” I pant as the other men unhitch me

from the wire. “Some guts on the dome. Nothing to worry about.”

Relieved laughter erupts as the tension that has followed everyone

attending to the inspection evaporates. Lok slaps me on the back, Nan

clasps my hand for a hard shake, and Ru has the nerve to ruffle my hair like

I’m still a boy, but I don’t care, because Isra’s blood is staying in her body,

and I’m even more thankful than I imagined I’d be.

I can’t wait to tell her, to feel her arms around me when she thanks

me for handling the investigation personally—and so quickly, too. I am the

one who ordered that the crews setting up the rope-and-pulley system

work day and night, allowing my inspection to take place a full day and a

half early. She will be elated. She’ll certainly want more than a kiss on the

cheek tonight, and I will most gladly oblige her. I will kiss her until she

trembles in my arms and begs me to stay and warm her lonely tower bed.

“Are you certain there was no sign of weakness?” Father asks, pulling

me from my thoughts.

He’s the only man on the roof not smiling. Beneath his oiled

mustache, his cheeks droop solemnly on either side of his mouth; his eyes

are as troubled as they were hours ago when he reminded me of my duty

to report whatever I found, regardless of how frightening it might be for

our people.

“There was nothing.” I hold his gaze as I work the buckles on my

harness. “It was a dead snake. There wasn’t a nick in the glass. I swear it.

The covenant is still strong.”

“That’s wonderful news,” he says, before adding beneath his breath

in a voice too soft for the men beginning to dismantle the pulley system on

the other side of the roof to hear, “But even if the dome were weakening, it

wouldn’t change your destiny. You will be king. She has to live only long

enough to speak her vows.”

My fingers grow clumsy. I drop my eyes to the buckles. “I don’t wish

the death of my queen.”

“Of course not,” he says. “None of us do. She’s a dear girl.”

He says “dear girl” the same way he’d say “unfortunate accident,”

and for the first time I wonder if my father hasn’t grown too powerful. I

don’t like seeing him eager to spill royal blood. It feels wrong for him to

speak casually about the sacrifice Isra will make.

“She is,” I say, choosing my next words carefully. I need Father to

understand that I have no desire to hasten the moment of Isra’s death.

“I’ve come to care for her. I look forward to our marriage and wish her as

much life as possible. I know the day I lose her to the garden will be one of

the darkest of my life.”

Father smiles and clasps my shoulder in a rare display of affection.

“You sound like a king already.”

“Thank you.” I duck my head as I step out of the harness, grateful for

the excuse to cross the roof and tuck the gear back into the box Nan holds

open. I can’t look my father in the eye right now. If I do, I’ll see proof that

he thinks I’m lying.

Worse, he’ll see proof that I’m not.

Baba has known Isra longer and more intimately than anyone else

except the late king, but there is clearly no love in his heart for her. Maybe

he knows something I do not, and Isra is a burden I’ll have to bear until the

day of her death. I admit there have been times when I’ve worried about

the state of her mind, like when I discovered her slippers in the mud

outside the beast’s window two nights past. Her maid explained the

slippers easily enough—Needle dropped them on her way to get them

resoled—but there’s no explanation for Isra’s other odd behavior

except … eccentricity. Maybe it’s harmless eccentricity, or maybe, as my

father clearly fears, it’s the precursor to her mother’s madness.

I’m not sure which of us is right. I only know I can’t wait to give Isra

the good news.

With a bow to my father, I step into the gondola and lower myself

down the side of the building, the seventy-meter drop not nearly as

intimidating after dangling three hundred meters in the air to inspect the

dome. I reach the street to find a crowd gathered by the baker’s shop.

Worried eyes meet mine, and I smile, but I don’t stop to assure the people

that all is well. Isra’s subjects will hear the good news from their queen,

who deserves to know before anyone else that the danger has passed.

I hurry through the cobblestone streets—past the towering buildings

where the poorest citizens live with their children crowded five and six to a

room, past the squatter, more decorative buildings where the skilled

workers and their families live and run their shops, past the soldiers’

barracks, and onto the path leading through the royal garden. I’ve been

avoiding this route through the city the past two days, but this evening the

roses hold no terror for me. They’re beautiful in the fading pink light, and I

find myself lingering near the oldest blooms.

I can feel the spirits of the former queens of Yuan here. One day I

hope I will feel Isra’s spirit even more intimately.

Possessed by the notion, I drop to one knee in front of the giant

blooms. “I will take good care of her,” I swear, imagining that the dead

queens can hear my promise. “And when she’s gone, I will visit her here

every day for the rest of my life.”

I smile. Father’s right; I do sound like a king.

Drunk on promises, I rise shakily to my feet, dizzied by how close I am

to being the most powerful man in Yuan. By the time I reach the door to

Isra’s tower, I’m certain tonight is the night. I’ll assure her that death is

nowhere in her near future and then make my offer for her hand. Father

said he wanted to discuss the betrothal without the potential husband

present—as is the custom when negotiating a royal marriage—but I want

Isra to remember the moment we decided to marry as something between

the two of us.

So I wait until her maid leaves the tower to collect the dinner tray

she has fetched for the queen since Isra requested her privacy. Then I

dismiss the guards at the door, retrieve the key from its hiding place behind

the loose stone, and let myself in.

“Isra?” I climb the stairs swiftly, not bothering to keep my steps soft. I

don’t want to surprise her. I’m sure she’s been worried. A shock is the last

thing she needs. “Isra, it’s Bo!” I call again, louder than before, but still no

answer comes from the rooms above.

She must be out on the balcony. She seems to favor it there, though

she can’t see the impressive view of the city spread out before her … yet.

But by next week, or the following, for certain …

Returning her sight. Just another thing my queen will love me for.

With a smile, I push through the door to her apartments, pass her

empty sitting room, leaving the door to her private chamber closed—I

doubt she’s asleep at this hour—and make my way to her music room.

From the door, I can see that the balcony on the far side of the room is

empty.

The bedroom it is, then, I think, secretly pleased to have an excuse to

be alone with Isra in a room with a bed. I turn back down the hall and knock

softly on her door. “Isra? Are you awake?”

Silence, but for the soft tick of a clock in the music room.

“Isra? It’s Bo. I have wonderful news.”

More silence, silence so complete that it’s hard to believe she’s

breathing in the room beyond. But she has to be in there. She isn’t in any of

the other rooms, and she hasn’t left the tower since I walked her here two

days ago. The guards outside would have alerted me immediately. I gave

strict orders.

“Isra? Are you well?” I ask, growing concerned. “Isra?”

More silence. My stomach shrivels. What if she’s ill? What if she’s

suffering in the absence of the poison the way the wine lovers suffer when

our stores run dry? What if I’ve put her health in danger?

“Isra!” I pound on the door with my fist. “Answer me, or I’m coming

in!” I wait a long moment, giving her one last chance to call out, before I

turn the handle.

The heavy wood hits the wall behind with a thud that echoes in the

empty room. In the center, Isra’s bed is neatly made, the quilt tucked

tightly at the edges. In the corner, the maid’s narrow cot is also made, but

the mattress shows signs that it held a body not too long ago—dips and

depressions, a sagging place on one side where she sat as she put on her

shoes. Isra’s mattress, however …

I cross the room to stare down at it. Perfectly smooth. Not a dent or

a shadow. Either Needle shakes the mattress out and reshapes it every

morning, or Isra hasn’t slept here recently.

And if she didn’t sleep in her bed last night … where did she sleep?

And with whom?

“That lying … little …,” I murmur through clenched teeth.

My hands ball into fists, and it’s all I can do to keep from punching

the wall near her headboard. Isra’s been using me to cover her

indiscretions. She could be with another man right now, conceiving a

bastard to bear after we marry.

I will not raise another man’s bastard. I will not.

She’d better pray there’s another explanation, I think as I slam the

door to her bedroom behind me. If Isra loses my affection, she will have

very few friends in this city.

And a queen without friends will find herself a dead queen sooner

than later.

FOURTEEN

GEM

I woke before the sun, driven by the need to put an end to our

adventure as soon as possible. After adding fuel to the fire and waking Isra

long enough to assure her that I’d be back before the flames went out, I

hurried up the mountain to fetch the bulbs we’d come for. I couldn’t risk

telling her the truth about the garden.

No matter what happened between us last night, I still need an

excuse to leave my cell. Come spring, I must steal the royal roses and return

to my people.

Still, I didn’t like leaving her alone, even for a short time. I walked as

quickly as my sore legs would carry me and was back by her side by the

time the first pink light kissed the desert.

This time, she was where I had left her, curled in a ball on the

ground, her sweater-covered hands pressed against her lips. I watched her

sleep as I tied the gnarled roots of the bulbs together with strips of dried

grass, dreading the moment she’d open her eyes.

The only thing worse than hating Isra is … whatever this is.

Wanting her, wanting her to realize what a fool she is. Wanting all

this to be over.

I want to go home. I want to be back with people I know, in a world I

understand. I’m sick to death of this upside-down place, where I crave the

touch of a girl who holds me prisoner, and every other word I speak is a lie.

Half the time I can’t even tell who I’m lying to. Her or myself.

I spend the day angry. At myself. At Isra. At the bulbs she insisted on

fondling and sniffing before we headed down the mountain, at the rocks on

the trail, at the sun and the wind and the dirt in my Smooth Skin shoes and

the needles on every cactus where we stop to drink.

I am in a foul mood, made fouler by trying to hide it from Isra. The

walk back to the dome has been torture. A part of me is eager to be back in

my cell. At least there Isra can’t cling to my arm, or brush her body against

mine, or sigh through her parted lips, or tilt her face up with that look in

her eyes. The one that makes me want to strangle her. And kiss her. And

strangle her some more. And maybe leap off a cliff after the strangling is

done, just to put myself out of my misery.

“It won’t be long now,” Isra says, shielding her face from the setting

sun with one narrow hand. “I can smell it.”

“Smell what?”

“The dome. I never realized it had a smell,” she says, wrinkling her

nose. “Like metal when it’s cold. And sour nutshells. Mixed together.”

I grunt in response.

“What do you think it smells like?” she asks.

“We’ll be close enough for the guards to catch sight of us soon,” I

say, ignoring her question. I’m not in the mood to play her blind-girl games.

Not everything has a smell, and if the dome had a smell, it would smell like

death. Slow, creeping, unmerciful death. “We should stop here. Wait for it

to get dark. There’s a mound of rocks just ahead. It should conceal us from

anyone using a spyglass.”

I don’t tell her that my people gathered those rocks, that we piled

them high enough to hide a scouting party of two or three. I don’t tell her

that I came here on my first scouting mission when I was fourteen and

stood behind the rocks, seething hatred for the dome that festers like a boil

on the horizon.

It’s strange, to stand now in this place where my younger self vowed

to destroy my enemy at all costs, with a Smooth Skin queen clinging to my

arm. I once thought I knew everything I ever wanted to know about the

Smooth Skins. Now … I know nothing. With every passing day, I grow more

and more ignorant. If I keep it up, by the time I return to my people, I’ll be

as rattled in the head as the queen of Yuan.

“Gem?” She tugs lightly at my sleeve. “Gem?”

“Yes?”

She leans closer, hugging my arm to her chest, making me aware of

her, no matter how much I wish I weren’t. I want to push her away. I want

to pull her closer. I want to punch the pile of rocks until my knuckles bleed.

The pain would be a welcome distraction.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” I snap, then force myself to ask in a gentler voice, “How’s

your head?”

She tilts her head to one side and then the other, stretching the long

column of her neck. “It still hurts,” she says. “I’ve never had a headache like

this before. I don’t know. Maybe I just need something to eat.”

“Soon.” I stare hard at the horizon, willing the sun to sink faster.

“You’ll be back in your rooms not long after dark.”

She sighs, a mournful, defeated rush of breath, as if she is the one on

her way to a cell. “I’ll miss this.”

“The desert?”

“Well … yes,” she says, sounding surprised. “I will. The wind

especially, even though it’s cold. But …” Her fingers curl into my arm. “I

didn’t mean the desert. I meant … I’ll miss being familiar. Being able

to … touch.”

It’s the first either of us has said about that sort of thing all day. The

closer we get to the dome, the more those moments by the fire seem like a

fever dream. I can’t believe I tasted her, touched her; that I thought I could

reach her with my words. That the real Isra and the real Gem might find a

way to be allies. Maybe more than allies.

But Isra isn’t real. She’s a Smooth Skin. She was raised in an artificial

world built on lies, bought and paid for with the lives of my people. The fact

that I could forget that for even a moment proves how dangerously close I

am to losing my mind. My purpose. My self. If only my father had left Gare

instead. Gare would have already found a way to bring the roses home to

our people. He would never have let his heart soften toward a Smooth Skin.

He would never have loosened his grip on hate.

“Gem?” Isra tips her face up to mine. The dying light catches her eyes

and shrinks her pupils to specks of black, leaving nothing but green so

bright, I can’t stop staring. “What are you thinking?”

“Nothing.”

“Liar,” she whispers, pinching my arm through my shirt. “It’s

impossible to think nothing. Even when you’re asleep, you’re thinking

something.”

I grunt.

“It’s true.” She closes her eyes, soaking in the last of the sun’s fading

warmth. “How else would we dream?”

“My people believe some dreams come from the spirit world,” I say.

“That they’re messages from the ancestors.”

“Hm.” Her eyes slit and her brow wrinkles. “I hope they’re wrong.”

“Why? Are your ancestors unhappy with you? Sending you bad

dreams?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. I have this same dream …” A strong breeze

ruffles her hair, and she huddles closer to my side. When she speaks again, I

have to strain to hear her over the howling of the wind. “I dream about the

night the tower burned. Over and over again. My mother died that night.

My father and I would have died, too, if the guards hadn’t reached us in

time.”

For the first time since I awoke this morning, the tight, angry knot in

my belly loosens. Fire is a terrible way to lose a life. And four years old is

too young to lose a mother.

I place my hand on hers, warming her fingers. “That doesn’t sound

like a dream from your ancestors.”

“No?” The muscles tighten in her jaw. “Maybe it is. Maybe the dream

is my punishment.”

“For what? Did you set the fire?”

“No,” she says, voice breaking.

“Then stop blaming yourself. You were a child,” I say roughly. She

seems determined to take on unnecessary pain. It’s incredible. Wasteful. It

makes me angry at Isra on Isra’s behalf, which is just … confusing. “Your

ancestors wouldn’t send a dream to torture you while you sleep,” I explain,

trying to be patient. “Not without a reason.”

“That’s good to know.” She squints and rubs her fingers in a circle at

her temple. Her head has been aching on and off all day. At one point, we

had to sit down and rest until the pain passed. It’s best we’re nearing the

dome. Isra isn’t made for the desert, no matter how much she enjoys the

wind. “I had a strange dream last night. At least I think it was a dream,” she

continues. “Before you found me on the trail, I dreamed of the fire again,

but this time there was a face in one of the burning beams.”

“Whose face?”

“I don’t know. A woman. I don’t think I’ve met her, but her face was

made out of flames, so … hard to tell.” She lifts her hand, tracing an image

in the empty air in front of her again and again. Her fingers are graceful,

and I suddenly wish I could see her dance the way my women dance

around the fire on the night of the full moons.

“Did the woman say anything to you?” I push images of Isra—dressed

in the clothes of my people, her long legs free to kick and leap—from my

mind.

“She opened and closed her mouth, like she was trying to speak,”

Isra says. “But I couldn’t hear her over the fire.”

I make a considering sound. “That could have been an ancestor

dream.”

She turns back to me, abandoning her air drawing. “You think the

woman was one of my ancestors?”

“She could be.” I shrug. “Maybe a grandmother. Or

great-grandmother, since you don’t recognize her face.”

“I never met my grandmother, either,” Isra says. “She died before I

was born.”

“Maybe your grandmother, then. She could be trying to tell you

something.”

“Telling me not to play with fire,” she says, with a ragged laugh.

“Do you have a habit of playing with fire?”

Her lips lift on one side. “I suppose,” she says, voice husky. “In a

manner of speaking.”

A memory from last night—Isra’s bare throat golden in the firelight,

my mouth on her skin, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips—flickers

through my mind, making it hard to swallow.

“Maybe that’s it,” I say. “You should listen closer if you dream that

dream again.”

“I will,” she says. “Thank you.”

I grunt. I did nothing worth thanking me for, and I resent her casual

gratitude. If she’s really thankful, then she should send food to my people

the instant we return to the city. She should set me free and tell her advisor

and her people to eat their protests. Set me free and … come with me. Let

me show her that my people aren’t animals, let my people see that the

queen of Yuan has a heart and a soul and a wish to make things better.

And then we can make love in my hut and fly into the sky to slay the

Summer Star together on the back of a golden dragon.

I grunt again. Fantasy creatures will fly through the air before the

peace I’m imagining comes to pass.

“What does that one mean?” she asks, tapping my chest with one

long finger. “I haven’t placed that grunt. It’s not the disgusted-with-me

grunt,

or

the

preparing-to-say-something-mean

grunt,

or

the

trying-not-to-smile grunt.”

A smile splits my face before I can stop it. I grunt, and she laughs a

laugh like stones skittering down a mountainside, wild and reckless.

“That’s the one,” she says, still laughing. “I like that one. It’s my

favorite.”

“I like your laugh. You don’t laugh in there.”

“You’ll miss the laugh, but not the touching?” Her smile fades.

“That’s what we were talking about. I remember, you know. I never forget.”

Her lips part, begging for a kiss for the tenth or hundredth or thousandth

time today.

By the ancestors, I should just give up fighting myself and kiss her. I

want to kiss her. I’m dying to kiss her. A part of me even says that my

promise to my people compels me to kiss her.

Assuming she keeps her promise to send food, playing at being Isra’s

friend has gotten me closer to helping my people than I could have

imagined possible. Who knows what I could accomplish as her lover? If I

keep her happy, she might even give me the roses of her own free will.

Seduction wouldn’t be difficult. Despite the voices in her head that assure

her I’m a monster, and assure her that she is something worse for wanting

my hands on her, I know Isra wants me. I should manipulate her desire, and

forget about the rest. Who cares what she thinks or feels beyond the lust

that makes her press her body close to mine? Who cares what I feel beyond

the satisfaction of serving my people and the pleasure of being with a

woman for the first time in too many months?

But the thought of that kind of deception turns my stomach. I won’t

use or be used in that way, not unless I have no other choice.

“Forget I said anything,” Isra says. A nervous shake of her head sends

her hair tumbling over her shoulders. She tips her chin down, casting her

face in shadow. “You’re right.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” she says in a pained whisper, and her pain pains me, too.

More evidence of my weakness.

“The sun is down.” I take her hand and tuck it efficiently into the

crook of my arm, hoping to spare us both any more of this … whatever it is.

“We should go.”

“Wait.” She stops, holding tightly to my arm. “I have to—I want to

tell you I’m sorry for what I said last night. I’ve been thinking about it all

day, and I … I wasn’t ready for questions about what I thought. Or felt. I

know it’s best for both of us if we—”

“We should go.”

She sighs. “You’ve made me think. When we get back to the city, I’m

going to be different.”

I grunt, but this time she doesn’t find it funny. Neither do I. “So you

said,” I say, unable to hide my doubt. I tug my arm, gently pulling her

forward.

“So I say,” she insists. “I know what I’ve been taught. Now I want to

know the truth. I realized years ago the two aren’t always the same, but

I’ve never had the courage to say a word to anyone else. But I won’t remain

silent anymore. I’m going to ask questions. I’m going to pay attention. I’m

not going to take for granted that Junjie’s opinions or anyone else’s

opinions are fact until I find proof for myself. I don’t care if there is … They

can’t …” She takes a shaky breath, and her fingers tighten around my arm.

“They can’t force me to make decisions before I’m ready. I’ll find a way to

convince them that I’m good for the city, and that the changes I want to

make are in the best interests of all our people.”

“All right.” I fight the urge to reach out to her again, to try to make

her understand the truth about Yuan and the desperate situation of my

people. But I can’t. I don’t trust her. Not yet. But maybe … if she means

what she says … “I’m interested to see this new Isra.”

She smiles. “Me too. And I …” Her smile grows bigger as she turns to

me. “Would you come to the rose garden? With me? Tonight?”

“Tonight?” I ask as I move around the stones.

“Yes.” She nods and falls into step beside me. “I don’t want to wait.

Will you?”

Yes! I want to shout, Yes!—finally, a chance to learn more about the

magic that will save my people—but instead I force myself to wait several

long moments before offering a careful, “Why do you want to go there?”

I can’t let Isra know how interested I am in her magic roses. There are

already guards stomping through the gardens all hours of the day and

night. If she adds additional patrols, my odds of escaping with a plant will

go from not likely to impossible.

“I want to see you again,” she says shyly. “If … that’s all right.”

I ignore the way my chest tightens. “Will there be time?” I ask, not

certain how long the magic takes. “The guards come through the royal

garden every ten to fifteen minutes.”

She hums beneath her breath. “That could be enough time. Or not. It