Between Tides Thunder(52)

“It’s just—I mean, we have books in Tundrayn, but nothing like this. Can I bring some back to our room?”

Our room.

Something dangerously warm flashes behind his eyes, and he nods slowly, as if caught in a trance.

He leads me through the aisles, my hand tucked in the crook of his arm. I select a book of poetry, a romance novel that he teases me about with waggling brows until my cheeks flush, and a book about the history of Arbinj. Zev casts me a questioning glance as I grab the last one, but I just shrug. “I like to learn.”

We’re ready to leave, when Zev’s footsteps falter. I follow his gaze down a dusty aisle. “What?” I ask.

He swallows. “Nothing. I, uh, just remembered a book. My mother used to read it to me.”

“Show me,” I say softly, pulling him down the aisle. Tension lines his shoulders as he pulls a thick tome from a shelf above my head. Faerahzar the Great and Other Children’s Tales is embossed on the cover in worn letters. Zev runs a reverent finger over the title, as if hoping to brush against some fragment of his mother that time couldn’t erase. His finger comes back coated with dust. His throat bobs as he swallows hard.

My chest squeezes tight.

“Faerahzar? We call him Faerataak the Mighty,” I say lightly, nudging him with my elbow. “He was Tundrayni.”

Zev’s lips quirk. “Don’t say that to anyone else. You’ll get sucked into a two-hour-long debate about why he was definitely Arbinji. Or you’ll get stabbed.”

He goes to replace the book, but I snatch it from his hands. “I’d like to read it.”

Zev stills. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

My husband studies me, something like awe flickering in his gaze. The look sends a sharp ache through my chest—that he’d feel so deeply about me wanting to read a book from his childhood.

I clutch the heavy tome to my chest. “Can we see the Healing Chambers next?”

“Yeah.” Zev clears his throat. “Yeah, we call it an infirmary here.”


The infirmary is nothing like the Healing Chambers in Tundrayn. Cabinets line the walls, overflowing with salves and ointments and oils. A sharp scent lingers in the air, foreign and unpleasant. Zev tells me it’s antiseptic, an alcohol mixture used to prevent infection.

In Tundrayn, healers prevent infection.

“Sire,” greets a white-haired man dressed in simple dark trousers and a moss green shirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. He bows deeply. “To what do I owe this honor?”

“Sauzon,” Zev responds. “This is Princess Mayah.”

The lean man bows again, torchlight glinting off his spectacles.

There are a few patients asleep in cots, including the man I healed last night, but Zev ushers me out before I can study them too closely.

“Is the infirmary just for nobles?” I ask as we walk through the halls.

“It’s for everyone,” Zev replies.

A whisper of surprise flickers in my chest. I had to fight Father for years before he allowed nonwielders access to the palace’s Healing Chambers. Zev must see the shock on my face because he adds, “I wish I could take credit. It was largely Sauzon’s efforts and research.”

“Research?”

“He spent months documenting the effects of contagious illnesses in the capital. Convinced my father that it was in the best interest of wielders to allow the treatment of nonwielders.” My husband glances at me sideways, squeezing my hand.

There’s a bitter taste in my mouth after that.


We spend the rest of the day exploring the palace and its grounds.

Just before sunset, Zev brings me to the gardens.

His hand is warm in mine as we stroll between tall hedges and manicured shrubs, bursts of color blooming along the stone path. The waning sunlight casts long shadows across our feet. We pass beneath a canopy of leafy trees, slipping into a quiet, secluded area.

My breath catches.

A large blanket is spread over the green grass, its checkered pattern dappled by the golden glow of lanterns strung from nearby branches. A gentle hum—crickets, Zev tells me—fills the twilight air, and a light breeze carries a pleasant floral scent. At the center of the blanket rests a large bouquet—flowering blooms in yellows and pinks and blues. A wicker basket rests beside it, the lid slightly ajar.

Zev watches me with quiet intensity. His expression feels like a question. I offer a soft smile, and something in his shoulders loosens.

I lower myself onto the blanket, folding my legs beneath me. The fabric is warm from the lingering sunlight. Zev sits beside me without a word, his knee brushing mine. From the basket, he pulls out a delicious spread—slices of roasted meat wrapped in flatbread, small containers of stewed vegetables, and a wedge of cheese drizzled with honey.

We eat together in a silence that feels neither awkward nor strained. Just peaceful. Comfortable. Shared. His closeness, the solitude, the soft flicker of lantern light—it all settles around me like a warm blanket thrown over my shoulders.

“Thank you,” I say quietly. He knows I mean for the day together.

His smile is warm before it turns apologetic. I know I’m not going to like the words he utters next. “I won’t have as much time these next few days. There are movements with the Rebellion. And the hopeful alliance with Volca. I’ll be caught up in meetings.”