I was staring at him again, caught in a storm of disbelief. Almost pass as my twin? If that were true, how could I not have seen it? But the mask—the facial paint—was thick and large, making it difficult to even tell what her bone structure was like.
But he couldn’t be right. Somehow, he’d been misled. Tricked.
Leaning back, I shook my head. “This doesn’t make any sense. Revenants are the third sons and daughters. And if she were my sister, then that means I have two more siblings. And she would be a goddess.”
“I thought the same thing at first—that she had to be a goddess. But she said she wasn’t. The only thing I can figure is that she didn’t survive the Culling, and Isbeth used her knowledge of the Revenants to save her,” he told me.
A ragged laugh left me, and Casteel’s concern gathered in my throat, rich and thick like cream. “She can’t—if she’s my sister…” I trailed off, throat clogging as I remembered her desperation—the hopelessness that felt a lot like what I’d sensed from Ires as a child. I swallowed hard. “She said she saw me when I was a child. If what she says is true, why wouldn’t she have said something?”
“Maybe she couldn’t. I don’t know.” Casteel brushed a few strands of my hair back. “But she is your sister.”
Could this really be true? Had Ian known? I remembered her shock when he was killed. Her sorrow. There’d been no other children in that castle other than Ian and me when we were younger, but she had also said that she was nearly as old as Casteel.
A sister?
Good gods, it just couldn’t be true—
What Isbeth had said came back to me. He was angry, but when we came together to make you, he was not forced. Neither time.
Neither time.
I hadn’t paid attention to those words then. Or maybe I’d just assumed she’d meant they’d only been together twice.
“If she is Isbeth’s daughter, then how is she okay with her father being caged?” I asked, my heart still racing. I knew Cas didn’t have the answer to that, but I couldn’t stop myself. “She has to know Isbeth has him somewhere. Does she not care? Is she just like her mother?”
“I don’t think she’s like Isbeth. If she hadn’t gone to Malik—”
“Malik.” I scrambled off the bed, turning to look for my clothing. “Malik would know.”
“Possibly.” Casteel stood, finding my shirt halfway under the bed. He seemed about to speak again but fell silent as he donned a black linen shirt that shouldn’t have been as loose on him as it was. I had to stop my worry from growing into something bigger. He would regain the weight he’d lost, along with his strength—faster than I even probably expected.
The pants left for me were definitely breeches. They fit, if a bit snugly, but I really didn’t want to walk about pantsless, so I wasn’t complaining. Someone had also loaned me a vest, one that had seven hundred tiny hooks running up the front. I slipped it on over the shirt and started the tedious work of hooking the clasps without missing one.
“Let me help.” Casteel came to me, his hands replacing my trembling fingers. It took him a moment to get used to not being able to use his pointer finger on his left hand, but he managed far more quickly than I.
The intimacy of his aid had a quieting effect on my mind. My thoughts stilled as I watched him work the tiny clasps into the hooks. There weren’t seven hundred of them. Possibly thirty. I wished there were seven hundred. Because this moment felt so normal, despite everything. Something couples might do every day.
Something I’d missed desperately.
The backs of his fingers brushed the swell of my breast as he finished the last couple of clasps. “Have I told you how much I love this particular item of clothing on you?”
“I believe you have.” I straightened the hem where it fit and flared slightly over my hips. “Anytime I wore a garment like this, I thought about how much you liked it.”
That dimple appeared again, and I didn’t think it was so stupid then. He trailed a finger along the curved-edge bodice of the vest. A tiny strip of lace had been stitched there, the same deep shade of gray as the vest. “I think I would love it even more without the shirt.”
“I bet you would,” I replied wryly. My breasts and stomach were already testing the limits of the clasps, doing very little to hide the deep cleavage peeking through the V-shaped neckline of the shirt. Without the shirt, the entire kingdom would get quite the eyeful.