“It’s not stealing if you’re stealing it back.” Elian slips out of his jacket and throws it onto the table behind him. “The necklace belongs to the Págos family. I bargained a lot to get my hands on the map that shows their route up the mountain, but without the necklace, all of it is for nothing. She told me it was the key to the hidden dome.”
“She,” I repeat. “Who are you talking about?”
“The Princess of Págos,” Elian says.
His eyes dart to Kye, and a strange look passes between them. Kye clears his throat.
“You mean she sacrificed her family’s secrets for jewelry?” I scoff. “How trite.”
Elian raises an eyebrow. “If I remember rightly,” he says, with a look that is far too smug, “you were willing to sacrifice your life for a necklace.”
“I was willing to sacrifice yours first,” I say.
LONG AFTER THE REST of the crew disappears into sleep, Elian and I sit together. We plot in the most ghastly ways, scheming through each detail of his plan, including how to get the princess her family’s necklace without getting a bullet in our hearts. Key points I’m keen to clarify.
Sunlight threatens to spill through the tiny round window above us, buried in the arch of the ceiling. The candles have died down to withering embers, and their faint afterglow casts blurry shadows around us. The smell of dawn smokes through the air, and with it the grayness seeps in from the outside world.
“I still don’t understand how you know that these pirates have the necklace,” I say.
“The Xaprár are infamous for stealing from royalty,” Elian explains, palming a licorice stick. “If there’s a precious heirloom missing anywhere in the world, you better believe that Tallis Rycroft and his band of pirate thieves have it in hand.”
“Even if that’s true, wouldn’t they have sold it by now? What use would it be to keep something like that?”
“You’re assuming that Rycroft needs to steal to survive,” Elian says. “Maybe he did once, but now he steals just to prove that he can. A necklace like that carries prestige. It would be more of a trophy to him than a treasure. Just another artifact to prove how good he is.”
“If he’s that good,” I say,“how are you going to steal it from him? I think he might notice your hand running through his pockets.”
“Misdirection.” Elian takes a bite out of the licorice stick. “They look over here” – he waves a hand theatrically – “while I’m pilfering over here.” He wags his other hand at me, looking all too satisfied. “As long as you can manage to look innocent and above suspicion.”
“And if that doesn’t work?”
“I have a backup plan.” Elian produces a small vial from his pocket with a flourish. “It’s less wily, but equally duplicitous.”
“Poison?” I muse. “Were you keeping that around for your future wife?”
“It’s not lethal,” Elian says. For a killer, he seems oddly offended at the idea. “And no.” He pauses, then turns to me with a half-smile. “Unless you were my wife.”
“If I were your wife, then I’d take it.”
“Ha!” He throws his head back and pockets the vial once more. “Thankfully that’s not something we have to worry about.”
“Because you’re betrothed?”
He hesitates. “Why would you say that?”
“You’re royal,” I tell him. “That’s what royalty does. They marry for power.”
I think back to the Flesh-Eater and the way my mother’s voice turned into a song when she told me she had chosen her finest warrior to continue our line. The orange rusted blood in the corners of his lips as he regarded me with a mix of hunger and regimented disinterest. And on the Saad, just nights before, when he claimed me even in my human body. An uneasiness creeps through me at the memory.
“I don’t want it to be that way,” Elian says. “When I marry, it won’t be about power.”
“What will it be, then?”
“Sacrifice.”
His voice is crisp. There’s a certainty to it, as though he’s resigned to the fact rather than proud of it. He swallows, just loud enough to catch me off guard, and the action makes me shift, his discomfort snaking through the air toward me.
Elian’s eyes drop to the floor, and I feel as though I’ve exposed him or he’s laid himself bare and suddenly regrets it. Either way, I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say, and something about the moment seems so personal – too personal – that I find myself searching for anything to fill the quiet.