“Scared.”
Wren scoops her hand behind my head, dipping her forehead to mine. Her lashes flutter. “Me, too,” she sighs.
“You didn’t seem it.”
“I’m trained not to. I’m trained to be strong. To not let anybody see my weaknesses. My fear. But I’m scared, too, Lei.”
I lean back to look at her. Her face is grimy from ash and sweat, and her black hair is streaked with more dirt. She looks just how she sounds—tired. Broken. The circles under her eyes are deep, like bruised fruit. Tangling my fingers in her hair, I draw her close. I kiss each eye, as gently as I’m able. Then her lips.
Compared to our first kiss, this one is gentler, but no less deep.
Mouths, and softness, and the liquid heat of the steam. Our hands holding each other’s faces in tight, as though we’d be lost without the press of the other’s mouth to ours. There are words in our kiss. I feel them between our lips, unspoken but just as clear as if we had been talking. Or perhaps more clear because we’re not. There’s no hesitation or misunderstanding to block or diminish their meaning. Just the simplest, most instinctive language of forgiveness.
Forgiveness, and hope.
One of my hands moves down Wren’s back, skimming her shoulder blades to nestle in the low curve of her spine as our bodies arc together under the water.
Footsteps. Entering the courtyard.
In an instant, we untangle. Wren jumps out of the tub. She slings on a bathrobe as a figure comes into view through the swirling mist.
Blue smirks at the sight of us—me, breathless and flushed, water shifting around me; Wren dripping water onto the wooden boards, the sash around her robe hastily tied. My lips feel swollen from the press of Wren’s, and I resist the urge to cover them with my hands.
“This is intimate,” Blue purrs.
“I was just leaving,” Wren says smoothly, pushing her hair back over her shoulders.
Blue arches a brow. “Already? You haven’t even washed your hair.”
I glance at Wren, my breath hitching. Her hair is still matted with ash, and knotted now from my fingers. Giving Blue a cool, I don’t know what you’re talking about stare, Wren strides out of the courtyard, every bit as composed as usual. But I can tell by the way Blue’s smile widens that she has noted my alarm. And while she may not know what just happened, she can certainly make a few guesses.
TWENTY-SIX
FOUR DAYS PASS. FOUR DAYS OF WAITING, holed up in the mazelike corridors of Paper House, speculating with the girls on the assassins and what must be happening outside the palace until there’s nothing new to discuss. Then, at lunch on the fifth day, Madam Himura tells us that the court has finally finished its interrogation of the attackers.
Just as Chenna predicted, there will be an execution.
The room goes quiet at the announcement. Zhen and Zhin swap dark looks, and Chenna quickly lifts one hand, forming the same prayer motion across her brow that I saw her make at the koyo party. Next to me, Aoki lets out a long exhale.
“Serves them right,” Blue says loudly. “Let the King show everyone what happens to those who oppose him.”
Mariko nods, though she stays mute, picking at her nails, fingers spread on the tabletop.
“The execution will take place at sundown tonight,” Madam Himura croaks. “Attendance is mandatory. You will return to your usual schedule the next day.”
I meet Wren’s warm-centered brown eyes across the table. I want to hear what she thinks, steal a moment of comfort from her words and her closeness. But Madam Himura sends us straight back to our rooms to begin yet another long sequence of preparations.
Usually, Lill has some freedom in what she dresses me in, provided she follows certain customs and expectations. But as she unfolds the robes I’m to wear to the execution, she tells me they were selected specifically by Madam Himura. “She was very strict about it,” Lill says. “For all the Mistresses.”
She doesn’t have to explain why she’s telling me this. As soon as I see the robes, I understand.
“It—it’s too cruel,” I say, almost whispering.
Lill avoids my eyes. “These are the King’s orders, Mistress.”
We don’t speak as she dresses me in the plain black robes. Black—not white. The very opposite, the very absence, of our kingdom’s mourning color.
It’s clear what the King’s message is. White is a color to be respected, and to be used for those we respect. Criminals don’t fall into that category. Instead we dress in black to demonstrate our indifference to the assassins’ suffering.
The thought that they’ll die looking out to this, a sea of night, doesn’t seem fair. Before leaving, I take an ivory ribbon from Lill’s box of silks and tie it round my wrist, making sure it’s hidden beneath my sleeve.
Our procession is somber as we make our way through the Outer Courts. There’s a heaviness about the palace this afternoon. Even the sky and trees seem gray, as though the smoldering air from the attack on the theater has settled over the whole of the palace, a veil of smoke. The streets are packed, but the only sounds are the dull treading of foot-and hoof-steps and the rustle of fabric, the metal chime of spirit-warding talismans, snatches of whispered conversations that the wind whips away.
When we get to Ceremony Court, my eyes widen at the sea of people filling the vast square. Everyone who lives at the palace must be here—there are thousands of humans and demons of all three castes. At the center of the court are a stage and a separate viewing platform for court members, headed by the King’s golden throne. The oryx carry us past the crowds, everything a whir of swirling ink-black robes. As soon as we arrive at the viewing platform, I go to Wren, pushing past jostling court officials craning for a better view.
She clasps my hand, low, so no one can see. Though she lets go a second later, she stays close. “Are you all right?”
I nod stiffly. “But I hate having to be here.”
“Me, too.” She takes something out of the fold of her robes just long enough to show it to me: a white flower, a tiny valley lily. Then she tucks it away. “It felt wrong,” she explains. “Coming here without something to pay my respects. Especially considering what happened in the tunnel.”
The sight of the flower sends a warm rush through my chest.
Carefully, I draw back my sleeve to reveal the ribbon at my wrist, and Wren’s face softens. She gives my fingers another squeeze.
It takes half an hour for the entirety of the palace to arrive, the King turning up last in an extravagant palanquin carried by eight oryx-demons. I don’t have a clear view of him through the thick crush of bodies as he settles on the throne, but even at this distance the sight of his curved horns makes the hairs on my arms lift. Somehow, I can tell he’s smiling.
Soon after, the carriages with the assassins arrive to the thunder of drumbeats. Each is pulled by a pair of muscled black horses and marked with silks of deep obsidian. They stop before the stage, the horses stamping, clouds of steam blowing from their nostrils. An expectant hush ripples through the crowd.
First, the executioners step out. The assassins follow, stumbling from the carriages, gold circles shackled to their necks like dog collars.
The skin at my wrists tingles. Their chains look similar to the ones the shaman put around my ankles and wrists when I was in isolation.