She could see the steady rise and fall of the other girl’s chest, but it still amazed her, the way Nasi slept—as if there was no danger in it.
Kosika didn’t know how to sleep like that.
Her mother used to sleep like a star, her limbs flung out to every side, so if Kosika wanted to join her in the narrow bed, she had to fold herself into the empty spaces, and even then, she only skimmed the surface of sleep. Her skin had always been awake, her ears pricked for trouble. Now and then, she’d sink deep enough to dream, but even those crumbled as soon as her mother stirred.
Now Kosika sat up, eight years old and wide awake in the massive bed, marveling at Nasi’s steady breath, how lost she was to the world. She gave a testing bounce, but the other girl didn’t so much as murmur.
She huffed. The least Nasi could do was keep her company. She considered shaking the girl awake, forcing her to play a game of kol-kot, or tell her a story, but Nasi would probably punish her by telling a scary one, full of shadows and teeth, and then she’d have the nerve to fall right back asleep.
Instead, Kosika slipped down from the bed.
Her nightgown whispered around her ankles, silver and white. Her feet were cold, and she eyed a pair of slippered boots, almost left them—it was easier to sneak around without the shuffle of shoes—before remembering she didn’t have to be quiet anymore. This was her castle. This was her home. She could be as loud as she liked.
Kosika stepped into the shoes and padded to the window.
Beyond, the moon was a white hangnail in the sky, and the river had taken on a pearly glow. At midday, you might not notice, but when the sun went down, it gave off a silvery shine, like starlight.
The first year, the whole castle had seemed to hold its breath, the soldiers waiting, hands on weapons, for the inevitable fight. But there hadn’t been any fighting. Kosika was presented to the city, and the city accepted her like a gift. Their Little Queen. No one had come forward to challenge her claim. At least, not that she knew of. If there had been stealthy attempts, they hadn’t gotten very far.
People accepted her, she knew, because London was changing faster now, magic rushing back. Nasi could conjure water, and did so every chance she got （Kosika hoped magic wasn’t the kind of thing that could run out, or Nasi wouldn’t have any left by the time she turned twelve）。 And it wasn’t just the children.
Some of the grown-ups were getting magic, too.
Every day, there were more of them, adults now able to conjure fire or wind, water or earth. And they all said it was connected, to the old king, and to her. And it had to be, didn’t it? After all, she was the one who’d found him in the Silver Wood, even if nobody knew it. She was the one with the black eye, the mark of magic.
Now people came to the castle every day, wanting to see her, to touch her, to be blessed. They came, and sometimes the Vir let them through, and sometimes they didn’t. One day, even her mother came, suddenly full of want. Her mother, who’d tried to sell her. She came, and for a moment, Kosika thought it was because she missed her daughter, wanted her back. But she didn’t. She only wanted to be paid. The Vir kept her away after that. Sometimes, when she was falling asleep, she could still hear the coins on their kitchen table going clink clink clink.
Kosika turned away from the window, surprised by how dark the room seemed now with the thin light of the moon at her back. She curled her fingers, and fire ignited in her hand.
It was so easy—as easy as wanting, and she knew how to want. Other people struggled to conjure a flame. She struggled only to contain its size. The fire bloomed, hot and bright, swallowing her fingers, and she held her breath and focused until it shrank back to candlelight, hovering just above her palm. Nasi slept on as she shuffled past the bed, heading for the doors. Most of the floor stones were smooth but a few were patterned, and she liked to play a game, hopping between the marked ones until she reached the other side.
She pressed her ear to the carved surface of the door, listened, and heard nothing, save for the hum of the wood against her palm, inviting her to take it, to bend it, to make it grow. She imagined it coming apart beneath her fingers, braiding itself into tendrils, into limbs, a tree, but she must have imagined it too hard, because the door let out a splintering crack. Kosika jerked her hands away and squeezed her eyes shut and imagined the door as a door and nothing more. And when she opened her eyes again, it was still there.
She pushed it open.
A pair of soldiers stood on the landing beyond, dressed in armor so dark it seemed to swallow the light, making them blend right into the walls. She knew they were there, even if they didn’t move, knew they weren’t going to lurch forward and grab her. She knew—but she still walked a little faster until she was safely past them, and on the stairs.