Burning Glass (Burning Glass, #1)(28)
Removing Yuliya’s figurine of Feya from the travel satchel, I set it on the windowsill and said a prayer, not out of faith, but because it would please my friend. The swan’s death still trickled remnants of sorrow through my body. I supposed I should be grateful. That agony had done more to ground me among the nobles’ auras than any thoughts of Anton or musings over the emperor. This was why the Auraseers at the convent chose a painful form of emotional release, why the ceiling of the box bed was gouged with Izolda’s claw marks. Nothing cut to the core of things like physical suffering.
I smoothed the ends of the black ribbon tied around my wrist. Yuliya’s burial rites would be tomorrow. Hers and everyone else’s. I would miss them. My heart beat a mournful rhythm.
I glanced at the blood spatter on the base of the wooden Feya. I had been careful not to touch it thus far. But now I wouldn’t resist its call. Still on my knees from prayer, I reached up and closed my fingers around my friend’s dried blood.
Blinding pain tore through me. I cried out and doubled over onto the cool planks of my bedroom floor. Gasping for breath, I stared at the knots in the grain as racking sensations worked their way through my body. Once I recovered, I sat up, gritted my teeth, and touched the statue again.
I shook and whimpered and forced myself to hold it longer. When Yuliya’s pain began to ebb to euphoria, I let go. Perspiration wetted my brow as I gripped the idol a third time.
On and on I repeated this, only allowing myself to feel the darkest parts of my friend’s death. If I touched her blood enough times, perhaps I’d feel a small measure of the pain every Auraseer and sestra endured as they died.
I never saw the starlight. Hours later, I lay splayed on my side, my breath faint, my heart slowed. My limbs tingled and mimicked Yuliya’s blood loss. Tears pooled from my eyes as I reached once more for Feya. She rested toppled over, an arm’s length from me. I stretched out, fingers trembling, almost touching her. Blackness crowded my vision. I caught the edge of the statue with my fingertip, but then my hand fell and the goddess rolled away. My eyes fluttered shut.
I didn’t dream of Yuliya or the burning convent. I dreamed I failed the emperor. As I was marched to the chopping block, Tola stood on the palace porch dressed in the too-large robes of the sovereign Auraseer. When the ax arced down for my head, my last glimpse of the world was Anton’s dusk-blue cape, billowing as he turned away.
A gentle rapping on my door awakened me. The clouds were soft with gray morning light and thick with the promise of snow. I rubbed my head, as if that could scatter the lingering anxiety from my dream.
The rapping came again. I leaned up on my elbows. “Come in.”
The door opened a handbreadth. In popped the heart-shaped face of a girl maybe a year or two older than me. “I’ve brought your breakfast, Sovereign Auraseer.”
I sat up completely. My nightgown was a mess of wrinkles from all my writhing last night. “My name is Sonya.” I couldn’t bear the custom of everyone addressing me by my title. The girl curtsied in assent. I studied her, the way her eyes drooped in the corners, not with fatigue, but in a way that spoke kindness. I took an immediate liking to her.
She opened the door wider, and her bowed lips curved in a timid smile, but I knew better. Vitality surged through my limbs, my back. The kink in my spine from a night spent on the floor was forgotten, as was my sorrow. This girl was brimming with life. I drank it in like I’d just crossed the desert sands of Abdara.
“I’m Pia,” she said, stepping into the room. “Your serving maid,” she added, and then rolled her eyes. “But I’m sure you already knew that.”
I released a small laugh. I couldn’t help it. Her happiness bubbled through me. “I can only feel your aura, not your station.”
She giggled back. “I meant my uniform.” She gestured to it like the evidence it must be to anyone with a noble upbringing—to anyone who had ever been served before. But to my eyes, all that differentiated Pia’s clothes from my personal maids’ was that the skirt beneath her apron was blue, not dark gray, and her hair kerchief was tied back in a different fashion.
“I’m afraid I don’t know much about palace life,” I admitted, “let alone which maid does what or the colors she wears. Lenka nearly bit off my head last night when I requested something particular about my food.”
“Well, I can help you with that.” Pia rocked back on her heels. “And never mind Lenka. She’s all salt and sour milk. I gave up trying to make her smile ages ago.” She slid back a loose pin holding her kerchief in place.
I watched everything Pia did with fascination. Something about her reminded me of Yuliya, but I couldn’t place it. Perhaps it was simply my hope of having a friend at the palace. One friend had been enough at the convent. One had been enough with the Romska.
Pia smoothed her apron, growing a little self-conscious under my stare. “There’s tea in your sitting room and a sweet bun.” She bobbed her head over her shoulder to nudge me toward it. “Lenka will come in a quarter hour.”
I stood and untwisted myself from my blanket.
“Did you really sleep down there?” She raised her brows.
I frowned at the box bed and gave her a dark look. “Wouldn’t you?”
She snorted, then walked over and picked up my blankets and pillow. “Well, let’s at least hide the trail. Lenka thinks it’s a great honor to sleep in that bed.” Pia stuffed her load past the bed’s small door. “We don’t want her forcing you into a corset today out of vengeance.”