Daughter of Smoke and Bone(104)

He halted his pacing, stood with his hands on his head, gripping it. “In Prague,” he said, forcing out each word. “You asked how I found you.”

Karou remembered. “You said it wasn’t difficult.”

He reached into his pocket and produced a folded paper. With palpable reluctance, he handed it to her.

“What—?” she began, but stopped. Her hands started to shake uncontrollably, so that as she unfolded it, the page tore along a well-worn crease, right down the center of her self-portrait, and she was holding two halves of herself, and the plea, in her own script, If found, please return.

It was from her sketchbook, which she had left in Brimstone’s shop. Comprehension was instant and blinding. There was only one way Akiva could have this.

She gasped. Everything clicked into place. The black handprints, the blue infernos that had devoured the portals and all their magic, putting an end to Brimstone’s trade. And the echo of Akiva’s voice, telling her why.

To end the war.

When she had dreamed with him, long ago, of ending the war, they had meant by bringing peace. But oh, peace wasn’t the only way to end a war.

She saw it all. Thiago had told Akiva the chimaera’s deepest secret, believing it would die with him, but she—she—had turned him loose with it.

“What have you done?” she asked, unbelieving, her voice breaking.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Black handprints, blue infernos.

An end to resurrection.

Akiva’s hands, his hands that had held her in dance, in sleep, and in love, his knuckles that she had kissed and forgiven—they were newly etched. They were full. She cried out, “No!” the word pulled long and pleading, and then she was grabbing his shoulders, nails digging in, grabbing and holding him and forcing him to look at her.

“Tell me!” she screamed.

In a husk of a voice—such pure sorrow, such deep shame—Akiva said, “They’re dead, Karou. It’s too late. They’re all dead.”





EPILOGUE



A slash in the sky, that’s all it was, nothing like Brimstone’s cunning portal with its aviary doors. There was no door at all, and no guardian. Its only protection was its nowhereness, high above the Atlas Mountains, and its narrowness, less than a seraph’s wingspan.

It was remarkable that Razgut had managed to find it after so long.

Or, Karou thought, looking at the creature, perhaps not so remarkable, that the worst moment of one’s life could be seared into the memory, brighter than any joy. She understood now why pain was the tithe for magic: It was more powerful than joy. Than anything.

Than hope?

She saw the pyre in Loramendi as if she’d been there herself: chimaera corpses fed to the flames like scraps of flung cloth, and Akiva watching it all from a tower, breathing the ashes of her people. She tasted ash, and imagined it had still lingered on his flesh when she’d kissed him.

Because of her, he had lived to do this.

And still, she hadn’t been able to kill him, though he had brought her knives from Prague himself, and would have fallen to his knees to make it easier for her.

She left him, and even after everything, the distance between them felt like a sphere pulled out of proportion. Wrong, that growing distance. Aching, the void that had been her new fullness. A miserable part of her wanted to unknow Akiva’s treachery, go back to before, to the incandescent happiness before it all came crashing down.

“Are you coming?” Razgut asked, shouldering his way through the gash in the world, so that half his body disappeared into the ether of Eretz.

Karou nodded. The rest of him vanished, and she breathed deep of the raw air, gathering herself to follow. There was no more happiness. But under the misery, there was hope.

That the name Brimstone had given her was more than a whim.

That this was not the end.


… to be continued





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS



My first thanks are for Kathi Appelt, Coe Booth, Carolyn Coman, Nancy Werlin, and Gene Luen Yang, for changing my life as a writer. Deepest, deepest thanks, forever.

To Alexandra Saperstein and Stephanie Perkins, for reading every inch of this book many times over, and managing to stay excited about it. Every writer should have readers like you. But they can’t have you. You’re mine. Mwa-ha-ha-ha-ha!

To Jane Putch, who is so much more than an agent: Thank you. Thank you. This one is for you.

To my darling Clementine, for being an easy baby—I dare say, a perfect baby. If it weren’t so, finishing this book would have been a very different experience.

And of course, for Jim Di Bartolo, my wonderful husband. For everything from reading and encouragement, to making playlists and coffee, to sharing the baby duties and holding down the fort while I was “Elsewhere.” My cherished partner in things both creative and mundane—books, laughing, travel, diaper-changing—I couldn’t do it without you, and wouldn’t want to.

Mountains and fountains of gratitude for Alvina Ling and the whole amazing crew at Little, Brown, my new home. This has been so amazingly fun so far. Your creativity and enthusiasm brighten my horizon. Thank you. In every language real and imaginary: Thank you.

Lastly—and this is kind of goofy, but so what—thank you to the world for being a wild and inspiring place, full of odd creatures, strange people, and mysterious cities. I hope by and by to know you better.