Daughter of Smoke and Bone(56)

It was the wrong thing to say. Karou’s expression darkened. No doubt she was thinking of Iz?l. Akiva admonished himself for making an effort at humor. Of course it would come off all wrong. It had been a long time since he’d had the will to banter.

“The truth is,” Karou said, letting it pass, “I only made the wish for flying a few days ago. I haven’t had a chance to enjoy it yet.”

Again he was surprised; it must have shown this time, because Karou caught his look and said, “What?”

He shook his head. “You were so smooth in the air, and the way you stepped off your balcony without a second’s pause, as if flying is just a part of you.”

She said, “You know, it didn’t occur to me that the wish could wear off. That would have been some punishment for showing off, wouldn’t it? Splat.” She laughed, untroubled by the thought, and said, “I should be more careful.”

“Do the wishes wear off?” he asked.

She shrugged. “I don’t know. I don’t think so. My hair has never changed back.”

“That’s a wish? Brimstone let you use magic on… that?”

“Well. He didn’t exactly approve.” She skewed him a glance that was both sheepish and defiant. “It’s not like he ever let me have any real wishes. Just enough to make minor mischief—Oh.” A thought struck her. “Oops.”

“What?”

“I made a promise last night and forgot all about it.” She rummaged in her coat pocket and pulled out a small coin, on which Akiva glimpsed Brimstone’s likeness. It was there on her palm when she closed her hand; when she opened it, it was gone. “Magic,” she said. “Poof.”

“What did you wish?” he asked.

“Just something stupid. A mean girl somewhere down there is going to wake up happy. Not that she deserves it. Hussy.” She stuck out her tongue at the city, a flash of childish whimsy. “Oh. Here.” She turned to Akiva and thrust one of the bakery bags at him. “You know, so you don’t die.”

While they ate, he saw that she was shivering, and he opened his wings—invisible—so the wind would catch their heat and fan it around her. It seemed to help. She sat down, dangling her legs over the edge, and kicked them casually while she pulled little pieces of bread off her loaf and ate them. He went into a crouch at her side.

“How are you feeling, by the way?” she asked.

“That depends,” he said, feeling sly, as if Karou’s whimsy were catching.

“On?”

“On whether you’re asking because you’re concerned for my well-being, or because you mean to keep me weak and helpless.”

“Oh. Weak and helpless. Definitely.”

“In that case, I feel awful.”

“Good.” She said it seriously enough, but with a glint in her eye. Akiva realized that she had been taking care with her hamsas, to not accidentally turn them in his direction. He was moved, as he had been when he’d awakened to find her sleeping just feet from him, so lovely and vulnerable, and her trust, like Madrigal’s, so unearned.

“I’m feeling better,” he said softly. “Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. I’m the one who hurt you.”

Shame engulfed him. “Not… not like I hurt you.”

“No,” Karou agreed. “Not like that.”

The wind was spiteful; with an insurgent gust it freed her hair, then danced in to seize it; in an instant it was everywhere, as if a pod of air elementals were trying to make off with it, to line their nests with its blue silk. She scrambled to contend with it; the pencil was lost over the roof’s edge, plunging between flying buttresses, so she held her hair with both hands.

Akiva waited for her to say she was ready to get down out of the wind, but she didn’t. The sun climbed above the hills and she watched as its glow herded night into the shadows where it gathered, all the darker for its density—all of night crowded into the slanting places beyond the reach of the dawn.

After a while she said, “You know last night, you said your earliest memory was of the soldiers coming for you—”

“I told you that?” He was startled.

“What, don’t you remember?” She turned to him, eyebrows twin quirks, cocoa-dark, raised in surprise.

He shook his head, searching his mind. He’d been so ill from the devil’s marks, it was all a fugue, but he couldn’t believe he’d spoken of his childhood, and that day of all days. It made him feel as if he’d dragged that bereft little boy out of the past—as if, in a moment of weakness, he had become him again. He asked, “What else did I say?”

Karou cocked her head. It was the gesture that had saved her in Marrakesh, the quick birdlike tilt, to regard him almost sideways, and Akiva’s heart sped up. “Not much,” she said, after a moment. “You fell asleep after that.” She was clearly lying.

What had he said to her in the night?

“Anyway,” she went on, not meeting his eyes, “you got me thinking, and I was trying to remember my own earliest memory.” She levered herself back to her feet from the roof’s edge, a move that required releasing her hair, which sprang wild back into the wind.

“And?”

“Brimstone.” A hitch in her breathing, a fond and infinitely sad smile. “It’s Brimstone. I’m sitting on the floor behind his desk, playing with the tuft of his tail.”