Fevered Star (Between Earth and Sky, #2)(24)

“Shouldn’t you knock?” the witch complained, throwing Naranpa an annoyed glare.

“I did knock.”

“A knock is usually followed by the person inside deciding whether to open the door or not.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t let me in.”

Zataya grunted, confirmation enough that Naranpa had guessed correctly.

“Although I thought you might want to see me, if only out of curiosity as to how well your working on the Convergence fared.”

The muscles in Zataya’s shoulders shifted, and Naranpa thought she saw something there. Shame? Denial? How strange. She had been sure the witch would want to gloat.

Again, she did not wait for an invitation but took a seat on the stool at the table. She ran a hand over a pile of green pods that looked like they were covered in silvery fur.

“Don’t touch anything!”

Naranpa withdrew her hand. “Is it poisonous?” She had a sudden memory of her mother scolding her for eating mushrooms she had found in a cave once.

Zataya set her pestle down. “What do you want?”

“Only to talk.”

The witch looked as exhausted as Naranpa felt. Her cheeks were hollows, and deep rivers carved routes below her eyes. She wore the same silt-colored robes as always, only a shade lighter than her skin, but her hair was longer than it had been only days ago and floated around her face in a soft black halo.

“Your hair grew quickly,” Naranpa remarked, rubbing absently at the place on her chest that bothered her.

“You came to ask me about my hair?”

“No, of course not.”

Zataya folded her arms across her chest and narrowed her eyes, studying Naranpa. After a moment, she made a noise in her throat. She turned to her clay pots, plucked a black-and-white vial shaped like a long finger, and placed it in front of Naranpa.

“Drink this. Just a drop in your tea at night. More than that, and you may not wake up again. But a drop. It will calm your dreams.”

“Dreams?” She had said nothing about dreams.

“You’re having bad dreams, aren’t you?”

Naranpa was too surprised to answer.

Zataya nodded. “There are stories. Of people who cross over to the world of the dead and come back. They often bring back a miasma with them, something that clings to their soul and troubles their dreams.”

“I don’t think that’s it.” She didn’t know how to explain that the dreams felt active, more like a visitation. More like magic. “And I didn’t die. You saved me.”

Another noncommittal grunt.

“I could hear you and feel your touch, but my tongue couldn’t move to tell you so,” Naranpa explained, rubbing absently at her chest.

“Is that why you’ve come? To ask about magic? And that burning in your chest?”

Naranpa stared, shocked. “How do you know about that?”

“You keep touching it and making a face. Clearly, it pains you.”

Had she been touching it? Perhaps she had. “Is it magic? Sorcery?” The word felt clumsy on her tongue. “A… residue of what you did to me?”

Zataya’s mouth turned down, and Naranpa rushed to add, “That is what Denaochi thought.”

“You told your brother?” She sounded surprised.

“He noticed, too. Not my chest,” she corrected. “My eyes.”

Zataya scooted her stool closer. “Let me see you.”

Naranpa shrank back involuntarily. “What do you mean?”

“Pull down your collar. Let me see.”

“It’s not on my skin,” she said quickly.

“Why are you hiding from me?”

Why was she hiding? She had come to Zataya specifically for answers, and now she found herself hesitant to receive them. She thought Zataya had wisdom to share, but now she was having second thoughts, distrust squatting between them like an unwanted guest.

“Or go.” Zataya sounded disgusted. “It makes no difference to me.”

Resigned, Naranpa pulled the collar of her dress down enough so that the witch could examine her. Surprisingly gentle fingers probed the place over her heart before Zataya motioned for her to straighten her clothing. She grasped Naranpa’s jaw to examine her eyes. She was uncomfortably close, her mint-scented breath hot against Naranpa’s skin, but she held still and let her look. After a moment, Zataya let her go.

“Well?”

“Your skin is warm there, over your heart. Maybe there’s an infection inside. Maybe someone more skilled in healing than I could understand it.”

“I don’t think it’s an infection.”

Zataya raised an eyebrow.

Naranpa let the words come quickly, before she could change her mind. “It started when I was in the tunnel, and the lantern had gone out. I could see nothing, not even my hands before my face. But then I raised my palm, and it began to glow.” She scanned Zataya’s face for a response but could read nothing there. “And I… I think my eyes glowed, too. And it was hot. I was hot. The tunnels were cold, but I was hot.” She flushed, embarrassed. “I know I sound mad—”

“No.” Zataya cut her off. “Not mad.”

A flicker of hope intertwined with dread. “Then what?”