Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(13)

How was I supposed to survive this?

Mother’s voice echoed in my head: “Everyone loves a beautiful girl. Use that.”

But Altan was my jailer. Aaru couldn’t see me. And Gerel didn’t care. My one advantage wasn’t much of an advantage right now.





BEFORE





Ten Years Ago


A MAN TRIED TO KIDNAP ME ONCE.

My memory of the attempt itself faded rather quickly. Self-protection, perhaps. Rather, it was the moments after that stuck:

1. Doctor Chilikoba, with sun-darkened skin and smile lines, as she explained my injuries to my parents. “The cuts won’t scar.”

Cuts. Because I’d been shoved into my display case of tiny dragons. Mother was relieved. “It would be a shame to permanently damage that perfect face.”

2. My sister Zara, her pale pink dress glowing against her deep brown skin. “That boy.” She motioned at the gardener’s son. “He saved you.”

“Isn’t he Hartan?” I’d thought everyone from Harta was a pacifist. Harta hates harm.

The boy caught us looking and dropped his eyes.

3. My parents, explaining that the attacker was a Bophan man who’d once owned a business on Harta. His business had done nothing but ship Hartan produce away from Hartan farms, and the newly established government had decided not to work with him. His company had folded and he lost everything. He blamed the Mira Treaty for granting Harta its independence.

“To a lot of people, you are the Mira Treaty. If someone doesn’t like it—”

They didn’t like me. I’d always been told I should be proud of the Mira Treaty, though I had nothing to do with it. For me, the treaty had always existed: Harta was independent, the Fallen Isles were united, and dragons were protected.

“Life was different before,” Father said. “Some people miss those days.”

4. The gardener’s boy, who had dark eyes filled with cleverness.

“What’s your name?” Father asked.

“Hristo.”

“Why did you help Mira? That man could have killed you.”

“It was the right thing to do.” Hristo glanced at me. “And she smiled at me once. Said she liked my lala flowers.”

He’d planted a thick rainbow of them, white flowers in the middle forming the silhouette of a dragon. “They’re my favorite,” I whispered.

“Would you do it again?” Father asked. “Protect Mira?”

Hristo was only nine or ten, but he seemed older. Wiser. “Yes,” he said. “I would.”

5. That night, I assessed the damage of the attack.

All my glass dragons were broken. The metals were fine, but some of the stones had chipped.

Nine shattered. Fourteen disfigured.

Mother hadn’t mentioned the cost, but she’d been thinking about it. Even though I wasn’t smart enough to add all those lumes, I knew it was a lot.

She was upset about the injuries, too, especially the ones on my face. Father had decided to enroll me—and Hristo—in self-defense classes, and Mother had mostly been worried I’d begin to look rough.

In the dressing room, I stood before the triple mirror. Seven small cuts marked my face. Forty-three marked my neck and shoulders. Five gashes had earned bandages.

For hours, I counted and recounted. When the sun peeked above the sea, I walked back to bed. One, two, three . . . Twenty-five steps from the mirrors to bed.

After that, the numbers lived in me.





CHAPTER FIVE




WHEN THE MOP CAME DOWN THE LINE, I WATCHED Gerel.

I watched the way she dunked the dirty mop, pressed the wringing mechanism, and then slid the wet end along the floor five times before repeating the process twice. She used a long, flat broom to sweep the water from her floor into the sewage hole.

That didn’t look too hard.

Farther down the hall, I heard a guard tell a prisoner to come along, it was time for a bath. I could hardly wait my turn. When Altan moved the mop, bucket, and broom into my cell, I did exactly as Gerel had. Every gross plop of the mop fibers on the floor was one gross plop closer to a bath. To being clean. To feeling like myself again.

And while I worked, Gerel watched me, evaluating and judging my every move. It was a look I got from Mother all the time, usually followed by a lengthy criticism of my performance on tests, or how I didn’t spend enough time with the Luminary Council.

I tried to ignore Gerel. She wasn’t Mother. She definitely wasn’t Ilina or Hristo. I shouldn’t care what she thought of me.

When I finished cleaning my cell, I stepped to the back while Altan removed the tools.

“Make any important decisions, Fancy?” he asked, setting the empty bucket aside.

Cleaning had been easy enough. Swirl a rag around a dirty spot. Plus, as he’d said, there were benefits to taking a job.

1. Exercise. (I needed to be strong.)

2. More—ideally edible—food. (I needed to avoid starvation.)

3. Pretense. (If Altan thought I’d cooperate with him, he might be nicer to me.)

So I gave a short, serious nod.

A predatory grin spread across his face. “Tell me.”

My heart sped up and I prayed I wasn’t making a mistake. “I’ll clean.”