Before She Ignites (Fallen Isles Trilogy #1)(30)

I wouldn’t tell. Not even Tirta. Not yet, anyway. “I’m sure everyone wonders what a Hartan girl did to get here, too.” I smiled as warmly as possible so she’d know I wasn’t trying to be mean, just making a point. “We’re both odd here, aren’t we?”

With my laundry finished and hanging on a bench to dry—though how anything could dry in this steamy room was a mystery—I pulled up my twists and stepped into the water.

It was as I worked the soap down my arms and legs that I discovered the firmness in my muscles. Sarannai had said I was soft that first day of work, but after a decan, my fingers grazed the new ridge of muscle along my upper arm, a cord of strength down my forearms.

Yes, I’d done all the training exercises Instructor Boyan had given me. Yes, I’d regularly doubled as a perch for a small dragon. But I’d never been strong before. Hristo and Ilina would be proud.

“Gerel is in your cellblock, isn’t she?” Tirta asked. “What do you think about her?”

“She’s difficult to like,” I said carefully. “But she knows about the Pit. She warned me about Sarannai.” And about Altan.

He hadn’t asked me about dragons again. Not since that day in the mess hall. Nevertheless, the threat of consequences haunted me. I couldn’t begin to guess what he’d do if I continued to refuse. But how could I tell him something so important?

I just had to hold out until my parents saved me.

“Be careful of Gerel.” Tirta picked a piece of dirt out from under her ragged nails. “Don’t trust her.”

“Why?” Gossip was the Daminan way. Everyone had real secrets—like my counting—and people worked very hard to keep those hidden, but most were merely illusionary secrets. So Tirta sitting there, wanting to tell me something about Gerel—I couldn’t resist.

“I heard she tried to destroy the Heart of the Great Warrior and everyone inside it. Prisoners. Trainees. Warriors.”

That seemed . . . impossible. The Heart was huge. And underground. And all stone. Not even a Drakontos titanus would be able to burn it down. “How?” I whispered. Not that I wanted to destroy the Heart. I just wanted to get away from it.

“I don’t know.” Tirta shook her head. “Sometimes I wish she’d succeeded. In my dark moments, you know? But you can make a life here if you work hard. It’s not fun, but it’s a life and it’s better than nothing.”

I hoped I never became so accepting of my incarceration.

After I climbed out of the water and dried off, she motioned to my hair. “Did you do your twists?”

I shook my head and pushed away the memory of my last visit with Ilina. Missing her would choke me.

“Do you know how?”

“No.” At home, Krasimir had visited once a decan to wash and style my hair. My maid, Sylva, took care of it the rest of the time. “I mean, I know how to braid and twist, but I’ve never done my own.”

“I can teach you. We might not always get paired and it’s important to keep doing things here that make you feel human. Even if it’s just your hair.”

A bubble of warmth filled me. She understood.

“Some prisoners get their hair shorn like the warriors so they don’t have to take care of it. But I always thought that was too much like giving up.”

I nodded, then held still as she bent close to inspect Ilina’s work.

“Whoever did this was smart. It’ll last a long time.” She patted my shoulder and moved away. “Just don’t soak your hair, don’t undo the twists, and try not to touch any of it.”

“Ever?” I couldn’t stop the horror in my voice.

She laughed a little. “When you can’t stand it anymore, or the twists start coming unraveled, I’ll help you do it again. Until then, just scrub your scalp a little.”

Before I was ready, Altan and another guard strode into the room. “Time’s up, Fancy.”

Grudgingly, I shoved my damp belongings into my pillow once more and looked to Tirta just as she thrust a small pile of rags into my hands. “For . . . you know. Bleeding.”

I hadn’t even thought about that yet, but now I couldn’t stop wondering what I’d do with the dirty rags and how I’d get more—or if I was expected to wash them in the bath area, too. That could not be sanitary.

Tirta and I left the bathing room, and behind us, the guards carried on a discussion about unrest . . . somewhere.

“It’s bad,” the other guard said. “And it’ll probably get worse before they ask any of us to go help.”

“People setting other people on fire is pretty bad,” Altan said.

People burning others? I wanted to ask what was happening, but didn’t dare speak.

“Certainly not the worst thing people have ever done, though.” The second guard reached forward and shoved Tirta. She stumbled, but caught herself and resumed walking without so much as a whimper. “Think we’ll get any of the burners here?”

“Probably a few. Those the Twilight Senate want punished the most. They’ll probably just put the rest to death.”

The Twilight Senate—that was the governing body on Bopha, the Isle of Shadow. I hadn’t heard of anything happening there, but I’d been rather focused on my own problems.