Frostblood (Frostblood Saga #1)(28)
“Why do you hide your face?” I asked.
A dark suspicion had crept into my mind. Arcus wore a hood and he was clearly scarred. He and Brother Thistle had said they were drawn to me because of what happened in my village. What if Arcus was one of the soldiers I had burned?
As soon as I asked the question, the temperature dropped. Frost spread underfoot, making dead leaves crackle.
“I don’t recall giving you permission to ask me questions,” he replied.
“I don’t recall needing permission. What are you hiding?”
“I’m hiding nothing. I only cover what people don’t wish to see.”
I crossed my arms. He regarded me with a steady, unwavering stare. Perhaps I was wrong and he had simply lumped me in with all the small-minded fools who would ridicule someone for their appearance. I would never judge someone for their scars.
“At least I get to see your eyes today,” I said.
“And why should you wish to see my eyes?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps because I know so little about you and you know so much about me. Or, perhaps, to make sure you are a person and not a block of ice.”
His expression turned guarded. I knew I was staring, but the blue of his irises was a mosaic of tones, not just one single color. I found myself straining forward in some unconscious, infinitesimal way, as if all those enchanting blues were calling to my blood, cooling it and heating it at the same time, leaving me in a state of restless confusion.
Something flickered in his eyes, which turned into a snowy sky, suddenly blank and cold. “I am a block of ice.”
The words met my skin like a bucket of water drawn from a mountain stream. Dead leaves crunched under his boots as he turned and strode off, taking all the blues with him.
TEN
THE MIDAFTERNOON SUN DANCED through the remaining library window, laying rectangles of blushing gold on the stone walls.
“Sister Pastel, may I come in?” I asked from the doorway. In the week since returning from my aborted escape, I’d seen Sister Pastel, reportedly the finest illuminator in the abbey, hunched over her work for hours at a time. I was fascinated by her work, the precise, flowing letters and vibrant pictures.
She put her brush back into the cup and turned to me. “You may enter, Miss Otrera.”
I stepped forward, careful to keep my sleeves from catching any of the delicate rolls of parchment lying on the tables.
“I had wondered…” My voice trailed off as my eyes caught on a blackened table leg, reminding me of my show of temper during my previous visit. Surely the calm and careful illuminator wouldn’t trust a Fireblood near all her precious books.
“I’m glad you came,” she said, surprising me. Her mouth curved into something I took to be a smile on a face unused to the expression. “I have not thanked you for saving my life.”
“No need,” I said quickly. “Fire doesn’t hurt me—at least not easily. I’m sure Arcus would have found a way if I hadn’t.”
“It was still a risk and shows character that you bothered. We were not friends.”
“We weren’t enemies. At least, not as far as I was concerned.”
Her eyes fell to her hands, folded neatly in her lap. “I confess I saw you as one. The first day, when Brother Lack and I brought in your bath, I suspected you were a Fireblood. I was furious that Brother Thistle had allowed you to come here. I felt he was endangering us with your presence.”
She paused, and I waited before prompting, “And now?”
“I see that you are trying to learn to master your gift with Brother Thistle’s help. I ask your forgiveness for judging you wrongly.”
I shifted uncomfortably. “There’s nothing to forgive. I’ve been treated well here.”
Her mouth curved again, and this time it was clearly a small smile. “Now, what brings you to my domain of smelly pigments and cramped fingers?”
“I was hoping you might show me your techniques. I don’t want to interrupt your work, of course. But I would dearly love to learn how to do what you do, or at least whatever poor excuse I’m able to achieve. Your work is beautiful.”
“Thank you. Sit at this table next to me and I will happily show you.”
My cheeks heated with a joyful flush.
“But, ah,” she added slowly, “perhaps take care not to let any frustration turn to heat. We would not wish another fire to start, especially not here.”
My joy faded. “I didn’t start that fire, Sister Pastel.”
She paused, studying me closely. “I’m glad to hear that. Though it disturbs me to think one of my own order did, and that they didn’t come forward to confess when you were accused.”
I shook my head. “It could have been a fire improperly extinguished. We may never know what happened. But let me assure you, you can trust me. If I get frustrated, I’ll find Arcus and ask for some extra training. He’s always a good outlet for my wrath.”
Sister Pastel chuckled and handed me a brush.
Over the next week, life at the abbey became a blur of routine. Even though I’d recovered, I continued to sleep in the infirmary. I was comfortable there, and Brother Gamut had confessed that not many rooms in the abbey were fit for occupation. In the mornings, I woke at the matins bell and dressed in my tunic and leggings. Then it was up and down the tower stairs twice before meeting Brother Thistle on the training ground.