Jade Fire Gold(52)

“Turn around,” I say to her. “I want to see your face. I want to know who you are.”

She doesn’t seem to hear me.

My father points ahead. “Do you see the puppets?” he asks again.

I look at the stage. I see a man and a woman. Or perhaps, a boy and a girl.

Monstrously human. Misshapen things with twisted limbs and unnaturally bent heads. They twirl and sway as a cackle screeches from behind the screen. The music grows louder, lamenting the grotesque dance.

“What do you see, Ahn-er?”

My father lifts me from his shoulders and turns me around to face my mother and him.

My scream pierces the air as flames engulf them.

I squeeze my eyes shut, blocking out their faces. Their melting faces, like candle wax, leaking, dripping, dissolving. I struggle but my father turns me back to the stage and my eyes open. The puppets contort, dancing out of sync with the deathly requiem. I kick and squirm, but he has me in a viselike grip.

The girl puppet tears the boy puppet’s head off and my screams return.

The stage light extinguishes. Darkness submerges me.

“Wake up, Ahn. Wake up, we have to go.”

My eyes fly open.

It’s still night outside my window. I blink, blurry-eyed and muddle-headed, the night before a mix of discordant images of dreams and reality. Shivering, I try not to think about the nightmarish puppet show from my dreams. Yet, that voice echoes in my ears. Gentle, loving.

Wake up, Ahn.

Was it my mother’s?

I get up, rubbing my temples, a groan wheezing out of my throat. My mouth is dry and mealy, my hair a knotty mess, my skin feels stretched. The racket inside my head is noisier than a tavern full of drunkards, and I didn’t even drink. I wonder how Tai Shun will feel in the morning. I need a bath. As I trudge across my room, moonlight reflects off something on the table.

A glass vial.

It must be difficult not to be able to remember your own mother.

The ache in my chest grows, invading my body like the cursed desert, leaving me hollowed out and bare. The clear liquid swishes in the tube as I rotate it. The empress said the tincture might help me remember things. It looks harmless, and there’s no reason for her to, I don’t know, poison me. I almost laugh. The idea is absurd. She’s done nothing but her best to make sure that my stay in the palace has been comfortable.

I remove the stopper. The seed of hope I tried so long ago to weed out threatens to take root again. Maybe this time, I will remember.

The tincture is cool as it slides down my throat. Tasteless, almost like water.

Minutes tick by and nothing happens. Foolish of me to even hope.

I light the lamp, draw a bath, and sink into it. Gradually, my eyes grow heavy. Enjoying the warmth of the water, I slip lower and lower. It feels like I’m floating in the open sea.

So much water, I think. Almost too much. Too deep, too heavy. Pressing against my rib cage.

My chest constricts. I choke and splutter. Water splashes everywhere as I fling myself over the edge of the wooden bathtub, eyes wide, a scream clawing its way out of my throat.

Breathe. Gods damn you, breathe.

I inhale. An ember in my mind sparks.

Fire catches.

I am four years old, in a garden. The grass I am sitting on is shriveled. The yellow-crested sunbird in my hand, lifeless.

“Well done, Ahn-er. Clever girl.”

I smile up at my father, my heart bursting with pride. His face is smooth, handsome. He does not wear a mask.

My mother comes running, a hand clasped over her mouth, shock bruising her features.

“What are you doing with her?” She gasps when she sees the dead bird in my hand. “What did you make her do?”

A different memory.

I am crying. My mother has me wrapped tightly in her arms. “We can’t do that—we have to keep her safe.”

“The block you put on her meridians will not last forever. It only makes her magic unstable. Sooner or later, her affinity will break through, and there will be more accidents in the future. She will hurt herself if she can’t control it. Give her to me. Let me train her, let me teach her how to wield her magic.”

“No. You will not make her a killer.”

“The Empire needs her.”

“I don’t care about what the Empire needs! She’s your daughter—”

“Have you forgotten where your loyalty lies?” my father says, a dangerous gleam in his eyes. “She is the Life Stealer, and there is nothing you can do about it. Give her to me.”

He steps forward. The air around him shimmers.

“You can never have her or her powers, you monster!” my mother cries. She shields me and whips her arm out.

My father yells, covering his face as my mother sets everything on fire.

Another memory.

“Wake up, Ahn. Wake up, we have to go.”

My mother is rousing me. I stir, blinking tiredly. “Are we leaving again, Mother?”

She nods anxiously, and strokes my hair. “Yes, darling. I’m sorry, I know it’s hard.” She removes a small vial with amber liquid from her pouch. “Here, time for your medicine. Drink up.”

I make a face but do as I’m told. Mother says this keeps me healthy, that it helps me forget the bad things.

“Good girl,” she says after I return the empty vial to her. She cups my cheeks, eyes brimming with tears. “I love you, never forget that.”