The Midnight Lie (The Midnight Lie #1)(12)

It would rasp against my face. Maybe later, when he was done, my cheek would bear a rash.

But the skin would heal, I thought. And the kind of tithe he was imagining was no more than what any woman in the Ward might have to pay.

I would be all right, I told myself.

My strong girl. My brave one.

“Pardon me,” said a voice that was neither soldier’s, “but my cell is musty. It could use a good scrubbing. Perhaps one of you could see to that while the other fetches me a decent vintage of wine?”

The soldier’s grip on my shoulder slackened in surprise. The soldier in the hallway turned. Beyond him I could see a shadow behind the bars of the cell across from mine.

“I am not fussy,” the shadow said. “As long as the wine has aged at least ten years I won’t complain. Oh, and what if you brought me some of those ice cherries? Such a delicacy.”

“Mind your manners, thief,” said the guard in the hall.

“Stay out of what doesn’t concern you.” The bearded soldier’s grip on me doubled. The heat of his hand came through the thin fabric of my shirt.

“I spy with my little eye something gold,” said the shadow, “upon someone’s finger. Not every country has that custom, to be sure, but here I would call that a ring. I would say that here, such a ring means that one is married.”

The bearded guard made a strange sound in his throat.

“There are few things I pride myself on,” the shadow said. “But when someone makes an impression on me, no matter what kind, charming or repulsive, I never forget a face. I will remember you.”

“So what if you do,” said the bearded guard. “You’ll rot here a good long while.”

“Nooo. Check your roster of prisoners.”

There was a silence.

“Did I mention one of my many other talents? I am resourceful. Would it be hard for me to find the wife of such a memorable man as our fine guard? Not at all. Moreover, I tell a good tale. Would it be difficult for me to engage her with the tale of an attack in close quarters? Would she listen? I think she would. Would she be pleased? I think not.”

The bearded guard’s hand slid from me. “I want a look at the roster,” he said to the other guard, and stepped from my cell. When he locked the bolt home, my veins fizzed with relief. I felt suddenly, deeply tired. My eyes slid shut as I heard the soldiers walk away.

“Finally!” the voice said. “Company!”

I opened my eyes. I could see a bit better, now that the guards did not block my view, the shadow in the cell opposite mine. The light cast by the oil lantern in the hallway was dim, but still I saw the shape of a young man, hair cut close to the head, in trousers tighter than I would wear and a waist-length jacket with the short, stand-up collar allowed to Middling men. He lounged against the bars, a languid hand dangling through them, fingers slender and long. He was taller than me but not by much, the lines of his body fuzzy in the darkness, loose and lazy.

“Come closer,” he said. “I can’t see you.”

“Yes, you can. You saw the ring on that guard’s finger.”

“I would like to see you better.”

I was grateful that he had made the guard leave, and I was curious about him, too, but my curiosity unnerved me. Curiosity is too much like wanting. It comes from feeling dissatisfied, and I knew well the danger of that.

“It’s only neighborly,” he said.

I moved back into the depths of the cell.

“My name is Sid,” he said.

That was a strangely short name, and I told him so.

He hesitated, the first time I had seen him pause at all. Thus far, he had spoken so quickly after the end of someone’s words it was as though he had known long ago what that person would say. Finally, he said, “I don’t like my longer name.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t suit me.”

“Why?”

“Persistent thing. And curious. Aren’t you curious? Come closer, and you’ll see me better, too.” His voice, husky yet light, had lowered a little.

“A cheap trick.” He had dropped his voice to a whisper with the intention to make me instinctively draw nearer.

“But if a trick is so obvious, is it really a trick? If I know that you will know it? I think it’s trusting, actually. If I trust you to see through my trick then I have placed great faith in your intelligence.”

“Flattery.”

“Honesty!”

“Flattery disguised as honesty.”

“Flattery just means that I like you.”

“You don’t know me,” I said. “You are playing a game, and it is with me.”

There was a mortified silence. “I didn’t mean to. It was silent here before you came. That’s no excuse, I know. Should I be quiet? I can be. It will be hard.”

“No.” Like him, I didn’t want the frightening silence of the prison. His voice was supple and clever. It hid the corridor’s empty echo. It meant I wasn’t alone.

“Will you tell me your name?” he asked. “I have given you mine.”

He hadn’t, not really, but: “Nirrim,” I said.

“Nirrim,” he repeated. “No last name?”

I was confused. “What is a last name?”