The Midnight Lie (The Midnight Lie #1)(51)

“That doesn’t matter.”

Looking reluctant, she lifted the letter from the desk. It was a single sheet of paper, barely a letter at all, more like a note. It floated in her hand, a white bird’s wing, as she returned to me. I took it from her, though her fingers held the page tightly. I glanced at it, then folded it shut. Looking at the image of the page in my mind, I pronounced as best I could the foreign words, grateful that the script of her language looked almost like mine. The syllables I spoke were melodic. Sound cascaded from my lips. I understood none of it.

She winced.

I stopped, and said, “What?”

“You’re pronouncing it all wrong.”

“Oh. Sorry,” I said, and was silent.

She tugged a hand roughly through her short hair. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. I’m acting like pronunciation is why I don’t like to hear you speak the words I wrote. That’s not fair. You do remember all the words. You remember their exact order. You remember where to breathe, and for just how long, where the punctuation is. But that letter was never meant to be read.”

“I don’t understand its meaning.”

“I know. It’s just—” She winced again. “It’s hard to hear you say it.”

“But you see.”

“Yes, Nirrim, I see. Your memory is perfect. But I have heard of this before: people who can remember the page of a book as though it were imprinted on the mind.”

My hand that held the folded page lowered.

“Nirrim, what exactly do you want me to do with you?”

The question hung in the air, soft and dense and dangerous.

I swallowed. Does a coward always have to be a coward? Was it so wrong to want something, whether I deserved it or not? I said, “I want you to stay in the city for a month.”

“Why?”

Because I would miss you. Because I am not ready to let you go.

“Because I think you are giving up too easily,” I said.

“A month,” she repeated. “That’s a terrible idea for me.”

“I want you to hire me as your Middling maid for that month. I want you to take me into the High quarter. Maybe I’m not magic, but I can be useful. I have a skill you don’t, and even if you are right—that everything I remember about the past has a reasonable explanation—those memories might help you. I might remember more. You said yourself that there is no magic in the Ward. It’s all beyond the wall, and concentrated in the High quarter. So take me there, and I’ll help you find what you need, like we agreed before.”

“And then what?”

“You go home with your leverage. Just as you planned.”

She tapped a finger against her lips, considering. “And you?”

“I will come home, too.”

“Home,” she repeated.

“Here,” I said.

She made a face. “So you want … a month’s vacation in the High quarter.”

“An adventure,” I reminded her.

“And then you’ll come right back here and bake for your mistress and kiss that very tall man you love.” She sounded mocking. “Like nothing ever happened, no matter what happens.”

“It’s just a month,” I said defensively, unsure of what else to say. “This is what I want.”

“Why do you want this?”

The answer was too big and frightening to explain, even to myself. “I just do.”

“Well,” she said, “I do like giving women what they want.”

“Is that a yes?”

She let out a sigh through her teeth. “Yes, that’s a yes. Gods help me.”

“Thank you,” I said, and she laughed. “So prim,” she said, “for someone so demanding. Now. I’ll have that back.” She reached for the letter.

I pulled it away. “It’s mine now.”

“Oh no.” She wagged a finger at me. “No, no, no.”

“You said you wouldn’t send the letter anyway. And I don’t understand its language. You should have no problem giving it to me.”

She scrunched up her brow. “Why do you want a letter you can’t read?”

Because it’s written in your hand, I wanted to say. Because it will be a piece of you I can keep when you eventually do leave. “Because you were rude to me, and I claim it as payment.”

“Rude?” She grimaced. “I was horrible.”

“The worst.”

“I was the worst!”

“Like a nasty, cold queen.”

“King, dear Nirrim.”

“I’m not going to forgive you.”

She caught my empty hand. “Please.” She was serious now. “Forgive me. I was angry.”

She held my hand a little too hard, but I liked it. I curled my fingers around hers. And that was all right. A woman could hold a woman’s hand. Friends did that in the Ward all the time, and no one looked at them with reproach. Sid’s skin was soft, her hand warmer than mine. Looking at my fingers entwined with hers, I asked, “Why were you angry?”

“I was angry at myself.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s all the answer you’ll get.” She opened my hand and studied the well of my palm. She ran a thumb over it. I felt the echo of her touch travel up my back. She brought my hand to her mouth. She kissed my palm, then closed my hand around the ghost of her kiss, which sang into my closed fingers. Pleasure poured down my wrist.