The Midnight Lie (The Midnight Lie #1)(98)

Time would heal nothing for me. Each kiss would feel fresh on my mouth.

What good was a heart, if it hurt so much?

“I want to make the city remember,” I told the god of thieves, “and then I agree to your bargain.”

His bland face became suddenly beautiful, suffused as it was with joy. “Quickly,” he begged.

Could I make an entire city remember its past? I felt how the memory shared by the god filled me, how if I focused on it, it swelled large enough to spill out of me like blood. And I became afraid of it, of its trembling size, how it bulged against my insides. How maybe releasing it would take all of me away with it. But I remembered how I had thought my sadness at Helin’s death was like a bowl always replenished, how my love for Sid was like that, too, how grief and love have a magic of their own because they can be never-ending.

I poured the city’s memory out of me. I imagined it spilling out over its streets, its people.

The face of the god looked pleased, even proud. “Well done,” he said.

Then he leaned toward me, placed his mouth on mine, and sucked all the breath from me.





EPILOGUE


I SEE THIS STORY PERFECTLY, its moments cut crystal in my mind. I remember how this story, like a great, sheer bowl, bore a sea of emotion—my guilt, my loneliness, my longing. I remember little rivulets of delight, the warmth of love.

But I do not feel it anymore. I feel light. Empty. Pure.

Sid’s letter rests in my pocket, but it is mere paper. I carry its copy in my mind. I see its foreign script written in her hand, but what it might say, and how I will never understand it, is as meaningless as her absence.

The god is gone, too, to wherever gods go.

His bird is on my shoulder. I have no fondness for it, but I do not mind it. Its beauty enhances my own. Its talons pierce the skin a little, but when I hiss, it learns quickly to stop. It would be nothing for me to wring its pretty little neck.

I remember the people who once troubled me, who wrung my heart, who stitched me up tightly with little black threads of guilt, who made me wish and cherish and smile and weep.

I know they once touched me, but I no longer feel it.

Wonderful. It is almost as good as having no memory at all.

The Elysium bird on my shoulder, I walk through the stunned city. I stare back at the people who stare at me, daring them to cross me. None of them do. I wish they would. They call out questions as though it is evident by my face that I have the answers. Maybe they are not so stupid after all, yet none is worthy of my reply.

I make my way through them and into the Ward.

The Half Kith have come into the streets. They see me arrive and they are eager. Many of them know now what they are. I see Aden, sunlight dancing down his arms, ready to twist the light in his control and use it as he wills. I see Morah and Annin at the fringes of the crowd, how Annin starts toward me. Morah, wise to whatever expression is on my face, claws her back.

Even the god-blooded ones don’t approach me. And I am not interested in the others, like Morah and Annin, who might as well be made from sticks and cloth. There is no power in them, not like there is in me.

Finally a god-blood dares to approach me. It is one-eyed Sirah, creeping up on her feeble old legs. “Nirrim, child, look.” She holds out her hand. “I can make it rain.” A little thunderstorm erupts on her palm.

A nice trick, and it could be useful to me, but she is weak and worn. I need powerful allies for what I want to accomplish. I push past her.

“Nirrim,” she says, shocked, “who do you think you are?”

I say it loud enough for all to hear: “I am a god,” I tell them, “and I am your queen.”





ACKNOWLEDGMENTS


THANK YOU TO MY STALWART writing group members, Marianna Baer, Anna Godbersen, Anne Heltzel, Jill Santopolo, Eliot Schrefer, and other dear friends who read drafts: Kristin Cashore, Morgan Fahey, Donna Freitas, Drew Gorman-Lewis, Sarah Mesle, and Becky Rosenthal. You gave vital suggestions and encouragement when things got hard.

This book wouldn’t have been possible without them, or without the kindness and generosity of Cassandra Clare and Josh Lewis. Many thanks also to Robin Wasserman for her ever-keen perspective, Holly Black for plotting with me while we wrangled with the Aga, Elizabeth Eulberg for not letting me die on a tiny, tiny plane, and Sarah Rees Brennan, who always had a ready answer for my worries and wrote alongside me in our bower until the very end. Many thanks also to Renée Ahdieh, Leigh Bardugo, and Sabaa Tahir for giving me advice when I needed it most.

The poem Nirrim reads in the printer’s workshop is (of course) by Sappho.

I love having FSG, and Macmillan at large, as a publishing home. Joy Peskin and Trisha de Guzman have been so insightful and supportive as my editors. I thank them and the entire Macmillan team, especially Jen Besser, Beth Clark, Molly Brouillette Ellis, Teresa Ferraiolo, Kathryn Little, Kelsey Marrujo, John Nora, Janine O’Malley, Taylor Pitts, Melanie Sanders, Janine Barlow, Anne Heausler, Mary Van Akin, Allison Verost, and Ashley Woodfolk. Lisa Perrin gave me a gorgeous cover. My agents, Charlotte Sheedy and Alexandra Machinist, have shaped my career and books in profound ways, and have always been there for me.

My readers impress me every day with their enthusiasm and open hearts. You are what made me want to write this book.

My last thanks are to Eve Gleichman, for everything you’ve given me. I am so grateful for you.