The Winner's Curse (The Winner's Trilogy, #1)(43)

Kestrel felt her face burn. Then it crumpled, just like the paper in her fist.

She would throw the letter in the fire. She would forget it, forget everything.

But when she shifted her right leg out from underneath the blankets, her knee screamed in protest. She sat at the edge of the bed, looking at the fire, then at her bare feet flat against the floor. She trembled, and told herself it was because of the ache in her bandaged knee. Because her legs couldn’t bear her own weight. Because she couldn’t do something so simple as get out of bed and walk across the room.

She tore the letter into a snowfall of paper.

That first night after the duel, Kestrel had woken to find her father gone. A slave was sleeping in the chair drawn close to the bed. Kestrel had seen the lines under the woman’s eyes, the awkward crook of her neck, and how her head bobbed back and forth in the way of someone who needed sleep. But Kestrel shook her.

“You have to do something,” Kestrel had said.

The woman blinked, bleary-eyed.

“Go tell the guards to let Smith out. He’s imprisoned in the barracks. He—”

“I know,” the woman had said. “He’s been released.”

“He has? By whom?”

The slave looked away. “It was Rax’s decision. He said you could complain to him if you didn’t like it.”

Those last words sounded like a lie. They didn’t even make sense. But the woman patted her hand and said, “I saw Smith myself, in the slaves’ quarters. He’s not too worse for wear. Don’t worry, my lady.” The face of the woman, whose name Kestrel had forgotten, filled with such sympathy that she had told her to leave.

Kestrel remembered the woman’s expression. She looked at the shredded letter and saw again its written words—so snide, so understanding.

They didn’t understand. No one did. They were wrong.

Kestrel slipped back under the blankets.

Some hours later, she called for a slave and asked her to open a window. Cold air poured in, and Kestrel shivered until she heard a distant ringing, the sound of hammer against anvil. Arin must know that she couldn’t come to him. Why didn’t he come to her?

She could make him. If she sent an order, he would obey.

But she didn’t want his obedience. She wanted him to want to see her.

Kestrel flinched at this thought and the pain it brought with it.

She knew that even if everyone believed the wrong thing of her, they were also too close to being right.

*

“You should have let me visit earlier,” Jess said, her cheeks radiant from the brisk air outside. “It’s been a week since the duel.”

Kestrel sank back against the pillows. She had known the sight of Jess would hurt, would remind her that there was a life outside this bedroom. “Ronan isn’t allowed.”

“I should say not! I’m not letting him see you until you’re better. You look awful. No one wants to kiss an invalid.”

“Thank you, Jess. I’m so happy you’ve come.”

Jess rolled her eyes. She started to speak, then her gaze fell on the nightstand. “Kestrel. You haven’t been opening your letters.”

They had collected in a pile, like a nest of coiled snakes.

“What would the letters tell me?” Kestrel said. “That my reputation is as ruined as ever?”

“It’s nothing we can’t fix.”

Kestrel guessed what Jess might say: that she should go with Ronan to the Firstwinter ball. Ronan would be willing. He would be glad. It would stop some of the gossip and start a different kind.

It was a solution of sorts.

Kestrel smiled a little. She shook her head. “You’re so loyal.”

“And clever. I have an idea. The ball is not long from now and—”

“I’m bored, sitting in bed all these hours. Why don’t you distract me, Jess? Better yet, why don’t I do something for you? I owe you.”

Jess smoothed the hair off Kestrel’s forehead. “No, you don’t.”

“You have stood by me. I’ll make it up to you. Once I’m well, I’ll wear whatever you like.”

Jess jokingly pressed a palm to Kestrel’s brow. “You must be feverish.”

“I’ll teach you to play Bite and Sting so that no one will beat you.”

Jess laughed. “Don’t bother. I don’t like games.”

“I know.” Kestrel felt her smile leave. “It’s one of the things I admire about you.”

Jess’s expression turned quizzical.

“You never hide who you are,” Kestrel said.

“Do you think that you do? Do you think I don’t realize that even though you have asked me to distract you, you are trying to distract me?”

Kestrel winced.

“You’d be better at it,” Jess said, “if you weren’t bedridden. And miserable.”

Kestrel reached for her hand and gripped it. “I meant what I said.”

“Then stop playing games. There is an obvious answer to your problems.”

She realized that Jess had more on her mind than the ball. Kestrel’s hand slipped away.

Jess sighed. “Fine. We won’t talk about Ronan. We won’t talk about marriage. We won’t talk about the fact that as much as you like to win, you’re acting as if you’re determined to lose.”