Bone Crier's Moon (Bone Grace, #1)(32)

My chest jolts when she says my name. It’s too personal, too familiar, coming from her.

Ailesse stiffens. I realize I have a death grip on the hilt of my knife. Her hands close into fists. She’s ready to fight back, despite her bonds and lack of power. A pulse of admiration trips through my veins.

Marcel lets out a loud snore and rolls over, lugging his pack onto his chest. Even in his sleep he’s guarding his book—as well as Ailesse’s bones. Jules stuffed them inside after we entered this chamber and threatened Marcel on pain of death—which means nothing, since Jules says it so often to him—to keep the pack out of Ailesse’s reach.

The worst of my tension diffuses. I let go of my knife and walk over to Marcel. I scoot away his pack with the toe of my boot. It’s the only way to wake him up. I swear he’d sleep if his bed were burning.

He jerks upright and swipes at me with his eyes still closed. I slide his pack out of reach. “Get up, Marcel. I need your help.”

“Why?” He absently licks his lips. “It isn’t morning. I wasn’t dreaming. I start dreaming two hours before dawn.”

Leave it to Marcel to determine the time, even though he can’t see the moon or sun. “We need to sleep during the day from now on.”

His eyes slit open and he peers back at Ailesse, who watches him like a predator. “Oh, right.

We’ve stolen a Bone Crier.” He blinks. “And I told Birdie I’d walk with her by the river today—and tomorrow, and the day after that.” He releases a heavy sigh.

“Get out your book.” I toss him his pack. He doesn’t catch it fast enough, and it thunks against his chest. “You want to see Birdie? Start reading.”

His brows wrinkle. “I fail to see the connection.”

I crouch beside him, my back turned to Ailesse. “The queen will track us here as soon as tomorrow night,” I whisper. “We’re not getting out of these catacombs alive unless we form a proper plan to”—I slice my finger across the base of my throat—“her. That involves you doing what you do best: reading between the lines of those Old Galle folktales.”

“Ah, I see.” He pulls into a cross-legged position and glances at Ailesse before he winks at me.

Twice.

“Listen, we’ll talk more after the Bone Crier is sleeping, but for now . . .” I scoot closer and lower my voice another notch. “Do you know how strong the queen will really be down here? Will she be able to use any of her bone magic?”

“I think so . . .” Marcel unfastens his pack. “But it will cost her more energy. Eventually, she’ll run out, though I have no idea how long that will take. It isn’t mentioned in any stories here.” He pulls out his father’s book and sets it in his lap. “Unless I’ve forgotten something.” He turns the pages, and the book falls open where the spine has cracked. I twist to look at it with him. Ailesse sits up taller and tries to peek at it, too. Can she read? I always imagined Bone Criers doing things like drinking blood from horns or eating the raw flesh off animals, not studying out of books. Hell, I can barely read.

I tip up the book so she can’t see inside. The story I’m looking at is a myth about Bone Criers, complete with an illustration of a woman with unbound hair. The train of her dress is so long it spreads from the center of the bridge to the foot, where an unassuming man comes near. I see my father. I see Jules and Marcel’s father.

I see me.

Acid rage hits my stomach. I abruptly push up on my feet and stride away from Ailesse. She isn’t close, but she’s still too close. I lean against the only brick wall in the room—a place like others in the catacombs that’s been shored up to prevent the tunnels from collapsing—and fight to breathe.

“Are you all right?” Marcel asks, a vague note of concern in his voice.

I wait for my pulse to slow. “Just hungry. You?”

“I suppose.”

I steady my legs. Pull away from the wall. Rummage through a few jars and tins on the jutting bricks we use as shelves. Keep yourself together, Bastien. Focus on a plan. Like food and supplies.

We don’t have much, except the little we left last time we had to hole up in here. If we have to stay much longer, one of us will need to make a run to Dovré.

Jules ducks back inside the chamber and brings a puddle of water with her. The clothes she wears are soaked, but not dirty anymore. She’s fully bathed, something each of us always does in turn—part of our routine here, or else the silt-mud itches like the plague.

She wrings out her hair, lugs in a bucket of water, and shuts the door panel. “Marcel, you’re actually awake.” She chuckles, already in a better mood for being clean. “The way you were snoring, I thought you’d sleep another fortnight.”

He grunts distractedly, his head bent over his book.

She limps closer to me and totes the bucket along with her. I arch my brow. “More drinking water?”

She nods, passing me my rinsed shirt. I hang it from a brick to dry. “Anything good in there?”

She eyes my tin.

“The usual.” I offer her a piece of dried meat.

She pops it in her mouth and chews it for a moment. “You know, I’ve been thinking.” She limps toward Ailesse. “Wouldn’t it be a shame, if when the queen comes, she doesn’t even recognize her own daughter?”