Bring Me Their Hearts(73)
“Do you remember their faces?”
“Every night, miss.”
The wind blows the spines of a cherry tree’s branches across a nearby window. I’d told Peligli that sound was the forest’s good night to us, once. I breathe deep.
“If I make the prince into a Heartless, he’ll have to kill. He’ll have the hunger. He’ll have a number like we do.”
Reginall doesn’t say anything. I press on, my words clear in the setting moonlight.
“What do you think is worse, Reginall? Killing, or forcing others to kill? To make it bigger, worse? To take a heart, knowing full well you’re condemning them to bear the chains of this horrible guilt, this horrible hunger?”
He is perfectly still, silent.
“What’s worse, Reginall—to be a monster, or to make monsters?”
We both know the answer. But only one of us goes laughing like she’s mad back into her bedroom, closing the door behind her.
Only one of us realizes how alone she is, and leaves her room to pause before Y’shennria’s door.
Only one of us raises our hand to knock, saying a silent prayer for comfort, for an embrace from someone, anyone. Only one of us freezes just before, and realizes how futile such a prayer is for a monster.
It’s when I’m lying on my canopied bed, counting the darkwood stars in the ceiling pattern and wondering, as always, what that strange embossed star in the corner of the ceiling is for (aesthetics? To hang something from?) that I realize something is wrong with me. Something has shifted, like an itch deep down where I can’t reach. Something won’t stop playing an endless loop of tonight’s events on the back of my eyelids—all of them focused on Prince Lucien’s face, the crook of his golden neck, the shadow of his collarbone, the look in his eyes as we danced, the smile on his lips, that fierce bravery of his facing down Gavik with his blade raised—
I throw myself out of bed and walk over to where the glass jar meant for Lucien sits on my dresser. The snake etched in it taunts me. I envision a heart inside, and in this vision I’m utterly free, my own chest filled, pulsing again with a true human heartbeat. I pack my things and leave over the Cavanos border, to Pendron, to Avel—Crav and Peligli in tow—to the farthest corners of the Mist Continent where I can find peace at last. Peace. That dance, his laugh, the heat of his skin, they made me feel at peace—
I shake my head and focus inward. I envision carving his heart out with my sword, but it cuts off the moment I plunge the blade into his chest, turns into his tensed arms wrapping around my waist ever so gently, hesitantly, as if he were afraid—
He should be very afraid, the hunger snarls. I am coming for him.
I could tell in your eyes; you weren’t afraid. Of me. Of anyone. And that’s the exact moment I knew you’d be a thorn in my side.
He’s mine to destroy, mine to ravage, mine to sink my teeth into—
But now I’m not so sure. Are you a thorn? Or are you a flower?
Sunrise shatters the night-locked loop of my thoughts, and I make my way downstairs to eat. The livers in the kitchen taste like ash in my mouth, worse than usual. Raw meat might keep me alive, but now that I’ve tasted so much delightful human food, I long for herbs and spices and slow-cooked fats. I used to fear it, the pain that came after, and now it’s the only thing I want to eat, the pain be godsdamned.
Halfway through my reluctant meal, Y’shennria joins me, lips pursed and hair perfectly fluffed.
“Sleep well?” she asks.
“You could say that.”
“What is that bandage on your wrist?” she asks, brows knit in impossible concern. “Lady Himintell sent me a watertell about the raid, but not that you got injured.”
“Ah, so you knew all along I didn’t get any sleep.”
“It’s polite to inquire.”
“Aren’t we beyond politeness at this point? Can’t we just—I dunno—loosen up a bit?”
“If we ‘loosen up,’ we risk mistakes. Mistakes mean you die. And our hopes die with you.”
There’s a quiet in which I stir the chocolate drink I made to cover the taste of the livers, and Y’shennria delicately begins to pick apart a nearby starfruit. Our hopes, she’d said. Not the witches’ hopes. She considers herself one of them, even after what they did to her and her family.
“I’ll repeat it only once,” she says firmly. “How did you get that wound?”
I smirk. “It’s nothing. A small trifle, and besides, I have the tendency to heal quickly, Auntie. Or did you forget?” When she stares me down unblinkingly, I heave a sigh. “The archduke had his men shoot me.”
Her grip around her fork turns white, and I swear she mutters something under her breath that sounds like, “Bastard.” Is she angry on my behalf—on behalf of a Heartless? How unlike her. She composes herself quickly, though.
“You will act wounded, then, for the rest of your time in Vetris. I’ll invite several of the more palace-distanced polymaths over, to make it look like you’re being intensely treated. The cover story is you fell and twisted it.” She scoffs. “Don’t give me that look. We need a cover story. Telling everyone Gavik had you shot would paint targets on both our backs.”
We move upstairs to the dining room, Maeve hobbling about as she sets the table and brings breakfast around.