Lady Smoke (Ash Princess Trilogy #2)(15)

Heron swallows and holds my gaze. “I’ll heal him every other day,” he says. “And only the worst of it. Any more than that and it’ll be suspicious.”



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—

After Blaise and Heron file out of the room to get back to their respective duties, Artemisia lingers next to me on my bed, picking at a puckered thread in the quilt and watching me with wariness heavy in her dark eyes. She seems afraid of me, which is strange since it’s often the other way around.

“You didn’t bring me into the meeting with my mother,” she says after a moment, each consonant sharp enough to cut.

“I thought it would be cruel, asking you to take my side over hers like that,” I say, but it’s a half-truth that she sees through immediately.

Her eyes narrow and she gets to her feet abruptly. “I don’t need pity, least of all from you.” Her voice is low and dangerous.

The words hurt. “I don’t pity you,” I say, though I’m not sure whether or not that’s true. But Artemisia doesn’t want nice words, softened and easy to hear. She wants hard, uncomfortable truth, and I understand that.

“You’re useless in your mother’s presence.” I meet her gaze as I say it. “I need people who can tell her she’s wrong, who will fight her and not cower.”

For a moment, she stares at me in shock. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says finally.

“You think I didn’t want you in that room?” I ask. “Of course I did. I needed it. Blaise and Heron have their strengths, but Heron is a broken-hearted dreamer and Blaise has trouble seeing the bigger picture—his focus is always me, not Astrea as a whole. I needed someone to say what needed to be said, and neither of them can do that. But neither can you when your mother is around. You become a mumbly, doe-eyed shadow and I had no use for that.”

She stands stock-still, expression hard and inscrutable. I expect her to argue, I expect her to fight back. I want her to. But instead, she lets out a breath and the fierceness in her deflates like a sail without wind.

“What happened in the meeting?” she asks.

I tell her about her mother’s plans to have me marry a foreign ruler, about how she’s already sailing us to Sta’Crivero. I tell her about the event the King there is hosting. I tell her I haven’t agreed to anything.

“That was smart of you.”

“Queens don’t marry,” I tell her.

Artemisia snorts. “Oh, that’s the only choice we have if we’re going to secure a large enough army,” she tells me. “But I know my mother and I’m sure she’s getting something else out of this arrangement. By not agreeing to betrothal yet, you have something my mother wants and so you have some measure of control.”

It isn’t what I want to hear, but it rarely is with Artemisia. It’s exactly why I need her, like this, by my side.

“Not enough power to free S?ren, though,” I say.

“Not by half,” she says before pausing. “But it may be a start.”

I consider that for a moment. Then I tell her, “Whatever it is between you and your mother, get it under control.”

Artemisia hesitates, then nods. She looks away, biting her bottom lip. “She underestimates you and that’s something you can use to your advantage, but don’t be foolish enough to make the same mistake. Don’t underestimate what she’s capable of.”





CRESS STANDS ON THE OTHER side of rusted cell bars, gripping them with her tiny, bone-white fingers. She only comes up to my waist now, though some part of me knows that she has always been just a bit taller, just a bit older, just a bit wiser. She isn’t anymore—she’s a round-faced child with yellow hair in two plaits that hang down past her shoulders. Her eyes are wide and full of concern.

“Are you all right?” she asks, speaking the Kalovaxian words slowly and clearly so that I can understand them. The way she says the words echoes somewhere deep in my mind, just out of reach. There is a distant, familiar ache in the pit of my stomach, but it’s drowned out by relief at the sight of her.

She could be Evavia, goddess of safety, I think, but that, too, doesn’t feel like my own thought. Not really. But it doesn’t matter. All I know is that I need help, that I have been drowning and here she is, a desperate, gasping breath of air.

Cress reaches through the bars, her small fingers wrapping around my wrist. I struggle not to sob with relief.

Her smile widens, revealing teeth that have been sharpened to points. Surprised, I pull back, stepping just out of her reach.

A spot of gray at her throat grows and spreads until her entire neck is charred black skin. I try to take another step away, but my back hits cold, damp stone.

Cress takes hold of the bars again, but this time they melt beneath her touch. She walks toward me with her tiny hands outstretched, palms a vivid red with flames licking at her fingertips. I drop to a crouch and press farther back into the wall, desperate to get away from her, but there is nowhere to go. She must realize this as well, because she stops right in front of me, leaning in close to my ear.

“Our hearts are sisters, Thora,” she whispers, hovering her burning hand just above my chest. “Shall we see if they match?”



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