Seraphina(93)

“I can’t tell you.” My chin trembled. “I don’t want to lie to you, but if I don’t, then there’s nothing I can say. My hands are tied.”

He handed me his handkerchief. I stole a glance at his face; he looked so worried that I couldn’t bear it. I wanted to take him in my arms as if he were the one in need of reassurance.

My father’s words from the night before came back to me. What if he was right? What if there was a chance, any chance, that Kiggs wouldn’t despise me if he knew the truth? One chance in a million was still better than zero. I felt dizzy at the thought of it; it was too like hanging over the parapet of the bell tower, watching your slipper spinning through space, falling to the plaza below.

It wasn’t just my scales between us. He had duties and obligations and an overweening need to do the right thing. The Kiggs I loved could not love me the way things stood; if he could have, he would not have been my Kiggs. I had reached for him once, and he had been terrified enough that he hadn’t protested, but I couldn’t imagine him tolerating it again.

Kiggs cleared his throat. “Selda was beside herself with worry this morning. I told her you’d be back, no question, that Aunt Dionne hadn’t frightened you off for good. I sincerely hope that’s true.”

I nodded shakily. He opened the door for me and held it, but caught my arm as I passed. “Aunt Dionne is not above the law, first heir or not. If you wish to pursue justice for your arm, Selda and I would support you.”

I took a deep breath. “I’ll consider it. Thank you.”

He looked pained; something important still had not been said. “I’ve been angry with you, Phina, but also worried.”

“Forgive me, Prince—”

“Kiggs. Please,” he said. “I’ve been angry with myself as well. I behaved rather foolishly after our encounter with Imlann, as if I could blithely disregard my obligations and—”

“No,” I said, shaking my head a bit too vehemently. “Not at all. People do strange things when they’re terrified. I hadn’t given it a second thought.”

“Ah. It is a great relief to hear you say that.” He didn’t look relieved. “Please know I consider myself your friend, what bumps we have encountered upon that road notwithstanding. The heart of you is good. You’re an intelligent and fearless investigator, and a good teacher too, I hear. Glisselda swears she couldn’t do without you. We want you to stay.”

He still had hold of my arm. I extricated myself gently and let him take me home.





The sky was just growing dark when our carriage rolled into Stone Court. Princess Glisselda waited to meet us; she fussed over me and fussed at Kiggs for letting me get hurt once again, as if protecting me ought to have been his priority when the entire city was up in arms. Kiggs smiled at what a little mother hen she was. Glisselda placed herself firmly between us, giving an arm to each, chattering away as was her wont. I pleaded abject tiredness and broke up our little trio at the earliest opportunity.

I was exhausted, though it was not yet five o’clock. I trudged up to my room and threw myself into a chair, letting my satchel drop to the floor between my feet.

I could not continue living in such close proximity to Kiggs if it was always going to hurt this much. I would stay through Treaty Eve, tomorrow night, and then I would give Viridius my notice. Maybe not, even. I would simply disappear, run off to Blystane or Porphyry or Segosh, one of the big cities, where I could disappear into the crowds and never be seen again.

My left wrist itched under its bandage. I just wanted to look at the scale scab, I told myself. See how it was getting on. I began unfastening the bandage, pulling at it with my teeth when it was difficult to undo.

There was, indeed, a crusted scab where the scale had been; it squatted malevolently among smooth silver scales to either side. I ran a finger over it; it felt rough and sore. Compared with that fat black scab, the scales were not so ugly. Trust me to turn my native hideousness into something even more hideous. I hated that scab. I pried up an edge, then had to look away, gritting my teeth and cringing with revulsion.

Still, I did not intend to stop until I had torn a hole in myself again.

The satchel at my feet fell open. I must have kicked it. Out of the bag fell the long, slender box and the letter, which just this morning—it seemed longer ago than that—my sisters had handed me on my father’s behalf. I backed off my wrist for the moment and took up the box. My heart pounded painfully; the box was the right size and shape to contain a specific musical instrument. I wasn’t sure I could stand the heartbreak if it didn’t.

I fetched the letter and opened it first.

My daughter,



I suspect you will remember little of our conversation last night, which is just as well. I fear I babbled on foolishly. However: I owe you this, at least. Your mother had more than one flute, or I could never have borne breaking the other. I still regret that, not least for your look of betrayal. I was the monster in our household, not you.



What comes, comes. I have made my peace with the past and with the future. Do what you feel you must, and do not be afraid.





All my love, for good or ill,





Papa

With shaking hands I opened the wooden case. Inside, wrapped in a long strip of saffron fabric, was a flute of polished ebony, inlaid with silver and mother-of-pearl. It took my breath away; I knew it at once for hers.