The Girl King (The Girl King #1)(83)

“You’ve gone mad,” her mother was saying, shaking her head. “You want her to tell me what she is? She’s a child.”

“Show her,” Set insisted. “Show your mother what you can do.” He prodded her forward.

Min looked between them again, both so rattled, so weary, and looking oddly young. She glanced at Brother, but he was still standing behind her cousin, hands at his sides. He wouldn’t—couldn’t—do anything. No one could stop this now.

No one except . . . Help me, she thought. A silly futile prayer.

You already have everything you need, you stupid girl, said the voice that was hers and also not.

She didn’t, though—she didn’t have anything. “I . . . I can’t,” she said, turning pleadingly to Set. “I don’t know how to do it yet on my own. I don’t . . .”

His face softened, as though he only now registered her terror and uncertainty. What this was doing to her. “Min, I’m sorry,” he said, and something like shame welled up in his voice. “Of course you can’t . . . I’m sorry. Come here.”

In spite of herself, she felt gratitude flush through her veins. At last, he recognized what he was doing. He saw. She stepped forward, allowing him to tug her once again into a gentle embrace.

She sensed the change a heartbeat before it happened, felt the warning in her blood, her bones. Too late. His hands were hard, viselike around her shoulders and he whipped her around until her back was flush to his chest.

“I really am sorry,” he said, his words fluttering against her ear like a kiss. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this.” Then he pushed her forward. “Brother? As we discussed.”

Min stumbled, but the monk was there to catch her. Like a magic trick, the glass-like knife appeared in his hand. She stared at it uncomprehendingly.

The monk yanked her hair back and drew the blade across her throat.

Her mother shrieked.

She shouldn’t do that, Min thought vaguely. The nunas will hear. They’ll talk . . . Everyone knows nunas are terrible gossips . . .

The pressure on her shoulders was gone. Brother had released her. She stumbled toward the windows. Below, Snowdrop and Butterfly and the others were still singing, though now the song had turned sharp and eerie, more like sobbing than music.

No, Min realized. That’s me. That’s me singing.

Her hand went to her neck and came away slick with blood.

She sucked a breath to draw a scream, too late remembering that would only pull the blood in, down her throat, down into her lungs, drowning her in her own red waters . . .

Only the feeling never came. Just a pain, sharp and fine and bright as the first moment of dawn. I’m still alive, she marveled. The cut was shallow, just breaking the skin.

Set stepped toward her, but her mother was faster, pushing him away. The empress was upon her, catching hold of Min’s face with her cold hands.

“Let me see!” she cried. “Let me see, baby.” And whirling on Set, “What have you done? What have you done?”

Set’s face was raptly curious, disappointment fraying the edges. He stepped forward, cautious, and the light from the windows caught the hollows of his cheeks, making him look stern, old.

“What were you thinking?” her mother screamed, whipping her head between Set and Brother. “You could’ve killed her! You still might! Oh, my baby . . . my sweet only baby . . .”

I’m not your only baby, Min thought distantly. I’m not yours, I’m not a baby at all . . .

“And look at her!” her mother continued, gently pulling Min’s head to the side, inspecting her throat. “Gods! Think of the scar it’ll leave! My sweet only baby . . .”

It was the wrong thing to say. Wrong. All of it wrong.

Not your only. I have a . . .

“My only baby,” her mother repeated, as though to refute the thought. Her hands fluttered about Min’s shoulders like pale doves.

“Get away!” Min shrieked. “Get away, get away from me!” She moved like an animal, flinging her arms wildly. Her hand caught, leaving a streak of blood across her mother’s mouth. It looked like she’d smeared her lip paint.

“Empress Minyi,” Brother said, stepping forward. “You’re in shock, we need to fetch the Court Physician—”

No, Min thought distantly. I already have everything I need.

“Don’t you dare touch her!” her mother was screaming at the monk. “I’ll see you hanged—I’ll see you flayed and forced to crawl through the streets of the Second Ring . . .” She moved to seize Min.

“Get away!” Min threw out her hands, and in that moment felt a new power course through her. Or perhaps it was the same power she had felt before, now swollen, amplified, transmuted. Gold and fire and heat and something like joy surged in her veins—and burst from her outthrust palms, invisible to the eye, but real. So real; the realest thing Min had ever felt.

Her mother flew backward, fast and impossible, as though lifted clear off the floor by a pair of unseen arms. She opened her mouth as though to cry out, but if she did, Min never heard. At that moment came a much louder sound—big and physical and wrong.

There was a great, ceaseless wind roaring behind her. The air surged, filled with scintillating floating bits of light. It was everywhere—cold little silvery flecks catching the light as they blew past. She could hear her mother screaming then, and Set, too. Did Brother cry out? She couldn’t hear him. All three of them were cowering, tucked in on themselves, covering their faces.