The Unbroken C. Clark (best books to read for self development .txt) 📖

here. I’m on orders for the lieutenant.” Aimée meant Pruett. “We’re supposed to be hunting for your merry band, but—look, can I just come in?” Aimée craned her neck to look past Touraine’s shoulders to see inside the temple.

Touraine had never seen her like this. Eager. Earnest. She’d spoken more than five words without swearing. After Touraine hesitated a second longer, Aimée pushed past her and into the temple. The other woman took two steps before she stopped, gaping at the ceiling with its marble and the glitter of gold and colored stone swirling through intricate geometries. Touraine felt a tender warmth, even as she chuckled. This was what she must have looked like the first time she saw the inside of the temple: mouth slack, head tilted, trying to take it all in.

Ecstatic.

Aimée walked to a nearby pillar and placed her palm flat against it.

“No wonder Beau would never shut up about this place,” she murmured. Aimée had been turned into a gleeful child. Touraine couldn’t help a small bubble of pride. She shoved Aimée in the shoulder playfully.

“Fine, just invite yourself in.”

Aimée’s rueful gaze was only half a joke. “You should have invited us, Lieutenant.” She spread her arms wide to encompass the vastness of the temple hall. An entire company one hundred soldiers strong could sit for lunch on the marble floor if they moved some of the “unused” altars.

“I mean, look at this place,” Aimée continued. “Plenty of room for all of us. Sky above, it smells, though. Like a cross between soup and some rich asshole’s powder room.” She crinkled her nose.

Touraine nodded at one of the smoking incense bowls. “You get used to it.” In a hushed voice, she added, “It’s amazing, isn’t it?”

Aimée didn’t answer at first. Just closed her mouth and peered around, taking in the small crowd of Qazāli on the other side of the temple and their bowls of food, the worn rugs and poufs where a person might sneak in and pray in secret to a forbidden god.

“What’s amazing is you, here. How the sky-falling fuck are you alive?” Aimée turned and pushed Touraine in the chest. “I saw you go down. You didn’t fucking get up again.”

Touraine rubbed the spot, already feeling the possibility of a bruise. She shrugged, uncertain how much to say. She trusted Aimée, but Aimée hadn’t joined the rebels, and she didn’t know whether to trust her with the secret of the Shālan magic.

“I was never dead. Just a bad shot. The Qazāli still have a few good doctors from before, you know.”

With narrow eyes, Aimée scanned Touraine up and down, as if she could see the scars from a cutter’s surgery through Touraine’s clothing.

“What do you want with us?” Best to change the subject quickly. And to figure out if they should expect more guests soon.

Aimée’s scrutiny didn’t let up. “Pru’s orders. Your pillow friend called her to the compound, looking for answers.” She turned the scrutiny on the others in the temple.

Touraine’s lips twisted sourly. “My pillow friend. Answers for what?”

“You do know what’s been happening in the city, don’t you?”

“Let’s pretend—for just a second—that I’m supposed to be a corpse. I wouldn’t get out much, would I?”

“Maybe not. I’m sure there’d be worms to get you whatever sky-falling news you wanted in your little hidey-grave.”

“Say there weren’t. What’s happening to the Sands?”

“Well, your princess wants to know if we’re responsible for it. Barring that, if we know where you are.”

Alarm locked Touraine stiff. “If you know—how does the princess even know I’m alive?”

The other woman shrugged, but Touraine could tell Aimée was pissed. “Pru told her. Surprised the sky-falling fuck out of the princess, to hear Pru tell it. Surprised the sky-falling fuck out of me, too. Said you were responsible for the attacks and then laughed like a madman in the princess’s face.”

“What else did she tell her?” Touraine asked through gritted teeth.

The air felt too thick to breathe. She would have to tell Djasha and Aranen that she’d been compromised. Blackcoats would be on their way. Jaghotai would be insufferable.

“Nothing, I guess.” Aimée shoved her hands in her pockets. “Fuck if I know why, but Pru said she didn’t know where you were. Then she sent me here to warn you off. She’s hunting you and the rebels.”

Even though she feigned casualness, Aimée kept seeking Touraine’s eyes. Touraine kept trying to shrug the looks away, eyeing everything from a volunteer’s worn trousers to the faded fabric of an embroidered cushion.

“I know why,” Touraine said wryly. “She may hate me now, but she hates Luca more.” Pruett never wanted to rebel against Balladaire outright like Tibeau had, but she had a petty streak. Touraine imagined Pruett was more than happy to hurt Luca with the truth or hamper the hunt for Touraine. The thought that Pruett would rather see Touraine slip the blackcoats’ clutches than hang was a small comfort.

Aimée gripped Touraine’s arm. “Is there a reason she wouldn’t tell the princess where you were?” she asked quietly. “Are you with the rebellion?”

Finally, Touraine looked up. How did Pruett know she’d stayed in Qazāl? Had Touraine been seen, or did Pruett just know she couldn’t stay out of trouble?

Whatever Aimée saw in Touraine’s face must have pleased her. She nodded once. “How can I help?”

Touraine wanted to lead Aimée over to the Qazāli waiting for their rations. She wanted Aimée to know what she was doing. She wanted some of the Sands to see, to approve. And secretly, selfishly, she hoped Aimée would spread the word and convince the others to join them. She wouldn’t admit that she was lonely, but she was surrounded by people who didn’t understand where she came from, how she had lived. Even living with Luca had felt less isolating; at least then she had understood the language and expectations.

Instead, she tightened her shoulders and let them fall. Then she shook her head. “There’s nothing you can do without risking yourselves. Pruett already told me