Mercurial Naomi Hughes (suggested reading txt) 📖

the lesser ladies of the platinum court had been assassinated more recently, poisoned with a toxin that had rotted her from the inside out. Her screaming had wracked the palace for days before Sarai finally gave the order to end her suffering.

Elodie looked at a point in the distance over Helenia’s shoulder. “I remember enough to know that my sister will raze you all to the ground if you kill me.”

That was true enough. Elodie didn’t necessarily trust Sarai—she and her sister loved each other fiercely, but Elodie was her weapon as much as she was her family—but she knew without a doubt that Sarai would bring the entire empire crashing down around the Saints in retribution for Elodie’s death.

Helenia tore off another hunk of bread and tossed it to the dog. “She already suspects you’re dead. Any retribution she has planned is likely in motion against us as we speak.”

Elodie’s gaze snapped to Helenia’s. If the Saints were already facing the empire’s full wrath, perhaps they might ransom her back to stave it off. But before she could demand more information or ask how long it would take to travel to the Saints facility, Helenia tossed the rest of the loaf of bread toward her. It landed with a hollow clunk on the tiles at her feet. The dog lifted his head and looked at it, licking his lips.

“You’d better eat that before Maluk does,” Helenia said, and then turned on her heel and left without another word.

“Wait,” Elodie called after her involuntarily, straining to the end of her chains. They clanked dully against the wall and against the delicate bones of her wrists. Her heartbeat was a mad, flailing thing, a rabbit trapped in its own burrow. “Please, let me see Tal.” She hated begging, hated the film it left on her tongue, but she needed to see him. She couldn’t fully believe he was alive and well otherwise.

Helenia stepped outside the threshold of the door, which had been kept ajar this whole time, and into the shadows on the other side. “Do you really think we would let your protector in here, so that he could die defending you from his own kin?”

“No, that’s not—that’s not what I want,” Elodie said, but was at a loss for what she did want.

Helenia paused for a moment, the faintest hint of pity in her kind smile. “I do not believe you will see Tal again.”

She closed the door, leaving Elodie in darkness.

THE RUSTY SHEARS RASPED AS THEY SCISSORED THROUGH NYX’S CURLS. The sound was gratifyingly violent, the strands of burnt hair landing at her feet even more so. With each twist of her wrist, she sawed off more memories. When she was finished, she would sweep the hair into a pile and burn it the rest of the way. She would never have to look at it again.

She raised her head to check her progress, eyeing her reflection in the polished tin plate that served as a mirror. It reflected her well enough: muscled shoulders, strong, straight nose, brown skin, brown eyes that simmered appealingly with anger. She wasn’t sure if she liked her hair this length, though. Her curls haloed close around her scalp in a way that made her look too much like her mother.

What kind of a mother sends a daughter to be tortured?

Nyx set her jaw and tossed her shears into the handwashing bowl, where they splashed loudly into the dirty water. Saasha hadn’t “sent” Nyx to be tortured. She had gone with her. She had risked her own life to ensure the success of Nyx’s mission, to make sure Nyx didn’t waver. She’d had to watch Nyx be tortured. Surely that was just as hard, if not harder, than what Nyx had gone through.

But still: what kind of a mother, whispered the words in the back of Nyx’s mind, and it no longer quite sounded like Helenia’s voice. It sounded like Nyx’s own.

Nyx snatched up a straight razor and bent toward the mirror. She placed the blade at the back of her scalp, planning to shave herself bald.

“That,” said a ragged male voice from her back, “looks like a terrible idea.”

The razor clattered to the floor and went spinning. Nyx cursed and leapt back just in time to avoid getting a toe sliced off. A hand, paler than her own, dipped down to grab the razor’s handle mid-spin.

Nyx’s gaze jerked up as Tal straightened to standing before her. He had grown in the last two years. She had known that, of course she had known that, but it was easier to take in the details of his transformation now that he was neither trying to kill her nor attempting to bleed out on a frozen lake against her express orders. His hair was longer than when he’d left home, his cheekbones sharper, and the shadows beneath his eyes looked permanently carved there. But it was the way he held himself that was the most different. He’d always had the strait-laced posture of a soldier, but now it looked fragile, as if he held himself together only by force of will.

When he held the razor out to Nyx, the echo of another moment drifted between them: him standing above her with his blades drawn, anguish and horror bleeding over his expression when he recognized her. Now, though, he only looked haggard and a little bit lost. She accepted the razor from his hands and then lunged forward, throwing her arms around him in a hug.

He was stiff at first, shocked for a few beats too long, as if he’d forgotten what an embrace felt like. After a moment, he softened slightly and his arms went around her. “I love you very much, Nyx,” he said, a tiny trace of his old humor in his voice once again, “but it is perhaps not the best idea to throw yourself at people while holding a razor.”

She sniffled loudly and withdrew, blinking her