“You are not an artist.”
“No,” Lara admitted. Maybe once she’d dreamed . . . But F
o r g o t t e n s e a 65
she wasn’t Gifted like the rest of her kind with an artist’s creativity. She couldn’t sing or play, spin or weave, paint or draw. She had a head for figures and a knack for organization. That was al .
“Your chemistry marks were never high enough to consider you for the lab side,” Simon continued with dispassionate brutality. “You have neither the strength nor the training that might qualify you for the furnace.”
His assessment was no more than she expected. Maybe what she deserved. But she winced, al the same.
“I can stil answer phones. Track orders. I’ve got computer skil s . . .”
“I think . . . Something quieter. More contemplative,”
Simon said. “The Rule cal s us to self-knowledge and obedience. You have proven yourself sadly lacking in both.
This is an opportunity for you to reflect on your true place in the community.”
Her eyes stung. Her heart burned. Al the reflection in the world wouldn’t make her see this as an opportunity.
This was punishment.
She blinked, her gaze flitting to the bed. The worst part was, she wasn’t the only one suffering for her insubordination. Justin was being punished, too.
The chil , smal room pressed in on them. She and Simon stood face-to-face, toe-to-toe, like fighters, like lovers. She raised her chin again, a gesture of defiance. She had never defied him before.
Another first, she thought, trembling with exhaustion and daring. It was a night for them.
“Can I at least say good-bye?”
Simon’s eyes flickered. “He won’t hear you.”
6 6
V i r g i n i a K a n t r a
“Then it shouldn’t matter to you. But it does to me.”
His face was cool and impervious as marble. “As you wish.”
A tiny victory. She would make the most of it.
She approached the bunk. Even spel bound and unconscious, Justin looked messy and attractive and vibrantly, painful y alive. She knelt beside his bed like a girl at prayer, hands in front, resting on the rough wool of his blanket.
Awareness traced down her spine like a bead of perspiration. She looked over her shoulder. Simon stood in the center of the room, his eyes gleaming silver in the mage fire.
“Do you mind?” she asked pointedly.
His jaw set. “Not at al ,” he said politely and turned his back.
Taking a deep breath, she leaned over Justin’s pil ow and pressed her lips to his. Her hands fumbled in her skirt.
Her heart drummed wildly in her chest, in her ears. She held the kiss as long as she dared, wil ing her breath into him.
Her right hand slid from her pocket and thrust under his mattress. He never moved.
She sighed. “Al right. I’m ready.”
She pushed to her feet. Simon was waiting. Head bowed, eyes lowered, she walked past him, leaving her smal defiance behind.
Along with Justin’s dive knife, a lump under his mattress.
6
H e wa s s h a k en . C h a n g e d . S h e h a d c h a n g e d him. Lara’s kiss—
He wanted . . .
He needed . . .
His world was ended, everything lost, drowned, submerged beneath the waves. He had to find . . .
“Find what?” A man’s voice, deep and penetrating, dragged him back to his body, to his splitting head and the flat, hard cot. “What are you looking for?”
He disliked the voice instinctively. An impression surfaced, too fleeting to be cal ed a memory, of a large hard man wearing black and a sneer. No name.
“Who are you?” the voice asked.
6 8
