“As safe as you can be in a hut with a thatched roof.”
Flames gutter in the fire grate.
Soren tears into his bag and produces the remaining fish, layered in salt. He prepares it upon a slate on the floor, and I crouch beside him, watching and hungry for Oreo cookies.
I catch the glint of a mirror shard hanging beside the door. It has a swirling design along the edge that almost seems to flicker in the firelight. Instead of grimy glass like in town, this mirror is polished. I step closer, my eyes darting wildly to the glitter under my eyes. Soren was right. I am different. Tiffany would be jealous. Since the moment my hand touched my mothers and I landed in that cold place, I’ve felt different. It’s like I was asleep and now I’m awake.
“Why are there so many mirrors and glass in the city?” I ask.
“They were for the ravens. They liked shiny things.”
“Like the seer?” I ask, slinging his unnecessary hostility at the woman back at him.
Soren’s dark eyes wash over me, and I feel like I need to come up for air. I take my coat off. The hut holds the heat surprisingly well.
“And this mirror?” I ask, tracing my fingers along the glitter beneath my eyes and the pink tint on my cheeks.
Soren appears at my back, looking at my reflection with as much wonder as I am. I feel strangely wobbly under his gaze.
Soren clears his throat. “That mirror is one of the only things I have left from my parents. It was my mother’s mirror actually. Rather, a piece of it. A fragment leftover from the Grievous Fire.”
I step toward the hearth to warm my hands as the scent of fish fills the cocoon of Soren’s hut, perched snuggly on the hillside.
He turns the fish over using a metal prong and then drapes his coat over the back of the chair. My breath catches at the sight of ink on his skin. He covers his bare forearm with one massive hand and looks down, shame darkening his cheeks. “My punishment.”
I step closer, afraid my eyes play tricks on me. Countless words tattoo his skin.
“The silver king erased our history. Closed the schools. Burned the books. And those lucky enough not to wind up in the ashpit are branded, revealing our thoughts, our secrets, and our dissent for all to see.” He grunts. “The king’s ink curse was the consequence of the rebels fighting against him. To mark them. Us.”
“Fascinating,” I say, tracing my fingers over the curling letters of the tattoos.
“Humiliating.” Soren starts to move his arm away and then stutters an exhale.
Most of the words overlap and bleed into each other. It’s hard to make out specifics. Instead, they almost resembled twined ropes, like Celtic designs. But I do see a few corrupt, ache, ridicule, desperate, and revolt.
“If we speak ill of him, the words appear on our skin,” he explains.
“This must be the curse I’m meant to break. But what if you do something against him?”
“The ashpit,” he answers darkly. “And if you’re fae—” His eyes dart to mine and linger there.
“How does he know any of this if magic is outlawed?” I ask.
“He makes the rules. He can break the rules,” Soren mutters and takes the fish from the fire.
Soren gestures that I take the chair. He sits on the bed. Silence fills the empty spaces between us as the fish fills our bellies.
All I have are questions and my mind repeatedly lands on the notion of the curse. I can slay a demon, but how do I break a curse?
He brushes his hands together and then tugs off his boots, stretching out on the floor next to the fire and cradling his head. “What would be good right now is a slice of brown bread.”
“Never heard of it unless you mean wheat or pumpernickel. I’m a wonder bread, peanut butter, and fluff kind of girl.”
His nose wrinkles like he has no idea what I’m talking about. “Brown bread? The most delicious thing in the world. Molasses, ginger, and butter. It’s fluffy and dense and delicious.”
I tilt my head in challenge. “My mother’s blueberry pancakes were the most delicious thing in the world.”
“That’s only because you’ve never had brown bread.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with a memory. “Warm, slathered in butter...”
I take off my boots and warm my aching feet. The note from the demon, matching the seer’s words pokes from my pocket. I repeat it at a whisper.
“Demons shadow thieve, while the fae court grieve. Four sisters to find. One compass to bind. Four crowns to take. One curse to break. Before twelve moons turn, else the realm will burn.”
In a sleepy voice, Soren says, “Could be a prophecy if you prefer. If you believe in that kind of thing.”
“Do you?” I ask curiously.
“Definitely maybe,” he says around a yawn.
“So not no.”
“And not yes,” he clarifies. “I imagine the seer has a list of prophecies she readily recites to empty out people’s pockets. Especially innocent girls from out of town.”
“Do you see many innocent girls from out of town?” I ask.
Tension stretches and rebounds between us.
“Only you,” he says, closing his eyes to sleep.
The fire sizzles. I gaze into the flames, turning the seer’s words over in my mind. Soren’s breath slows to signal sleep.
“Definitely maybe isn’t an answer,” I whisper.
I feel in the densest, deepest parts of my being. My mother had wings. I’ve seen the worst kinds of demons, but she was the opposite. And the sizzling of the fire is nothing to the frigid buzzing under my skin as though trying to escape.
I add
