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“That is difficult to explain.”
“Did you follow me?”
“No.”
“Have me followed?”
“No.”
Clare narrowed her eyes when he offered no further information. Silence was a weapon in the right hands, and his were clearly the right hands. She wished she were having this conversation with Verol instead. He was easier to read, had an openness to him that probably caused him no end of grief. Or, more likely, caused Marquin no end of grief. Because while one would always know when Verol was sincere, when he was happy, they would likewise always know when he lied, and when he was so sad he could fill a room with his unhappiness.
Marquin was different. He had been no less kind to her than Verol, but he was more…distant. He was more like her than like Verol. More calculating, slower to trust. They were traits she understood and respected, traits that kept a person alive. She was not certain how he and Verol had come to be here, but she was certain that, while Verol’s interests upstairs had been in keeping her safe, Marquin’s had been in keeping Verol safe. Marquin would help her insofar as helping her helped Verol.
Verol. He was Marquin’s pressure point. She pasted her sunny smile back on. “You don’t want to answer my questions, but I take it you would prefer if I waited here for Verol to return.”
Marquin didn’t answer. Not that she’d expected him to.
“Well, then. If it is of no consequence to you, I’ll be on my way.”
She rose.
“Your guitar will ruin in the rain. That case isn’t waterproof.”
“I’ll bear that concern in mind.” She turned and reached for the door handle.
“You’d do it, wouldn’t you?” he asked. “Disappear into the rain with nowhere to go, curfew be damned despite what almost happened to you in that room.”
What almost happened. It sounded practically civil when he put it like that. So proper and politic. So very not what it was. She shoved her anger down and calmly replied. “Of course I would. I’ve never found a bluff productive. If someone calls it, you either look like a fool, or have to make a choice you didn’t want to make. I find ultimatums far more effective.”
A soft sound that might have been a laugh escaped him. “That they are. Very well, then. If I explain, you’ll wait until Verol returns?”
“Yes.”
“It is an…unusual explanation. You may not believe me.”
Clare settled onto the bench once more. “How fortunate for you that my belief was not part of our bargain.”
He sighed. “I do not suppose you have ever heard of the magic called Kinthing?”
Clare had not heard of much in the way of magery at all. She had gathered what information she could on magic, back when she’d still wanted to know what the thing inside her—the Song—was. But reliable information had been difficult to find in Renault County, and even more difficult to trust.
Still, an answer floated into her mind, as answers sometimes did, even when she was certain she hadn’t known them before. “It’s some type of familial magic, yes?”
“In a way. Kinthing magic is very specific, almost an entity on its own. At its core, the Kinthing is a protective force. It feels an affinity for those who may be a danger to themselves, or those who are in danger from others, and it pulls the mage who possesses it towards those people.” He gave Clare a meaningful look.
She laughed at his suggestion that this Kinthing had dragged Verol and Marquin across the city to protect her. “Every person is a danger to themselves. And every person is a danger to everyone else. Safety is an illusion to all but a powerful few. If this Kinthing operated as you say, Verol would never sleep for its constantly dragging him about.”
“But there are some who are more a danger to themselves, or who are in a different type of danger than others. The Kinthing is…selective. It does not pull him towards everyone.”
Tightness gripped Clare’s spine and suddenly it was difficult to breathe. Better to be one of a thousand than one in a thousand. An unwanted voice rose in her mind, and try as she might, she couldn’t shove it down, couldn’t stop it from whispering old words.
I am very selective, min quellea. I am not drawn to everyone.
A roaring sounded in her ears as her blood pounded, trying to drown out a voice she’d never wanted to hear again. The interior of the carriage and the soft cushions disappeared, replaced by cold walls and concrete floors and the ever-present skitter of things she couldn’t see in the darkness.
Not there. She wasn’t there, she wasn’t. But she couldn’t remember where she was, and the roaring in her ears was growing louder and louder, and she knew when it grew loud enough it would drown her, and?—
“Clare.”
