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“No,” I screamed. “No, Odessa.”
The room shook with power as the words rang out, countering my aunt’s command.
But Odessa was fast.
She had always been faster than me with her blades.
I had always aspired to be as good as she was.
Now I wished she were slow.
The two blades swept across the air. She had started to lower them slightly when I screamed out but they still sliced through flesh, cutting across her chest.
She fell to the ground, her body shredded and torn, gasping for air.
I whirled towards my aunt.
“It’s all right, Medra,” Sarrasine said, raising a hand to soothe me. There was no compulsion in her voice now. “She was nothing. No one. I’m here. I’ll take care of you.”
All I could think of was that I might have gone with her.
I had truly been considering it. To go to a place where people might understand and accept me exactly as I was. It had seemed almost too good to be true.
But she had hurt Odessa.
I wasn’t going to waste another word on my aunt.
My eyes flashed. For a split second, I caught the look of fear on Sarrasine’s face.
Then she was gone.
I turned to the left and then the right. In another instant, the guards were gone, too.
All that remained were ash piles. Litter on the floor for a servant to sweep up the next morning.
I fell on my knees beside Odessa. She was clasping her hands to her chest. Blood flowed between her fingers. She looked down at them and let her hands fall away with a sigh. Then she smiled at me. The tenderness in that smile made me want to weep.
“Odessa.” I looked at her, shaking my head as I fought back tears. Tears were for the weak. “I’ll go for a healer. Stay here.”
“No.” Her voice was surprisingly strong. “No, Medra. Come. Sit with me.”
I sat down beside her, trying not to look at her wounds. Knowing I would never forget the sight of them for as long as I lived.
“Come closer,” she said. Her voice wasn’t sweet. That wasn’t Odessa’s way. Odessa was never sweet. But she was gentle. Tender. She loved me. I knew that now. “Closer, dear one.”
With a choked sob, I scooted forward, wrapping my arms around her.
Wearily, she lifted a hand and squeezed my arm.
“Oh, my little Medra.”
“You’re dying.” I hiccuped. “You’re dying, and it’s all because of me.”
“No.” Her voice was sharp. “Don’t ever say that. Don’t ever think that. Not because of you. Because of them.”
“My grandfather?”
“Yes.”
