Elara nodded.
“Think of Corinne. Something simple, a basic memory you don’t want anyone to see.”
Her thoughts were a jumbled mess. Blood spilled upon cobblestones. Late nights spent in foreign places. The way Elara had held her the night of the bombing as she fell apart.
All too big.
She settled on a flash of a memory. She’d been a child, barely seven, eavesdropping through a crack in the doorway to the front of Gaetan’s shop, where strange people gathered around tables. They all looked grumpier than her mother’s mentor, Gaetan.
To a child, it wasn’t a valuable memory.
To the Counseil, it was the first rebel meeting.
“Got it,” she whispered, eyes clinched shut.
The first tap came like a gunshot, over and over. The needles pierced her skin and rattled off her bone. The pain was immense, but the memory being torn away from her was worse. It felt like falling, being devoured from the inside out. The more she scrambled to hold on to faces or even the smell of Gaetan’s bakery, the more they fell away.
She screamed, reaching out for Blai, who grabbed her tight.
Alessia pressed a cold rag to her forehead. “You’re doing great. The first line is done.”
Elara cracked her eyes open.
Shock bolted through her at the sight of another hand in hers. Fernand had grabbed her, not Blai. He was breathing heavily, face pale as he stared down at her finger.
The wave was tiny, the skin around swollen and weeping. But it was done.
“Ready to start again?” Alessia asked.
Elara caught Fernand’s gaze begging her to stop.
She lay back.
“Ready.”
Each tap of Alessia’s needles hit like lightning, and the pain never ceased. It only became a hum, driving her into darkness. Her mother returning home from rebel meetings smelling of wine and cigarettes. Secrets shared over learning how to make the perfect crust. Even a trip across the river to Belleplace, where they’d spent all afternoon wandering the shops.
It was more than she’d bargained for.
Fernand never let go. Even when she screamed and cried.
When Alessia finally set her needles aside, Elara was dizzy.
“Deep breath.” Alessia wiped her finger with a rag, sending another wave of fire through her body.
True to her word, the mark was small enough to conceal with a simple band. The circles wove around one another, like uneven icing or ripples in a pond.
Fernand released her and stumbled away.
Blai rushed to take his place. “Did it work?”
She removed a truth-telling cookie she’d baked this morning from her pocket and ate it. “Ask me something.”
“Where did you grow up?” Blai asked.
“The Restes,” she replied.
Alessia chimed in, “Who was your mother?”
