Page 28 of The Heart Trials

Dorian barges into my conversation with Miss Omon. His chestnut-brown hair is pulled back in a bun. His warm olive skin is more tanned than usual, like a stone courtyard at dusk. “Miss Omon, hi there.” He turns to me. “It’s good you’re back. We were worried.” He lowers his voice. “Have you, uh, considered my offer?” He still wants to marry me.

“I have and my answer has not changed.”

“Axira, hear me out.”

I swallow a sigh. Dorian helped me out more than once when my supplies got stuck on a river boulder. That’s the extent of the time we’ve spent together.

“You are smart,” he presses, “and a bit terrifying, if I can be honest. There is no one more Saltblood than you. I admire the way you help us all. You broke the wheels on the food caravan weeks ago!”

“It actually left empty for once,” I say, remembering.

He smiles. The dainty silver chain running across his mouth accentuates the shape of his lips. As if there is a secret between them the chain tries to hide. Kissing is a dance of tongues, I’ve heard. My tongue pokes at the metal in my mouth, imagining how strange it would be. Caelus comes to mind. Dorian watches me as if he can hear my thoughts, and heat rushes up my neck.

“I am almost of age. They’re going to make me pick someone. Aren’t you nineteen soon too? You’ll be forced to pick someone before you know it.”

“I have an entire year,” I say. By then I’ll be gone.

Dorian gathers himself up. “Well, if I have to go through that humiliating experience, I want it to be with someone I respect. You. I’ve heard the act of making them isn’t all bad.” His cheeks flush.

He’s shorter than Caelus and much more weathered. I wonder what it would feel like to slip the gloves off and feel the heat of someone else’s skin against my fingertips. Would it be different than touching my own face? A part of me burns with the urge to try it just to defy the Benevolent. I stare at Dorian but see icy-blue eyes and a tangle of white hair. I blink hard, trying to scrub my brain of thoughts of the prince.

My own mother never bent the rules, even behind closed doors, to make sure I knew how to survive. However, my father held my bare hand once when he showed me how to hold my first knife. It had a driftwood handle, carved by his own hand. But it was so long ago I can’t remember how his touch felt. If the bodies hanging at the district gates for breaking the rules aren’t enough of a warning, the effects of touching are.

Touch can breed affection, a gateway to love.

Touch with a stranger can breed falling into romantic love.

Which, from the stories I hear and have seen, is being consumed with a person, not because they are family or like family, but because of something else. Something indescribable, something infectious, like a sickness, as if that person becomes a part of you that you can’t live without.

I’d rather drown.

“My parents have a little to leave me,” Dorian goes on. “You wouldn’t have to live in the Row. Anchor’s Alley is nice. I could get you into one of the tenements there.”

“Who knew you were such a romantic?” I say. “You should enter the tournament.”

“I’m not a romantic. I’m just trying to make a strong choice.”

I scoff. “I’ve spent no more than an afternoon with you a few times stuck in a riverbed, and you want to make children with me?”

I shouldn’t mock him. He is nice; he buys extra Heartfillers for his sister, not himself. He’s a bit too sweet, like a sticky bun with too much honey, but he is trustworthy. I’ve already signed away any chance of what he’s offering. Even if I hadn’t, he isn’t special to me. My parents worked well together because they were special to each other. Like a sail and wind.

“My answer is no.”

“Why?” he urges.

“I want something different for myself.”

“So, your plan is to settle for living and dying alone?”

“See? You don’t know me at all. I don’t settle. I make my own luck.” I turn to march up the stairs. I can’t leave without at least peeking inside at Fina.

But she’s already on the stairs. She is wrapped in a scratchy blanket, the faint sliver of her glowing chest showing as she shakily descends.

“Serafina, back inside,” I say, pulling the blanket tighter across to hide her chest’s faint glow.

“You’re back. Finally.” Her voice is raspy, and my heart turns in my chest. “The fish bite early, Axira. You said—”

“Back upstairs,” I say under my breath firmly.