Page 31 of The Heart Trials

A long bench is beneath the window. Privacy curtains hang on either side of it, thick enough to shut out the world outside. Enough to imagine that here, no one from our lives before exists. Across from the view is a giant bed buried in blankets, ornamented and intricate like a shrine. The entire room is lavish, with rich fabrics in pinks, gold, and deep violet. The ceiling is painted with clouds and scenes of people embracing one another, touching, and kissing. I force a foot forward and remove my gloves to run my hand along the bed linens. There is a pair of silky sleeping clothes folded up on the bed. They are the softest thing I’ve ever touched. My gut cinches with guilt. Nichol and Miss Omon are spending tonight in a tent.

My head feels light, the sedative gnawing at my skull as it works its way through me.

On a small table there’s a glass tray with all kinds of liquids that have strong smells.

Authorized Scent No. 9—Curiosity

Authorized Scent No. 7—Electric Anticipation

Authorized Scent No. 18—Gentleness

Authorized Scent No. 2—Lingering Desire

Authorized Scent No. 16—Soft Ache

Authorized Scent No. 20—Emotional Yield

Authorized Scent No. 6—Allure

Authorized Scent No. 4—Tempered Affection

Authorized Scent No. 10—Mutual Regard

I smell Curiosity, and it turns my stomach, reminding me of the smell of the Evergild Gardens. I slide the jars off the desk into a waste bin.

Along the walls are a series of frames, some with papers: government-stamped love declarations, emotion permits, and grief waivers. Privileges of the Skyborn. I’ve heard stories about how Skyborn live, but seeing it laid out like an exhibit—proof that feelings can be owned, granted, revoked, manipulated—makes it feel less like a lifestyle and more like a sentence. There is even a vintage lowborn marriage certificate—when mothers and fathers could cohabitate with supervision—before it was reduced to signatures on state-approved procreation forms.

Other frames have photographs: the carnage of the Redwake rebels being captured, the Benevolent holding a flag, piles of bodies, and several sketches of lovers.

I have to squint to read the fine print in the frames. My head begins to throb, my vision blurring. Rebels snuck into Skyhaven and burned down the buildings where grief waivers are printed. If lowborn couldn’t grieve, neither would they. That was when the war turned, Miss Omon said.

It happened when I was young. I don’t remember much. Miss Omon was living with her sister and helping in a mothers’ tenement. Rations stopped, the water along the shore darkened, mixed with something that made everyone sick. And eventually, the Benevolent sent Mercyenforcers into the districts in the middle of the night to arrest anyone affiliated with the rebels, anyone ever seen having a private conversation with them, of any age. They were dragged from their beds, parents separated from children, made to watch as they were executed.

A large photograph in a fancy frame shows a line of stoic children, standing in front of freshly dug graves with shovels in one hand and their other hand lying flat over their heart. Staring at death. I’ve smelled more dead bodies in my life than I can count. I usually let my eyes blur them out. But now for some reason, looking at a mere photograph punches straight through me. My throat goes dry, like the dirt they are standing in. I glance away. A knot in my chest moves into my stomach and twists. But I force myself to look back at the photograph of the dead and the children they left behind. They deserve to be seen.

I step closer, until the glass fogs with my breath. My hands tremble. Something weak and helpless curls in my gut. Then, it burns, sharp and hot, climbing my spine.

The Benevolent doesn’t want us to feel this…

He doesn’t want us to ache for them.

He just wants us to remember what happened—to fear that their fate could be ours.

But I let myself feel all the discomfort. And everything that comes with it—confusion, anger, and fear as I stare at the children. So many are Serafina’s size, holding pain like they were born to carry it. The strange emotions are heavy on my chest, and yet I’m not sure I’ve ever felt more alive, like every raw, shaking piece of me is wide awake.

I have to make the people who did this believe I want to be one of them more than anything.

When I sit on the edge of the bed, a cloud of pink mist sprays overhead, another Scent. My nose tickles as a strange feeling unsettles my senses. I hold in a breath and dash away from the bed to the desk instead, trying not to breathe it in. But every movement is more difficult than the one before it; my limbs are growing heavier. I yawn.

There is a stack of papers printed by the Bureau of Bonded Union on a low table beside a long cushioned seat. It’s a calendar of dates with a few circled in hearts: The Binding Eve, the Purge of Passion, the Hour of Holding, Fleeting Hearts Festival, Comrade Recognition Day, Maternal Reverence Day. We don’t celebrate any of these. The holidays we have in the Saltblood district are our seasonal days of thanks, when the entire district goes to our gates and places offerings of gratitude for the Benevolent.

Written in fine print is Duty Blues or Chastity Whites Are Approved for Ceremonies.

Expressions of love are not a right here either.

It’s another form of the Benevolent’s control. It’s a reminder of his power. I’m suddenly cold, hugging myself, craving some warm milk and one of those oat breads Miss Briss sometimes makes when there’s enough extra.

I pace, then pause at the mirror, realizing I don’t look anything like myself. My hair is shortened, loose and unkempt, barely hanging over my shoulders. There are red scabs at the corners of my lips. It’s been an entire day without my chain, and I feel naked. I want it back. I need it back.