Page 190 of The Immortal’s Mark

Chapter 30

Reasons to Live

Chapter 645: In which our heroine discovers that the universe has a very strange sense of humor.

Third morning in a row.

I barely make it to the washbasin before my stomach turns itself inside out. Cold porcelain bites my palms. Bile burns my throat. The morning light coming through the silk screens feels personal, like it’s trying to hurt me specifically.

Behind me, the sheets rustle. Ren’s awake. I can feel him watching, that weight of attention I’ve learned to recognize over the past weeks. Months. However long it’s been since I stopped counting days and started counting something else entirely.

I spit. Wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. Very dignified. Very imperial consort. The court would be horrified.

“You’ve been sick every morning.”

“I’m aware.” I grip the basin’s edge, waiting for the room to stop tilting. “I was there.”

“Three days now.”

“Resurrection does strange things.” I push myself upright, move toward the window, away from the basin, away from him. The cool air helps. Slightly. “Death #412. Couldn’t eat fish for a decade after that one. The curse has opinions about—”

“You can’t stand the smell of ginger anymore.”

My feet stop before I tell them to.

“You used to drink ginger tea constantly.” His voice is quiet. Observational. The tone he uses when he’s fitting pieces together, building a picture I’m apparently too stupid to see. “Now you leave the room if someone brings it in.”

“Tastes change.”

“You keep putting your hand on your stomach.”

I look down.

My palm is pressed flat against my abdomen. I don’t remember moving it. Don’t remember deciding to touch myself there. It just—happened. Like my body knows something my mind refuses to look at directly.

“And you cry at things that aren’t sad.” He’s sitting up now. I can hear the sheets shifting. “The sunset yesterday. Dumpling yawning. That song the kitchen girl was humming.”

“That was—come on, it was a nice song—”

“Lián.”

My name in his mouth. Soft. Patient. Waiting.

The cold starts in my spine and spreads outward.

I’m counting before I realize I’m doing it. Weeks. Backwards. When did I last— The festival? No, before that. The temple? I bled at the temple, didn’t I? Or was that— No. That was the wound. That was different. When did I actually—

Can’t remember.

“No.” The word scrapes out of me. “That’s not— I can’t—”

“Can’t?”

“I’m immortal.” My voice sounds wrong. High and thin and nothing like mine. “Eight hundred years. I’ve never— not once— I didn’t think I could—”

The word sticks in my throat like a bone. If I say it, it becomes real. If I say it, I can’t unsay it. If I say it—

“Pregnant.”