Page 144 of Tempest

“Longdawn. Ambrose. Aleta”

Cat’s pulse quickened. She knew those names—they were colonies of the Meridian or the Esperese, familiar even to her.

His finger continued, tracing another diamond of ink. Valerian’s eyes flashed, snapping to hers.

“Rosby.”

Suddenly the sweet taste of taquil turned sour and hateful, the contents of Cat’s belly threatening to crawl back up her throat.

“I—”

Her voice faltered, for there were no words to say. Valerian stared at her through it all, not with accusation, but some grim satisfaction.

“What did you think your island was?” he muttered, his bare forearm still between them. “A place of absence, of nothing? Do you think it rose out of the sea at your bastard king’s command, just to be given to some pale fool in a wig?”

Cat could not help but think of the hot cage that was Rosby, with its empty beaches and little hill, the crumbling house and simple barn. No fields, a single well. She felt as if the sea could swallow it at any moment. And yet it was not always so, she thought, ashamed.

“I did not think—did not know,” she forced out, stumbling to form a thought. Until one sharpened, impossible to ignore. “Of course the island came from somewhere else. From someone else.”

Certainly, Ryman knows the details better than I. Which family member had been gifted a spit of land, for whatever service. Land claimed by a crown, supplanted by a Meridian flag, with laborers and engineers to chip away whatever was left. To burn down homes and markets and docks. To tear down stone. To destroy belief. To erase people.

She tried to imagine the island, to see it as it was. Was the flat top of the hill cleared away for a market square? Were the stones around the barn the remains of a wall? Or the smooth limestone that formed the beginnings of the dock? Had there been a forest, cleared away for lumber in the early days? And the phoenix trees, the only shade, the only respite on the entire island—was that a garden once? An orchard loved and tended by the lost?

“It is not mine,” she managed to whisper, as if it were some kind of apology. “Nothing really is.”

An odd light gleamed in the shadows of his eyes.

“Would that were the way of things. When nothing belongs to anyone, nothing is ever taken, and no one is ever swept aside.” His lips curled, forming a sneer. “But that isn’t the world we live in, is it? That isn’t the world they made.”

Cat shook her head, fighting the urge to trace the inked shape that was Rosby.

“It is not,” she muttered, her anger swirling in her chest. “Everyone takes.”

Between them, Valerian’s fist curled, the tendons in his arm flexing.

“All we can do is take back.”

Cat kept staring, eager to avoid the judgment of his gaze. And perhaps memorize the ink on his skin. Not for his sake, but her own. To know a little bit more of the Lyrian. Only one diamond stood unnamed, the smallest of the collection, nestled below the crease of his elbow.

“What of that one?” she said. This time she couldn’t help herself. She pressed a finger against the tattoo.

Valerian didn’t flinch, but his skin blazed. “That is—and remains—Azual.” He lingered on the last black diamond, squinting at it. “In Meridian, it translates to a great storm. A tempest.”

“A tempest,” Cat echoed, and something stirred in her. Suddenly she felt very aware of the sweat at the nape of her neck and between her breasts, pressed together by the tight cut of the borrowed dress. Her throat jumped and she swallowed hard, turning to busy herself with whatever she could find.

One by one, she cleaned out cracked glasses with the folds of her dress, wiping them for patrons who did not exist.

“Would you like to return to cards?” Valerian said roughly. He moved without sound, inching back along the bar to give her some space.

Cat could not help her sharp reply, uncomfortable as she felt. “Would you like to keep losing?”

He barked a laugh and she felt the sun again, his warmth enveloping. Whatever shadow hung over him seemed to clear away.

“Shall we trade questions instead?”

Her hands slowed, avoiding a chip in the rim of a green cup. “On one condition.”

A dark-gold eyebrow curved in question.