Page 38 of The Labyrinth and the Threaded Daughter

It occurred to him then—quietly, unexpectedly—that he wanted her to say his name one day. To say it without fear. To hear it from her mouth without the stone bringing down punishment on either of them.

The thought startled him.

Ariadne shifted, drawing her knees in closer, her gaze drifting upward toward the sky. “You do not look at me the way the others did.”

“Others?”

“The heirs,” she clarified lightly. “Those who noticed me at all.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “How did they look at you?”

“Like a tool,” she said simply, though Corin could tell the memories hurt her. “Or a trap.”

He met her eyes. “I don’t think you’re either.”

The admission settled between them, fragile and unspoken but certainly as real as anything else in the maze.

XIV

Corin awoke slowly, peacefully, the way one did after a sleep that hadn’t quite been earned but much appreciated.

The light above the chamber had shifted—still bright, still impossibly blue, but angled differently now. It was softer at the edges. More welcoming. He couldn’t quite see the fields anymore, but he did see the branches of a large tree.

His body felt lighter than it had before he’d closed his eyes, the deep ache in his muscles dulled to a distant memory. He pushed himself upright, blinking.

Ariadne was kneeling beside him.

He startled despite himself, then relaxed when he saw what she held. A small, shallow cup, no larger than a thimble. Within it gleamed a stop of liquid so luminous it seemed to gather on the light rather than reflect it. He recognized it instantly, and his mouth watered.

“Ambrosia,” she said. “Only a drop, though.”

“Again?” He gulped.

She nodded slowly. “Just a bit more. Drink it. It will keep you from hunger and thirst for the rest of your time here. Any more would surely unmake you.”

“And you’re sure I should–”

“Yes,” she interrupted.

He hesitated only a moment before taking the cup. In truth, he hadn’t been hungry or thirsty his entire time in the maze. He didn’t fully understand being in the Labyrinth, but with the curing liquid taunting him in her hands, he could feel his body thinking it would shut down soon without sustenance.

He downed the ambrosia quicker than he had intended. It touched his tongue like warmth rather than any sort of taste, somehow feeling like how sunlight felt on his skin after a particularly rough winter. It slid down his throat and settled in his chest, spreading outward in a slow, steady bloom.

He exhaled, startled by the sudden clarity that followed. The dull edge of fatigue he didn’t even know he had been feeling vanished entirely.

“That’s… unsettling,” he admitted.

Ariadne smiled faintly. “You will get used to it.”

Corin didn’t want to admit that he wished he never would.

She rose then, brushing invisible dust from her hands. “If you are willing, I can help you figure out what this place wants from you.”

His eyes widened. “You will?”

“Yes.”

Corin stood to see her face more clearly. There was no guile there. No calculation. Only resolve. And something like hope that she didn’t quite allow herself to acknowledge.