Page 37 of Wicked Endeavors

HOURS LATER, THEY WERE ON THE BEACH, FAR ENOUGH from the harbor that the docks were black tongues extending out over an undulating palette of water. It was a cloudy night, the only illumination coming from the massive bonfire that Bas had put together at Teo’s request. Marisol sat on one of the three logs that Teo had dragged over for this purpose. She felt less claustrophobic here on the open sand, with the ocean spreading so far out that it seemed endless. The fire protected her from the chill, and the curtain of night protected her from having to emote. She could just be.

“All right, I think that will last for a while,” Bas said, dropping down on the log beside her. Though there was room for at least half a person between them, she still thought it bold for him to sit so close to her when he’d put a weapon right in front of them. “Are you going to explain what this is about now?”

“Yes,” Teo said. “But first, you have my eternal thanks that I can just tell you that I want to do something and you’ll help me make it happen without further information.” It was the kind of thing he would usually say lightheartedly, but there was an unusual somberness about him. “I really don’t know what I’d do without you, Bas.”

Bas shifted in his seat. “I love you, too.”

Marisol wanted to ask if the two boys wanted a moment alone, but it would have felt wrong considering the gravitas that had fallen over them. She wasn’t the only one who felt the most herself here in the dark. Bas and Teo, both lit in gold and orange from the flickering flames, were more real than she’d ever seen them, without sarcasm, without guile, without lies.

“I wanted to do this far away from the snooping ears of any servants,” Teo said, standing in front of the fire. “We’ve been planning and scheming for a while now, but there was a part of me that didn’t believe we could really do this. I know it’s just one theft of one plant, and the road from here is no less daunting, but I wanted us to take a moment and celebrate this victory. Before, we were allies. Tonight, we were a team.”

Instinctively, Marisol began to smile. It was very much like the prince she had come to know to do something like this, and she couldn’t fight off the fondness that was replacing her apprehension. Even cast in shadow, Teo looked like a god, the flames rippling behind him like a cape made of pure light. Anyone else would’ve looked monstrous with their face dimmed, but Teo’s expression and body language were too open for that. She could pick out the color of his eyes and the shape of his smile. His enthusiasm was contagious.

Despite the cold summer night, she didn’t need the fire to keep herself warm—not with this sunshine of a boy in front of her.

“You’re absurd,” Bas said, sounding as delighted as Marisol felt. “It’s the middle of the night, and it’s freezing.”

“As if we haven’t gone swimming under these very circumstances.” Teo knocked his foot against Bas’s, smile widening. With his curls tumbling over his eyebrows and his cheeks rounding, he was so handsome that she had to look away. “Remember when we stole two bottles of vermouth from the banquet, got sick drinking one, and decided to dive into the river?”

“We were fourteen,” Bas clarified when he caught Marisol’s raised eyebrow. And then, to Teo: “I remember the look on your brother’s face when he fished us out.”

“Well, our clothes had been custom-made by a new tailor…”

Teo began to laugh, and so did Bas. With their heads bent together, Teo leaning over his seated friend, they looked again like lovers. She got to see Bas this relaxed only when he was with the prince, and the change never stopped fascinating her. Even at Seaward Palace, he had been guarded, and she’d taken it as dedication. After all, he had been a servant. She had been a ward. If something happened to her when they were together, he would be the one punished.

The fact that she couldn’t remember ever seeing Bas this loose, this open, made her suddenly, profoundly sad.

Teo turned his glittering eyes on her, still snickering. “Have I told you about the time I convinced Bas to steal a sword from the armory?”

“Please,” Bas groaned. “I thought this was supposed to be a celebration.”

Marisol begged to hear the story, and laughed her way through Teo’s dramatic retelling of Bas getting locked in a storage closet when Itzal arrived for training early and accidentally knocked over a spear that blocked the door. Tentatively, Marisol contributed a memory of the first time she’d practiced with real blades and lost her grip on the sword, nearly cutting off her own foot in the process. Bas consoled her with the story of the first time Teo’s horse had jumped a small stone fence and landed without Teo on its back, only for them to find him clinging to the branch of a nearby tree he’d gone flying into.

The fire began to burn low, forcing Teo to leave to get more firewood. Bas’s legs spread until his knee was almost close enough to touch her thigh. Marisol considered moving, but she wanted to stay in this moment a little bit longer.

“I think I understand now,” she murmured, watching the curling smoke. “Why you chose him over us. Why you love him. He’s… something special.”

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Bas turn toward her. “Marisol, it wasn’t a choice. And, if it was, you could have made the same one.”

“No.” She sighed. “I could never have done what you did.”

She closed her eyes, thinking of that night, of exhaustion and loss. She thought of this night, of celebration and harmony, of friendship and something a little more undefinable. She wondered what Yoselin would do, here and now, and then realized it didn’t matter. If Yoselin were here, she wouldn’t have this choice to make. She wouldn’t be broken, clutching at her cracks before any more parts of her slipped through the seams.

Neither would Bas.

Neither would Gaspar.

They had schemed. Marisol had been brought in only when the plan was so complete that there was very little chance that she could mess it up. And she still felt as if she was messing it up, because, here beneath the silver sky, she was wavering. She was full of doubt and empty of hatred.

She felt like the eighteen-year-old girl she was. Lost. Tired.

Marisol had carried the truth of that night every day like shackles around her heart, thinking that to move forward would mean to forget. To forgive. She had let anger propel her through every day, and she had given in to despair in her quiet moments, feeling alone.

But as the fire ebbed, she realized that was not true. She had never been alone, not really. And she did not have to forgive or forget to move forward.

She did not have to live in a painful past, punishing herself with what she did or didn’t do. Her rage had become a crutch, a cage. She didn’t want to let it control her anymore.

Every breath was a revolution. Every step was a rebellion.