Page 177 of Carousel

Cosmer would hate this.

I remind myself there’s nothing intimate about this. The lights are on. The space is loud and echoing. We’re surrounded by sweaty soldiers and pilots talking and laughing, and we’re being scrutinised by a guard. I can see at least three people’s behinds.

No one cares about nakedness here. I shouldn’t, either.

It’s just a bath.

I hear the gentle splash that must be him sinking in beside me. I gravitate away from him – and for some reason my mind flashes back to last night, when I thought I was about to get him killed. The way I’d screamed his name in my dream.

It’s embarrassing. I’m glad he’ll never know.

Taking a breath, I look over at him. He’s splashing his face, washing off the powder on it and revealing the bruise.

I can’t see anything I shouldn’t, but I find myself staring at his chest. I’d seen it partially when I’d ripped open his shirt to resuscitate him. But never fully, like this.

Every muscle is defined. Even his arms are wide, strong – and he’s scarred. Lines from lashes claw outwards, from his back. His stomach is scorched with rounded burn marks, like something hot has repeatedly been pressed against him. I can finally see, understand, the training – and torture – he must have gone through in the military compound much of his life.

I force myself to look away. I shouldn’t be staring at him. Even if to feel pity for him.

“What did you want to tell me?” I ask.

His hands drop to his sides as he looks at me properly for the first time. I suddenly feel small. Like he’s seeing more of me than I want him to – and I don’t mean of my body.

“You first. Tell me what you thought of that corrective instruction.”

“Just seemed the same to me. More pointless questions and philosophising. A show, for the officers.”

“No. He was trying to do something. Perhaps, something he was trying to do all along.”

I stare at him blankly.

“Think about it, Ara. Why get us together, at all, for a corrective instruction session? Why let us be alone together, now?” He’s squinting, like he’s thinking. “We have been able to have far too many conversations.”

I force myself to grasp what he’s saying. Is there truth to that? Has Dezeeves been letting us communicate?

“The Captain’s Dinner,” I say. “We were seated beside each other.”

“Yet guests of honour would be seated on either side of their hosts, in tradition. At one point he even left the table, if you remember.”

“Do you think he⁠—”

“Do I believe he knows about the fortune that was read to the Queen?” Drake nods, firmly. “It would appear that way. He knew my name when we met, and implied he knew my identity. He can only be one of two things. A spy for Hevalla, or⁠—”

“A traitor. Like we said.”

For a second, I don’t know which option would be worse.

But then I pull the strands together, and I do. “Let’s hope he’s a traitor. If Hevalla – The Assembly – knew who we are⁠—”

“Ara. There is something else we need to discuss. Something you promised we would speak about last night. It was the condition of me helping you.”

I shake my head. “I can’t help you, Drake. I know the magic isn’t working as it should, but⁠—”

“It will never work,” he states. “If you won’t give it a chance.”

“How can I?” I retort, voice lifting higher. “It’s doomed. You’ll have to find a way to get your magic to work without me. Overthrow your mother without me.” I add, “We’re not soulmates. I love Cosmer.”

“I don’t believe it,” he says simply.