Page 95 of Carousel

If I didn’t feel so utterly alone and separate from it all.

I watch from the sidelines as a boy young enough to still have acne and no facial hair jumps up to become Riss’ partner. She laughs, but doesn’t say no, and he grins like he just got the biggest Provision in the village.

He reminds me a little of my brother.

It makes my chest seize up.

And then my head starts throbbing. No, I think. Not now.

I try to blink the pain away, and at the same time I do, a tin cup is placed in my hand.

I sniff the drink. The smell hits me like a wave. Rotting fruit.

I almost put it down on the table behind me.

But then I think about Drake’s bruised, wet face. The strange torture he was being subjected to. The same torture that’s waiting for me.

When will I be subjected to it? Tonight? Tomorrow?

Across the room, Cosmer stands aloof, away from the other pilots and Drake. His arms are folded. I’m sure he can see me.

I’m sure he could ask me to dance. If he wanted to.

But he’s barely looked at me this whole time.

My stomach flips.

I down the drink in one.

I wince – the liquid is thick and potent and sticks in my throat – but then it settles. I decide I don’t mind the bitter taste.

I don’t mind it at all.

Along the table, someone has left their cup unattended, and I take that one too.

CHAPTER 17

The Morale Boosters

It goes on like this for a while. I start losing track of time.

Being this light-headed is pleasant. The buzzing in my skull has dulled right down. I think, without the drinks, I’d be in a lot of pain. Will Meg really be able to remove the blood magic causing it?

More drinks have been brought out. Soldiers and pilots are becoming louder, their laughter looser and movements more erratic. Riss is still dancing. The top bench has emptied out, the officers busy dancing or socialising. Dezeeves himself, a drink in hand, is mingling with soldiers and pilots – but Ephraine remains seated, silently observing everything – or rather, everyone.

And I keep finding myself looking out for Cosmer. Like right now.

I spot him, at the top bench himself. He’s engrossed in conversation with someone.

Meg, I realise, the back of my neck prickling.

Why?

Why her, of all people?

She seems to have become even more beautiful as the evening has worn on. Her hair has been pushed back, and her dark, curved face has a slight flush. She’s the kind of beauty sailors drown themselves over in Rhavnan folklore.

I’d actually felt vaguely pretty in the dress borrowed from Riss, which is white, sleeveless, floor-length and clings to me, not unpleasantly. Now, I feel as plain as the serving girls must have felt during balls at the Palace.