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Chapter Eleven
Aika
The city is already beginning to stir by the time I make it to King’s Square. The bells above the shopkeepers' doors and the clacking of vendors rolling their carts into place on King’s Square play out like a melody. Very soon, the marching feet of shoppers and the chatter of bored noblewomen will add to it.
A few of the familiar merchants nod at me, and I return the gesture.
At least here, I get to be Gemma, petty criminal and hustler. Not the terrifying enforcer known as The Flame, and more importantly, not Lady Aika, sister to the dead Jokithan bride.
I try to remember that as I head to my usual spot in the open market, crouching down on the elegant tiles of King’s Square to open my fiddle case.
The instrument glows under the sunlight, reflecting my concentrated gaze and the swathe of black hair hanging over my brow. After tightening the bow, I add rosin to the bow hairs.
This process used to be soothing to me, one of the few things I enjoyed taking my time with. In another world, I could have seen myself playing the instrument just for the sake of playing, instead of using it as a ruse to eavesdrop on the people around me.
But today, the steps are more about stalling than anything, about staving off the memories that assault me every time I have played since Zaina died.
Sure enough, the memory hits with the first stroke of my bow.
My hair is loose, whipping around my face with each dramatic note of the song. I’m lost in the music, but not so lost that I don’t see Mel dancing like she can erase all the ugliness of this place with the beauty in her fluid movements.
Maybe she can, but already, it seems I can’t close my eyes without seeing the bloated, half-eaten carcasses that wash up to shore when the sharks are done with them. And those are just the lucky ones, the ones Mother didn’t take time to deal with personally in her dungeons.
I drag my bow across the fiddle hard enough to make it screech before I move into another set.
Zaina is playing the piano in tune to my song. She’s skilled enough at this, like she is at everything else, that she doesn’t miss a note when I switch it up. But her eyes are even more hollow than usual, the bottoms sunken in from the days she’s gone without eating.
Mother is so worried about her running away, I wonder if she’s considered that Zaina might simply waste away instead.
I blink hard until the image is gone, swallowing the guilt that threatens to bowl me over. But even as I pick a jaunty song, one far removed from the memories of that day, I can’t keep the thoughts from edging in.
The creeping suspicion that’s been forming in my gut since Damian brought the news, the one that was cemented last night.
The way Zai’s eyes were starting to get as empty as Mother’s. The way she was constantly planning ten steps ahead, but somehow managed to die in a cave where she wasn’t even supposed to be.
I don’t know why, and I don’t know how, but there is increasingly less doubt in my mind that Zaina went to that cave to die.
* * *
I’m just placingmy fiddle back in its velvet-lined case when I feel someone’s eyes on me. I sigh and speak without even bothering to turn around.
“Have you come to haul me off in chains?”
Remy’s well-worn black boots appear next to my fiddle case, and I intentionally take longer than necessary closing the clasps, giving myself time to school my expression.
“As tempting as the idea of you in chains is...” He lets that thought dangle in the air between us while he rakes his gaze over me. “I decided it would be more useful to follow you around until I stumble upon what I want to know.”
“I knew you were bluffing,” I reply, getting to my feet and slinging the strap of my fiddle’s case over my back.
Remy is standing closer than I realized, my nose only inches from his broad chest. He is in casual clothes today, a nondescript tunic and leggings covered with the deep-green cloak he’s worn since I met him.
Even now, even when the rest of me is hollowed out and raw, his closeness pulls at some forgotten part of myself, the part that almost feels human.
“If I didn’t know any better, I would almost think you were upset about something.” He reaches up to tuck a strand of hair back into my bun, and I despise the way I want to lean into his touch.
“But, of course, that would imply you have feelings.” His bantering tone is back, and I welcome it.
“Let’s not get ridiculous. I’m merely considering the imminent prospect of my untimely demise.” I raise a single eyebrow, injecting a nonchalance I don’t feel into my tone.
