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“Say something.”
I inhale slowly. My free hand traces one of her white arms and clamps down on her fingers, prying them off. Ketra pulls back. She lets go with the other hand, and her arms drop listlessly by her sides.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, her voice tinged with hurt and anger.
If she really wants to do this, so be it.
“Are you really this stupid?” I ask, noting how my voice has a knife-like quality about it. “I know how Rhun got the bones that night.”
Ketra opens her mouth, then shuts it. I look at her hard, noticing how her hair is dull and unkempt, and how her eyes swim in dark circles. She may be a wreck, but I won’t let her get into my head. I cross my arms and hope my expression communicates anger rather than guilt and a childlike desire for comfort. “If you hadn’t run away like a spoiled brat, if you hadn’t been so intent on getting back at me—”
“How unsurprising that you’re making this all about you.” She laughs dryly, shaking her head.
I am the bewildered one, now.
“What are you talking about?”
“Rhun is”—she chokes on the word, like something bitter—“dead, Belwyn.” Long fingers twist at the front of her dress. I should be comforting her, but I’m stuck on how we still sayiswhen a person no longer exists. Her face contorts. “And you’re acting like daring to have fun with someone else for once is the worse crime.”
“I know he’s dead,” I say quietly, focus returning, eyes narrowing. My voice is so low it almost doesn’t make a sound. “I know that.” I can feel my shoulders drawing upward. The buildup of tension surrounding my lungs gives increasing power to my words. “He was my brother. Mine. Not yours. Not some amusing pastime.”
I step forward, and Ketra retreats, her eyes huge. “I’m the one who saw him last, and I’m the one that has been spending a week trying to clean up the mess you made.” I’m yelling now, and the corrosive words rip at my throat. “Were you there when he died? Do you even realizeyouhanded him the very thing that destroyed him?” I press a shaking hand to my forehead, trying to gain control. I can feel my heartbeat pulsing through every part of me, like something fighting to escape.
Ketra cowers in the ignati glow, and I think how small she seems.
With enormous effort, I reel in my fire. My next words slip through gritted teeth. “Don’t you dare tell me I cared more about your pathetic tryst than I did for my own brother.”
Her lip trembles. Tears shine on her cheeks. “I needed you, Belwyn.” She steps toward me, her plaintive voice weak. “I needed you the night of the Hunt. I needed you when Rhun died.” She sniffs. “And I need you now.”
I want to scream away her meaningless words, but she pushes the lantern aside and erases the distance between us before I can. Her lips find mine in nothing more than a passionate last effort at self-defense. For a moment, I consider giving in, but I feel nothing. Nothing except this depression seeping into my bones. She is using me like she used Rhun. I don’t kiss her back.
When she pulls away and looks at me with shadowed eyes, I turn my face away from her and stare into the black. Maybe I would have accepted this—whatever this is—a week ago, but not now. I can’t.
“What’s happened to you?” All the softness has left Ketra’s voice.
I shake my head.
I don’t know. I don’t know.
12. Amyrah
AMYRAH
BOLÉTIS WASH ME IN MULTICOLORED HUES. Instead of quiet blue, I am illuminated by vivid green, purple, and orange tones. Nothing compared to my dreams but still more than I knew existed in this world. Several days of searching the darker corners of the forest proved worth the effort. I’ve made six trips home with baskets full of these treasures. Every day yields more tiny beauties. I have ventured farther into the trees than I would ever have dared before meeting the sola. Before discovering the darkness can’t reach me.
Father wouldn’t like it, but he has barely acknowledged my existence since the Hunt.
Expecting him to be confined indoors, like he has been for more than a fortnight, I bound into our yard, to the lean-to along the far wall of the cottage. As I reach for the latch, the slatted door swings open, exposing his hunched form. His beard sticks out at odd angles below his sallow face. The buttons of his shirt are mostly undone. He stares, blank-faced, at the rows of bolétis, neatly arranged along rough shelves in old, clouded glass jars. The necklace dangles from his hand. It glints in the bolétis light.
“Amyrah,” he says, as though I hadn’t been gone for hours. His voice cracks from days of silence. “What is this?”
I bite my lip. What can I say?
The brilliant gem quivers as his fist clenches. He raises it to the level of his eyes and scowls before twisting his shoulders toward me.
Strange. It does not glow when he holds it.
“I asked you a question.”
