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“Me too, but I sleep better knowing karma and fate have met every soldier involved that night.” I grit my teeth at the reminder that Graves still breathes. I will kill him, but now that he’s advanced the ranks to Commander of the Crown’s army, I just have to be more tactical about it. “Well, almost.”
“Oh? How do you know that?” Riot asks, genuine interest in his tone.
I sit on the couch and open Mom’s book. “Karma and me, we’re old friends.”
Riot hovers over me as I delicately turn the pages, each one a journey into the past. “She was a healer.”
“How did you know?” I wonder aloud.
"A Healer’s magic stems from the element of earth," he explains with a touch of reverence. "They can grow everything and heal almost any ailment."
“That sounds like Mom,” I say, a smile lifting my cheeks as the memories of her makeshift gardens flood my thoughts. Somehow she always found the herbs she needed, but there were a few she carried in our wagon at all times—aurum lavender, vervain, and chestnut.
I still remember the day Karter knocked over the vervain and the ceramic pot shattered on the wagon floor. Mother was furious and made him replant it in his boots until we found our next village.
I smile at the memory until Riot’s movement pulls me from the past. He heads to the shelves, his fingers gently tracing the spines of the books as he scans over them.
“What are you doing?”
“You already know about herbs.” His eyes move across the titles. “But you don’t know anything about your gifts.”
He selects a brown clothbound book, freeing it from its place, and gracefully settles beside me. The aged parchment seems to hold secrets, and the air around us becomes charged with anticipation. “This one was written by an ember.”
“Did you kill her?” I flip through the pages, stopping occasionally to skim over the swirling letters. Like the others I pulled, it’s more of a diary than a record of what the Cerise could do, but there’s something else. A strange feeling lingers whenever my fingers touch the aged pages. It's not malevolent but it's undeniably present, as if the essence of the story is reaching out to me.
His eyes grow cold, his voice hard when he says, “No.”
My stomach growls a sound that doesn't go unnoticed by Riot. Frowning in concern, he comments, “You’re hungry. When was the last time you ate?”
“I had an apple at lunch a few hours ago but I’m fine.” My stomach rumbles again, this time so violently that I put my hand on my belly to quiet it. We have an hour, maybe two, before dinner. I’m sure, like the apple, I can find something there that’s safe to eat. My body just needs to be patient.
“Stay here. I’ll fetch you a plate of food,” Riot offers, already rising from his seat.
“You don’t have to do that,” I protest, but gratitude warms my voice. Riot heads toward the door, then hesitates, a moment of uncertainty etched on his face. “What’s wrong?” I ask, sensing the shift in his demeanor.
“I relieved Greg of his post a few minutes ago. The Crown’s guests will be back from their excursion soon and I don’t want to leave you exposed. But I don’t want to lock you in and make you feel trapped either.”
“You could give me the key. I could lock it from the inside.”
“How would you know it’s me at the door?” He shakes his head, considering the logistics.
“I’d know.” Confidence colors my response, fueled by the subtle awareness my magic provides. He watches me with a curious glance, an unspoken acknowledgment of the mysterious facets of my abilities. “I can sometimes sense things,” I admit, breaking the silence. “Mostly my magic sends warnings of danger but I can sense people, too. Some more clearly than others.”
“Interesting,” Riot remarks as he walks over to the shelf again, pullingout another trio of books. He hands them to me and then retrieves a key from his pocket. “You truly are an enigma, princess.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because all the Cerise I’ve met have only been blessed with one gift but you have at least four that I know of. I’m curious what else you can do or if you even know the limits of your abilities.”
“What are my four?" I ask, wondering how much he’s figured out about me these past few days.
“You have the knowledge of a healer, the fire of an ember, the foresight of a seer, and the gift of a mender.” Riot takes my chin between his fingers, his touch gentle as he tilts my head to inspect the mark Graves gave me, but I have a feeling we both already know it’s gone.
“I used to think menders were a myth.” He steps back and retrieves one more journal, an old brown one with cracked leather and faded writing on the spine. “This book is one of the oldest in the room. It belonged to the last known mender in Arcane.”
I run my hands over its bindings. “What happened to her?”
“She died.”
