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But the prince was right. My humiliation from last night’s epic smackdown fuels my workout, and I’ve pushed way beyond what I ever thought I could do physically. It’s kind of exhilarating.
“Breathe through your nose and into your belly,” Eclipsa commands, ripping me from my daydream and back to the very painful present.
“I am,” I promise.
“No, you’re sucking mouthfuls of air through your lips like you’re drowning. It’s the most inefficient way to get oxygen to your body . . . and you look like a dying fish.”
Well, she doesn’t mince words.
Lifting the weights from me like they weigh nothing, she gives me a second to breathe.
“Let me ask you a question,” she begins. “For a human, you have what could be a strong, athletic body. Why are you so weak? Does your kind not have training to keep you in shape?”
Her words sting, and I glance over my too-thin body. It’s hard to remember what I looked like with muscle and curves in all the right places. “We have sports, but . . .” Anger, hot and unexpected, surges through me, and I have to forcibly unclench my fists. “We’re starving where I live. Hard to build muscle without food, you know?”
Surprise flickers across her face before she can school her expression into a neutral mask.
My heart clenches. Talking about my life on the other side conjures a wave of sadness as I realize how much I miss my aunts and the others, especially Jane. Are they okay? Do they have enough to eat? Are they safe?
An ache forms in the back of my throat. I can’t think about them. Not now. Not until the day I walk out of this academy.
Grunting, I open my hands and motion to the weights, hoping the grind of pushing my body to its limits will remove the hollow grief that’s settled deep inside me.
Eclipsa is looking at me different now, but she hands them over, and I finally manage to lift the dumbbells halfway. She coaxes a few more reps from me and then allows a water break.
I tell myself it’s not because she feels sorry for me. The idea she might pity me now is unbearable. When I’ve downed five cups of water from a metal tumbler, I casually start to ask questions, hoping to distract her from our torture session. “So . . . what’s the deal between Rhaegar and the Winter Prince?”
She’s in the middle of some ridiculous yoga pose, and she slowly untwists her lithe body and meets my eyes. “Oh, you noticed that, did you?”
“Kind of hard to miss. I feel like a tennis ball being smacked back and forth.”
“A what?”
“Never mind. So . . . they have history?”
She switches to a one-legged pose, her arms unfurling above her head as her eyes shut. “They both loved the same girl.”
Drawing my knee up to stand on one leg, I try to emulate her pose and nearly fall over for my effort.
“That sounds . . . tragic,” I tease, righting myself. But then I see her face and wish I hadn’t joked.
Her lips are pressed tightly together, her eyes dark with emotion. She slides a careful look over to me. “It was, actually. She died.” She grabs a towel and tosses it at me. “We’re done for the day.”
Thank the Shimmer. Sopping the sweat from my tired body, I grab my clothes and limp for the locker room. A hot shower and change of clothes later, I at least don’t feel like roadkill.
On my way out, Eclipsa pulls me aside. “Word of advice? Don’t ever mention what I just told you. It will be a miracle if we can keep Rhaegar and the prince from starting another war.”
“The mother of all surprises,” I grumble.
Eclipsa laughs, a real laugh that shakes her entire body, and I’m suddenly thankful I can speak my mind around her without fear of reprisal.
“You and the prince seem . . . close,” I begin, struggling with how to phrase my words.
She stiffens. “Most of my early years were spent as a hostage living at the Winter Court. The Unseelie King learned I’m stealthy and possess a great memory, so he employed me as a spy. And when he discovered my skill with weapons . . .” She lifts her fine-boned shoulders in a shrug. “The prince is like a brother to me, and his father’s influence is the only reason I have a spot in this school.”
The prince. I can’t get over how everyone calls him that. “Do you know his name?”
“No,” she says, staring in the mirror as she re-clips one of her barrettes. “And he’ll never tell anyone, even me. As the most powerful Evermore to ever grace these halls, he’s a target. If anyone had his true name . . . well, anyway.” She shakes her head, the half-moon jewels curving her forehead shimmering. “That will never happen. He’s not a fool, and only his mother knew his given name.”
