She licks her spoon clean, drops it into her empty bowl, and regards me. She’s around my age and strikingly pretty, with bright blue eyes peering out of a heart-shaped face. Her porcelain skin glows with rosy undertones. Half of her yellow-blonde hair is coiled into a bun at the back of her head, the rest of it falling past her shoulders in soft curls.
“You’re not in trouble, and I’m not the kitchen constable,” she smirks. “I won’t send you to soup jail, I promise.”
I laugh, a fraction of my tension evaporating. Sliding onto the bench across from her, I dip my spoon into the steaming stew. “I’m Itissa,” I say, blowing on it. “Everyone calls me Tiss.”
“Pleasure, Tiss. I’m Sadrie.” She gives a dramatic flourish of one hand. “Short for Sadrielle.”
“Pleased to meet you.” I take the hand and squeeze it. Her skin is warm and vellum-soft beneath my fingers. “Sorry to intrude if you were trying to get some peace and quiet.”
“Not at all! It’s nice to see a new face. Truth be told, most days I’m so bored I could cry.” She scrunches her nose adorably. “When did you arrive?”
“Three days ago. Finally feeling up to exploring a bit now that my headaches resemble, well,headachesrather than dynamite blasting my skull.”
“Ah, well, rest assured the pain should be mellowing soon.”
“That’s what Elodie said.” The statement slips out unplanned.
“Oh?” Sadrie inclines her head. “Is Elodie a friend of yours?”
“Can I ask you something?” I gesture with my spoon. “Did one of the high priestesses offer to make you a cold compress for your headaches? With, um, herbs?”
“Withherbs, even,” Sadrie breathes, eyes sparkling in the firelight. “And here I am, never havingseenthe priestesses. Much less received medicinal propositions.”
“Interesting.” I take another bite, savoring the information along with the food.
Sadrie watches me, a mischievous smile playing at the corners of her mouth. “You can’t leave it at that and expect to move on, you know.” She places her elbows on the table when I don’t reply. Lacing her fingers together, she props her chin on them and bats her pretty eyes. “Oh, come on, Tiss. Entertain me.Please? Bored to tears over here. I might have mentioned.”
“Since you insist.” Talking through the food in my mouth, I launch into the disturbing scene I witnessed in the gardens yesterday and the abrupt way I was stopped from pursuing Cara.
“Goodness!” exclaims Sadrie, her hands dropping to the table with abang. “Do you know what happened?”
“I haven't the slightest. And nobody will tell me.” I go on to relay how I was collected from the rooftop earlier, thoroughly insulted by Sister Ailen, and paraded to the Second High Priestess’s chambers with great haste—who, of course, turned out to be the greenhouse woman.
Filling Sadrie in on the rest of it, I choose to keep the mortifying kiss to myself.
It’s a complete mystery how I can know, deep in my bones, that society disdains those of us attracted to our own gender. Especially women who love women.
Meanwhile, I have no clue with whom—man or woman—I’ve shared intimacy in the past. Well, aside from a supposed husband the sisters mentioned when I first awoke, who passed on at some point in my mysterious past.
The notion of having ahusbandin general seems absurd.
“That’s it?” asks Sadrie. “She wanted to make sure you’re drinkingwater?”
“And sleeping. Apparently.” I split a chunk of potato with my spoon, focusing on the table’s rough-hewn boards worn smooth over time.
The terrible scene between Kerrigan and Rosalie is looping through my mind again. On top of the aching emptiness in my chest, it forces tears to my eyes.
Sadrie’s warm hand on my forearm startles me. “You weren’t on that roof for the view earlier, were you?” Her question is gentle, almost cautious. “Tiss, I know we hardly know each other, but if you feel like that again—”
A choking sound escapes me. “It’ll pass. I’madjusting.”
“All right.” She keeps her hand in place, not a hint of judgment anywhere on her. “I’m around if you ever need to talk. Just don’t do anything rash.”
“Thank you.” The idea of having a friend helps, and a grateful tear tracks down my cheek. “Please don’t tell anyone what I told you,” I whisper, dashing it away.
“Don’t worry. I’m no snitch.”
“How do you know that? You could be the snitchiest snitch who ever lived and have no idea.”
