I pocket the gems, bracelets and money and leave the box on the floor. There’s no point in putting it back. The only person who’d possibly come looking for it is Mama, if she’s even alive. Standing, Iattempt to pat the ash from my skirt, but only succeed in smearing it more. I turn for the door and that’s when I take a good look at the bed. The top is mostly obscured by the debris that fell onto it from above, but from this angle, I can see the side of the bed where my mother’s singed blue duvet is neatly folded over and stuffed under the mattress.
Her bed is made. Alise said they came at night when everyone was sleeping, but Mama wasn’t asleep because her bed is still made. It could mean nothing. Mama could have been working late somewhere in the dom and still died in the fire, but for the first time since Jael told me what happened, I feel a flicker of hope.
Maybe, just maybe…
I rush for her nightstand and tear open the drawer to search for something to write with. There’s a pencil, but no paper anywhere that hasn’t been burned to ashes, except… I pull a bill from my pocket. It’ll have to do.
I lay the bill on the floor and write:
Mama,
Contact Jael in Verneth to find me.
—Katya
I stuff the bill into the metal box, drop it back into Mama’s hiding place, and replace the board. There. Even if she is alive, the chances of her finding the note are slim, but it’s worth a try.
I jump to my feet and race out the door to find Aemon.
And I freeze.
He’s on his knees, hunched over, rocking back and forth, back and forth. “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “It’s all my fault. I’m so sorry.” His voice cracks on the words. Is he crying?
I call his name softly, “Aemon?”
Aemonleaps to his feet and spins around to face me. His eyes are red and swollen, cheeks tear stained. He’s covered with soot and what appears to be blood, and I’m afraid to even imagine what else, smeared over his hands and arms as well as a long rusty-brown streak across one side of his face where he must have attempted to wipe the tears away.
It’s unnerving seeing him so undone. I’ve never seen Aemon so much as shed a tear, even after being nearly killed in the arena.
“Are you alright?”
Aemon averts his eyes. “Yeah,” he says with a long, wet sniff. It isn’t exactly convincing.
Is he embarrassed about crying? He shouldn’t be. I start toward him, neck craning to look at whatever had him so upset. It isn’t until we’re shoulder to shoulder that I see the child.
A little boy, to be exact, and for a moment, my belly does a nosedive as my mind confuses him with Maxim. Then relief floods through me when I realize it isn’t my brother I’m looking at, but another boy. One of Max’s friends, though I can’t remember his name. Gods, what is his name? How can he be left to die like this and no one even remember his name? I take a few steps closer, caught in my own internal war—one part of me wanting to run away from this place and never look back and the other needing to face the truth of what happened here.
The left side of the child’s face has been burned so badly, his eye has melted in its socket and bone peeks out from the blackened tissue. Even so, the pain and terror he felt as he died is clear in the curl of his little fingers, the bunch of his brow, the stretch of his mouth as he screamed.
I turn away, hand over my mouth to hold back the sob bubbling in my throat. I’m horrified and angry but also so damn grateful it isn’t Max, and I know how selfish that is. He was just a little boy with a family and friends that loved him, and he didn’t deserve to die. But the thought of this happening to Max… Of his sweet face twisted in pain and terror as he suffered. A sob escapes my lips. Gods, help me, I don’t know that I could ever recover from that. My throat hurts and my head is beginning to ache. It’s too much. My emotions are a maelstrom swirling in my head, making me crazy. I want to cry, to scream, to bang my fists against my skull and rage against the injustice of it all, and Aemon… He feels responsible for this, but it isn’t his fault. He wasn’t even at the palace when it happened. I turn back to him to tell him so but stop short.
He’s clean. Dirt and ashes still smear his clothes, but his hands and face are pristine, as though the gore all over him moments ago was just a figment of my imagination. But it wasn’t. It was real. He was covered in blood and ash and now… “How did you do that?” I ask, drawing back.
Gaze distant, as though he’s recounting something from another time and place, he says, “When I shift, I keep what I want and shed the rest.”
“Like blood and dirt.”
“Yes.”
Something pricks at the back of my mind—a needle and thread drawing all the pieces together. My chest tightens. I don’t really want to know. I want to remain in blissful ignorance with the man I love, but I ask the question, anyway. “Who was the woman you killed?”
His eyes widen, and he takes a step back. “What?”
I step forward. “You told me you’d only ever killed one woman. Who was she?” I say, surprised at the strength in my voice.
“Does it matter?”
“Who was she, Aemon?”
