Seeing as this woman appears moments away from either stabbing me or calling for reinforcements, I decide to lay everything out on the table. “I’m in love with his brother, the South Wind. He’s one of the—”
“Anemoi,” she says. “I know.”
We stare at one another with combined wariness and reluctant interest. A strange thing, a very strange thing, that I might look upon this woman, a stranger to me, and feel as if I am glimpsing a reflection of sorts. “What do you know of Notus?” I ask.
The woman hesitates. Her caution is plain, but curiosity is a much greater force. Holding the swaddled infant close, she murmurs something to her son until he lets go and drops to his feet, pouting. “My name is Wren,” she says. “Come with me.”
I’m led down an ornate staircase with a gleaming banister. Every hallway, marked by doors. There must be hundreds, thousands in this stone palace. Rounding a corner, we enter a library with sleek, curvedwalls bearing an impressive collection of books. Her son races across the library on stubby legs, screaming, “Papa!”
A man unfurls from a cushioned armchair near the window. The boy leaps. The man catches his son midair, swinging him into his arms with deep, rolling laughter. His alabaster features are carved from marble, his eyes the pale shade of frost. As soon as he catches sight of me, however, his expression shutters.
“Hello, my love.” Wren tilts her head up for a kiss, which he bestows with a gentleness that contradicts the aggression he suddenly exudes. When she tries to pull away, he tugs her close, positioning himself as a shield in front of her and their children.
“Who is this?” His voice slithers out, low and pocked by cold.
“This is Sarai Al-Khatib.” Seemingly unconcerned by his attempt to protect her, Wren offers him the blanket-swaddled infant, who emits a small cry of distress. “She’s our guest.”
“Yes, but whoisshe?” He gently bounces the child until it quiets, scanning me from head to toe with slitted eyes. “That name tells me nothing.”
“I just told you,” Wren says. “She’s our guest.”
“She was not invited.”
Wren sighs and turns to me, mouth quirked wryly. “My husband, Boreas, the North Wind.” She gestures to the glowering man, who appears as though he would rather stab fiery pokers into his eyes than converse with the likes of me. “I promise, he’s not as scary as he looks.”
So, this is Boreas. He could not be any more different to Notus than a bird to a fish, both in appearance and demeanor. If Notus is a grounding safety, then his brother is shaped by the blackness of winter.
“I’ve come to plead for your help,” I tell them. “Notus is in trouble.”
The North Wind straightens, appearing even more stiff in the frame, if possible. “What news have you of my brother?”
I shake my head. “It’s not good.”
“Please, sit.” Wren gestures me toward a nearby armchair, then calls, “Orla!”
A pleasantly plump woman dressed in a plain dress bustles into the library. “Yes, my lady?”
“Can you put the children to bed, please?” Boreas passes over the wrinkled bundle. Their son pouts, yet dutifully grips the woman’s dress, well aware of whatbedmeans. “Thank you.”
As the woman exits the room, I blink in stupefaction. Do my eyes deceive me? That is most certainly candlelight I spot through the woman’s body—hertransparentbody. “What is this? She—I can see through her body.”
“Orla is a specter,” Wren responds, taking a seat in the chair beside her husband, “as are all who pass into the afterlife. As overlord of the Deadlands, Boreas is responsible for Judging the dead. They are quite harmless, I assure you.”
I look to Boreas. “And you have always judged the dead?”
“Since my banishment, yes. Though we don’t know what will happen once Wren and I pass, whether our children will take over, or if the Council of Gods will appoint another successor.”
“You are not immortal?” I ask the North Wind in surprise.
He looks to his wife before answering, “I haven’t been immortal in over two years now.”
The information sinks into me, oddity and realization both. I wasn’t aware that shedding one’s immortality was possible. I believed it to be inherent, of the blood.
The North Wind settles in, one long leg outstretched, a lock of black hair sliding over his brow. “What has happened to my brother?” he asks quietly. “I assume he still lives?”
How does one define life, really? What is the point of living when one cannot wake? “He’s trapped in an eternal sleep. A darkness has been released into my realm.”
Wren and Boreas exchange a look of silent communication, the softness and love evident between them. Wren quirks an eyebrow. Boreas frowns. She playfully rolls her eyes before turning back to me. “I sympathize with your plight,” she says to me, smoothing a hand down her thigh, “but I’m not sure how you expect us to help. We havenever traveled to Ammara. We know nothing of this darkness you speak of, nor of whatever curse Notus has found himself under.”
