Pain explodes across my cheek. I fall backward, hand pressed to the spot where Lady Clarisse slapped me. When I at last lift my head, I meet her cold, unfathomable gaze.
We have always shared the same eyes—or so I had believed. Now that I peer deeper, I realize how wrong I have been. Hers are utterly devoid of life. Chilled, broken stone. “You are not my daughter,” she spits. “My daughter drowned years ago. You are my assistant. Nothing more.”
With that, she rejoins Prince Balior, who creates a dark cloud onto which he and my former employer step. It lifts them into the sky, the East Wind curled at their feet, partially obscured by the vapor. If I’m not mistaken, his eyes open, staring straight through me.
“Lock her in the tower,” Lady Clarisse commands.
A soldier wrenches my arm behind my back, forces my knees to the ground. I scream and manage to slip one arm free, but a second soldier pins me against the ground. “Eurus!” I scream.
Higher and higher the East Wind rises—east, toward the sea. But no matter my frantic cries, no matter my incensed struggles, he regards me with a blank expression, the withdrawn regard of a stranger, as if he does not know me at all.
30
FROM THE NORTHERN TOWER, THEREcomes a scream.
It erupts from my throat, cracking against the eroded walls of the cell, its pitched ceiling and filth-streaked floor. I slam my fists against the thick steel door, again, again, again, until skin tears and blood slides down my wrists. The sharp, coppery scent cuts the air’s brine, and my throat constricts around another budding cry. Lady Clarisse is far from here, likely halfway to Eurus’ island by now. She does not care. She will not come.
I slide down the door, limbs crumpling in a useless heap. A sob splits open my sternum. The sound bleeds out, collapsing into a cycle of fitful weeping.
Slow, stupid Min.Lady Clarisse was right. All this time, she was right. Because I did not see what my life had become. I could not separate my desire to belong from the truth of her character. She does not love me. She never will. And now I have sent the East Wind, the god to whom I have given my heart, to certain death.
The fault is mine. My previous life was not ideal, but it was bearable. I knew my place. I knew what to expect, every day a dulled reflection of its predecessor. Then, change: a prisoner in the tower. I could not have known he was one of the divine. I should not have questioned, but I could not help myself.
Now, with power at Prince Balior’s fingertips and the East Windlikely dead, what will the treacherous prince do? With no one strong enough to oppose him, who is to stop him from invading Marles and making it his own?
Here, in the burying dark, I allow Lady Clarisse’s poisoned words to drip over me.
You are useless, girl.
Not a thought in that empty head of yours.
Go, I don’t want to see your face.
I shrink into the corner, become shadow. I make myself as small and insignificant as possible, yet another smear of grime on the floor.
This is what Eurus endured. This stone cage, this icy nothingness. For months, I listened to his agonized cries. It repulses me that I so easily turned a blind eye to his suffering. Yet here I am.Bird.It seems I was always meant for a cage.
When Lady Clarisse returns—if she returns—I will beg for her to release me. Then I will leave. There is no home for me here, not anymore. With the estate sold, I will gather my belongings and root elsewhere. As my former employer, she may have refused to promote me, but today, I grant my own title: bane weaver.
Wherever Eurus is, that is where I will go, armed with my poisons, poultices, and teas. I cannot imagine he would fold so easily, truth serum or not. The manor may have enchantments that further protect him. Until then, I must wait.
As I settle against the wall, however, something pokes the back of my thigh. I sit up, running my fingers along the worn stone and its hidden cracks. I tuck the chilled object against my palm, trace its slender shape: a key.
The spare key from Lady Clarisse’s stash. I’d accidentally dropped it when Eurus swept me into his arms, preparing to launch through the window all those months ago. It is worth more than gold, more than the promise of immortality. It has but one name: hope.
Cold metal bites my fingertips as I insert the key into the lock. The sound echoes in the black, and I am heaving open the door, leaping across the threshold—
Three large men stand at the top of the stairs, blocking my way forward.
I study them warily, fists raised, not that it will do any good. They are twice the size of me. “Who are you and what are you doing here?” I bark, not in any mood for civility.
First, the tallest man: white skin, coal hair pulled into a low tail. His face looks as though it has been carved from marble. A coat wraps his broad shoulders, silver buttons lined waist to collar.
To his right, a boisterous head of caramel curls. I recognize this man immediately: Eurus’ brother, Zephyrus, formerly known as the West Wind. Green tunic and green eyes, the latter of which crinkle at the corners, suggesting amusement.
The shortest man is also the broadest, the most still. His skin is darkest of all, the brown of pinecones, thick eyebrows bridged over a large nose. A violet robe, much like the one Prince Balior was wearing, swathes his muscled frame. It is he who says, “We were looking for our brother when we heard your scream.”
My eyes flick to each man: pale, dark, burnished sun. “All right,” I say slowly, “but that still doesn’t tell me who you are.” I lift my fists higher, just in case they suddenly rush me. I’ve the window at my back, still broken. Every so often, a breeze spirals inside—
