“My st-stutter.”
A warm breeze skims the back of my neck. A subtle pacifying. “It does not bother me. I think your voice is nice.” There is a pause, during which I am not sure how to respond. The last thing I expected from the East Wind was a compliment. “Are you ashamed of it?”
My face heats. “My l-l-lady says—”
“Why do you listen to anything coming from that witch’s mouth? She is horrible to you, and to others.”
“She has her r-r-reasons.”
“Which are?”
None are particularly convincing, now that I think about it. And the one truth I might reveal carries too much shame. “Everything sh-she does is to make me into a b-b-better apprentice. She s-s-said if I work hard, she will make m-me a full-fledged bane weaver.”
I sense his unexpressed scoff. “You actually think she would do that for you?”
I want to say yes, but truthfully, I am uncertain. “After Nan d-died,” I whisper, “I had no one else. My lady is the only f-f-family I have.”
“And you feel that is reason enough to overlook the anguish she causes others? She tortures innocents. She shot me down as I was flying over St. Laurent, did you know that?” He jerks his head. The sharp line of his jaw appears, then is swallowed by shadow. “Hired a huntsman to do her dirty work. Whatever coated the arrowheads, it nullified my powers. She tied me up, tossed me into the back of a cart like chattel. When I awoke, it was in the darkness of the tower, my ankles and wrists shackled.” The East Wind stares me down. “She doesn’t care about you. And you are a fool to think she ever would.”
I shake my head even as guilt renders me breathless. Her ladyship’s methods of capture are brutal, inhumane. Which is exactly why I do not wish to know about them. “I’m s-sorry you endured that.”
“I’m sure.”
Before he can slip away, I ask him, “You keep m-mentioning the City of Gods. Wh-where is it?” By the Mother, I cannot think of traveling even farther from home.
“That is not your concern at the moment. The sooner you finish the poisons, the sooner your obligation will be complete. Eat up. You’ve work to do.” He departs without a farewell.
A low, ragged breath escapes me. The East Wind is wrong, so very wrong. “He d-doesn’t understand,” I whisper to the manor. And he never will.
Where does that leave me? I am bound here against my will, yet I cannot stay. This is no life. This is a cage.
In minutes, I’m back in the tower, standing before the open window. There is the sea, cutting her vicious teeth on the rocks below. St. Laurentawaits. There must be a boat moored somewhere nearby. The thought of rowing through the storm surrounding the island makes my stomach roil, but if this is my only means of returning home, I will have to risk it.
Swinging one leg over the sill, I grip the salt-bitten frame in both hands, trembling. My breath sputters out of me. When I attempt to slide my other leg through the window, my balance wavers.
Blackness blots out my vision, and my grasp on reality slips as the sea spews foam. I clutch the window frame with all my strength. Quicker my heart thrums, a skittering rhythm caught behind my ribs. This was a terrible idea. And now I find myself frozen, unable to climb back inside.
Minutes or hours or days later, the door opens. The East Wind crosses the threshold and promptly goes still.
What must he see when he looks at me? A thin, bird-boned woman, caught between freedom and captivity. Tears trickle down my reddened face. My trembling intensifies as he advances toward me, long legs eating the ground in less than two heartbeats. A whiff of salt and something darker surrounds him.
Gently, he touches my chin, angling my face toward his hood. “Did you think to free yourself from me, bird?” He speaks quietly, yet always with that threatening edge. The tips of his fingers graze the curve of my jaw. I shiver beneath the fragile touch. “I already told you there is nowhere for you to go.”
That had been my intention, and yet— “I’m stuck,” I croak.
He reaches for me. Swift—too swift, his movements, the immortal speed. I flinch, accidentally leaning farther out the window. I claw at the frame and manage to right myself before toppling backward, gulping air. I will fall. My body will break across the waves. I will know only darkness.
The East Wind does not reach for me again. “I’m not going to hurt you.” His demeanor has gentled, if I’m not mistaken. “I’m going to pull you back inside. Take my hand.”
My muscles pulse erratically. I can’t pry my fingers free. “The w-water—”
“Don’t look at the water,” he orders. “Look at me.”
What am I to look at, exactly? There is no face, no expression, no sense of identity. His hood hides all, a void sucking any and all light.
But—better than the sea. Better than drowning. Since I can’t make out Eurus’ expression, I’m forced to read him in other ways. The tilt of his head. Points of tension in his body. How his legs are braced—ready to pull me in.
I reach for him. He retreats, then halts, as though battling his own instinct to shrink from my outstretched hand. In this moment, another of his shadowed layers peels away. Someone hurt him. How? In what capacity?
