He tucks the letter into his cloak pocket. “Tomorrow, I will deliver it. I expect payment upon my return.”
16
STUPID.
I’m too nauseated to pay much attention to the passing gods and goddesses as I make my way back to the palace. Can the Courier be trusted? Who is to say he will not break the seal and read of Eurus’ downfall before it occurs? If he were to inform the East Wind of my plans, Eurus would never let me walk free.
The door to my suite is a welcome sight. I slip inside, shutting out the dread that hounds me. Back pressed against the door, I release a heavy sigh. What’s done is done. In the meantime, I will wait for Lady Clarisse’s response and focus on completing Eastern Blood.
Shrugging off my coat, I pad across the main chamber toward my bedroom, the amber of late afternoon streaming onto the thick patterned rugs. Framed by the window curtains are the city’s countless squares, vines clambering up walls of white stone, the antique faces of apartment buildings. Something like longing tugs at me. All my life, I have been content with what St. Laurent has to offer. Now I begin to wonder if something is missing.
As soon as I enter my bedroom, I stop.
The East Wind stands with his back to me, the hem of his cloak stirring around his long legs like a hundred licking tongues, wings tucked tightly against his spine. He stands before the cauldron ofEastern Blood, consulting a book he holds in his hands:The Practice of Herbal Remedies.
“Your notes are quite detailed,” Eurus observes without turning around. “Meticulously organized.” The parchment emits a soft hiss as he turns a page with a blunt fingertip. It depicts a table showcasing how long one must boil the root called heaven’s tears before it breaks down into a paste.
“You can read Jinsean?” I ask in surprise. The manual is written in my grandmother’s native tongue.
“I am a god,” the East Wind replies. “I understand all languages.”
At last, he turns. It is strange to see him standing beside my unmade bed. The twist of the sheets, proof of how poorly I slept after waking to Eurus’ nightmare. “You made me believe you knew only the basics. That you were still learning as an apprentice. But your notes suggest the expertise of a master bane weaver.”
“Those aren’t my notes,” I say. “They were m-my grandmother’s.”
He peers down at the manual, brushing the edge of a page in thought. “Your grandmother knew what she was doing.”
“She did,” I manage through a thickening throat.
“You miss her.”
I nod, sensing his attention on my face. “Every day.”
“She treated you well?”
I choke out a laugh. “Of course,” I whisper. “She loved me.”
Eurus shifts his attention back to the manual, though I suspect it is because the sentiment makes him uncomfortable. Does he know what it feels like to be touched with a gentle hand? To know all of your days are washed in security and warmth?
“Tell me of Cornflower Hills,” he demands brusquely, pointing to the bottom of a page covered in my own miniscule handwriting.
Wariness brushes my body’s every edge. Surely it is not a lesson he is after? “It is a b-brew used to expel dark spirits from one’s body,” I explain, drawing nearer so we stand shoulder to shoulder, peering down at the book.
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“You wouldn’t have,” I say, flipping the page. It falls open to a comprehensive sketch of a hyacinth flower. “I created it myself.”
Though the East Wind angles toward me, I keep my focus on the drawing. This brittle parchment, this shaded charcoal, this endless, obsessive scrawl notating measurements, symptoms, cures. Nan’s entire life’s work. And someday mine, if I am worthy of it.
Eventually, he shifts his focus back onto the book. I tell myself I am relieved.
Though our hands do not touch, their difference in size is comical. And yet, I am curious… What would happen if I shifted my hand slightly to the left?
When the curve of my smallest finger grazes Eurus’ wrist, he goes still.
I dare not breathe. My lungs feel as if they are crumpling from within as the East Wind rotates his hand, his pinky curling subtly around my own.
“For what purpose did you create this poison?” he asks, with a breathlessness I fail to miss.
