“What if I t-told you I don’t care what you look l-like?” I counter. Before he can respond, I push forward. “I have seen ugliness in all forms, Eurus. Your features cannot scare me.” I waver, for to live is to be brave, and I have never considered that a strong quality in myself. But I reach toward his hood regardless. Darkness consumes the tips of my fingers, which brush something smooth, yet softly prickled in texture: the East Wind’s stubbled jaw.
He goes still, yet: “Go on,” he murmurs.
Catching the edge of his hood, I draw it back. It falls away to reveal a head of thick black hair, tousled; a raw-boned face; dark eyes and wide cheekbones, like those ancient gods from Nan’s homeland, forever enshrined in her holy books.
But that is where our similarities end, for the East Wind’s visage is twisted and malformed. The entire left side is puckered by a stretch of old scarring. A portion of his hairline has receded where the damage is particularly severe. His left eye has been spared, though its corner droops slightly, smeared into the damage blotting his cheek.
Burn marks. I would recognize them anywhere. But they do not detract from the rest of his features. The right side of his face, largely untouched by scarring, reveals considerable beauty. His jaw is sharp and wide. The pupils of his eyes are clear. His mouth: long and of pleasing shape, one side soft, the other kinked with scarring. What of the rest of his body? Is it, too, marked by scars?
The East Wind begins to draw his hood back up.
“No, please.” I catch his hand. For just a moment, our fingers lie curled beside each other’s, like kits in a burrow. “Don’t cover up.”
He stares at me. It does funny things to my insides. “My features are too ugly.”
“You’re not ugly,” I say. Then, quieter: “Not to me.”
Reluctantly, he lowers his arms, granting me permission to continue my perusal. My body buzzes with sudden anticipation as I reach for his face and allow the tips of my fingers to coast along the raised, toughened skin, a gossamer touch.
His expression changes then, thawing into tentative pleasure as my fingertips travel along his jaw, up and across his unblemished right cheek. His eyebrows are straight, yet sparse. His nose slightly rounded at the tip. And I was mistaken. His eyes are so much richer than I first perceived, gleaming black stones shaded by short eyelashes.
And somehow… somehow, we have drawn closer. I’m not sure who moves first, but as the East Wind cradles the back of my head, he brushes a soft kiss across my cheek. The scarred edge of his mouth grazes my skin, and my head sinks beneath high waves, the sea drawn into my lungs. Two heartbeats later, Eurus pulls back. I blink at him, dazed.
“Rest, bird.” After easing me back onto the mattress, he tucks the blanket around my form. “You deserve it.”
As he shifts away, I catch his hand, peer up into a face that is both familiar and wholly new. “Thank you,” I whisper.
His mouth curls, the disfigured corner pulled taut. “Don’t thankme,” he says. “I’ve done nothing to earn your gratitude and everything to earn your spite. But tomorrow is a new day. I’m going to make this right.”
Then he is gone, and I am left with the warmth of his gift, this darkness that is his and mine to share.
PART2WHAT THE WATER GIVES
19
MIN,
Keep an eye on the East Wind’s ax. In the meantime, you must find out more about him—his weaknesses, what he cares for. No detail is too small as it may grant us leverage when it comes time to ambush him.
I have reached out to my contacts. Prince Balior has mentioned this island you speak of. Or rather, his beastly companion has. Do you know when you’re expected to return to the island? What of any protections placed around it? I assume the East Wind employs a number of defenses.
I’ve a buyer for the estate. The deal will be done by the month’s end. You have until then to get me the ax.
—Clarisse
Fingers trembling, I tuck the slip of parchment into the pocket of my dress. End of the month. That’s less than two weeks away. Either I deliver Lady Clarisse the ax, as promised, or the estate goes. The thought of returning to Marles with no home, no place to rest my head, no earth to dig my hands into, slicks my skin in a cold sweat.
“Good news, I hope?”
I lift my eyes to the Courier, who has claimed a table in the back of The Blind Oracle. Smoke uncurls between us, hazing the bright silver of his eyes.
“Yes.” I plaster on a smile. “I appreciate you sending for me.”
Yesterday, a palace messenger passed me a note, a single scrawled line from the Courier requesting my attendance. I waited until Eurus left this morning before venturing into the city.
“It was no trouble,” he replies, taking a long, sucking drag from his pipe. “Though I do expect payment.”
I blink, startled. “Oh. Right.” I’d nearly forgotten. “What would you like in exchange?”
