We relapse into companionable silence. I drink the horrid ale, if only to prevent myself from doing something rash, like reaching for the East Wind instead.
“I want to apologize, bird.” He swallows. “Min.”
“Again? For what?”
The moment his black eyes capture mine is the moment I recognize that I have changed, as has he. I have despised him, I have loathed him, I have judged him, I have scorned him. But we are threads of the same loose weave, hardship fraying our lives. I cannot despise the East Wind unless I despise myself.
“For how wrong I was to judge you,” he says. “For doing everything in my power to hurt the one person who might be able to help me. For failing to see that who you are is separate from who you work for. For not lifting you up when you needed it. For withholding gratitude and appreciation. For making your time here horrible. For taking you from your home.” He trails off, his expression troubled. “And that is only the surface.”
We could be in a tavern, or a ballroom, or a library, or the middle of the street. It wouldn’t matter. My awareness of our surroundings has long since faded, and there is only the East Wind to anchor me to reality.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, voice hoarsening. “For everything.”
That he cares enough to admit his transgression shows how far the East Wind has come since our tumultuous beginning all those weeks ago. “Thank you, Eurus. Really. Thank you.” I do my best not to peer at him too closely for too long. His face fascinates me.
Apparently, his is not the only face others find fascinating. I have been so engrossed by our discourse that I have failed to realize that I,too, have become an object of interest to the divine seated at the surrounding tables.
“They stare,” I whisper.
“Because you are radiant, as Demi said,” he murmurs. “There can be no other reason.”
I shift in my chair, strangely breathless. “Or because I d-don’t belong.”
“What if I say that you do?”
My body leans toward him and the warmth that is promised. What does he mean, exactly? Belong here, in the City of Gods? Belong withhim?
But it is a dangerous edge to toe, and so I retreat a step into safer waters. “What comes after?”
“After?”
“When the tournament is done. After you have won.”And killed the Council of Gods.
His knee brushes mine. My eyes drop to the point of contact, his heavy thigh cloaked in the stiff fabric of his trousers, mine concealed beneath layers of silk. The clamor of the tavern dulls, as though steeped in a heavy fog.
“I promised I would take you back to St. Laurent if you helped me, and I keep my promises. Unless,” he says with new intensity, “you have changed your mind?”
Weeks ago, I would have reaffirmed my desire to return home. Now, I question the decision. Should I wish to open my own practice—and I believe that I do—Lady Clarisse will do everything in her power to sabotage me. And then what? Homeless and out of work. Nan’s legacy forever buried. “I don’t know.”
“Why do you want to return to your old employer so badly?” he presses. “You know she will return to mistreating you. It may even be worse than it was previously.”
He is right. The moment I return, I will be punished. The only question is how severely.
“It’s not that I wish to return toher, necessarily, but if I want to be promoted to bane weaver, then I need to return to the estate. Do you expect me to just leave and start over with n-nothing, at a place I have no ties to, with people I cannot trust to have my best interests at heart?”
“That witch has never had your best interests at heart,” he argues. “And I question what will change, if anything, should you return to her.”
“What do you mean?”
“What of the immortals she’s taken prisoner? Will you return to your former life and do nothing as you did prior to coming here? Will you listen to their cries of pain and turn a blind eye?”
The churning in my gut hitches, for I can recall with frightening clarity how those cries broke against the walls of the estate. “I d-don’t agree with her ladyship’s t-treatment of immortals,” I squeeze out, feeling suddenly small and pitiful, little more than the gunk wiped off the bottom of someone’s boot.
“So what will you do to stop her?” His tone has softened.
“I d-don’t—” I shake my head, throat stricken. He’s right. For all the years of my life, I did nothing. I was forever frozen by the fear of being cast out, drowned simply for the idea of existing. “I-I-I—”
“It’s all right, bird.” Eurus cups my cheek, and I calm. “We don’t have to discuss this right now.”
