“You had enough supply, didn’t you? Why was she the only Corrupt in Norhavellis this season?”
Mother’s hands twisted in her lap. “I don’t know.”
“Was she not given the elixir?”
“She was givenplenty,” answered Father this time, voice cracking with despair. “We gave her everything we had.”
“Well, then—”
“Will this affect our status as Absolvers?” Mother asked sharply.
“No,” the legionnaire said simply, much to the visible relief of my parents. “You will still be allowed to distribute elixir on behalf of the Light Bringer. It is clear you strove to uphold your sacred duty; you will not be punished for this tragedy.”
A deep rumble halted the legionnaire’s interrogation. A storm, quickly approaching, cast a dim shadow upon his golden armor. And as the rain began to fall, the sickening feeling in my stomach turned into something else. Something angry and foul.
Rain fell harder, seeping into our clothes and chilling our bones.
And Eden was swiftly buried in her box of splintered wood.
Later that night, I crawled into my bed and finally allowed myself to feel. I bit down on my sleeve, letting my anguish run fast and deep. It had been my idea—not Eden’s—to dream.
Only once, I had begged.
Eden had considered my request seriously, sipping from her mug of steaming apple cider as she glanced at the vial of amber liquid in my hands. “They check the vials every day,” she whispered. “They’ll know we didn’t take it.”
“We can pour it out the window.”
Eden shook her head, her smooth braids like snakes upon her nightgown. “The snow would stain,” she said, ever logical. Ever perfect. “And they’d hear the window opening.”
“Down the floorboards, then,” I insisted. “There’s that crack, over there—”
“If we missed, they’d smell it on the wood,” Eden interrupted. “Not to mention that’s a waste of perfectly good elixir.”
I rolled my eyes. “They have more. Theyalwayshave more.”
A loud, drawn-out squeak from the stairs made us freeze. I swapped the vial of elixir for my own mug of cider, taking a hasty sip even as it burned my tongue.
Another squeak. Another footstep.
Eden stared at me in horror.
“Eden? Esmer?” called a soft, hopeful voice. “Are you still awake?”
“Elliot,” I said in a huff, rising to peer down the rickety stairs leading to our bedroom. Sure enough, there stood our five-year-old brother, holding a book and smiling sheepishly. His large brown eyes, a mirror in color to his messy curls, were luminous even in the dim candlelight. People always told me that I looked more like him than I did Eden. Our eyes were fiercer, our hair less tamed, our builds a bit taller and ganglier. Eden, on the other hand, was all smooth, silky hair and delicate features—something that boys from the village were starting to notice. “Go back downstairs.”
“I wanted to read some stories together,” he said with a shrug. “If you were still awake and all.”
“More Dream Weaver stories?”
He nodded, squeezing the book to his chest. “Uh-huh. Was thinking the one where Nephthys saves the sea dragon from a nightmare. Or when Lelantos teaches dreamers how to fly.”
“Those are lovely stories,” Eden chimed in. “You should—”
“HaveMotherread them with you,” I finished, giving Eden a pointed look.
Elliot frowned. “She didn’t want to.”
“Father, then.”
