It only took a blink.
The oil sprayed up and out, catching Aasha’s bare toes and lapping Zahril’s arm. A strangled gasp escaped Zahril’s throat just as Aasha pulled her into a shadowy corner of the kitchen, safe from the oil.
“I would curse your whole line if I knew your surname,” hissed Zahril between winces.
Aasha ignored her. She recognized the outline of a dusty firestone hanging near a large copper pot. She ran to it, breaking the stone on the counter. A white plume of gas escaped, snaking toward the oil and the burning vegetables, drowning the heat until it was covered in thin, spidering frost.
“Are you all right?” asked Aasha, returning to Zahril.
“Never better,” she said, through gritted teeth. “I’ve always wanted to be equally burned. If only it got on—”
“Stop that,” said Aasha sternly. “This is no one’s fault. You came to the stove because you were concerned. For me.”
Zahril said nothing.
“How can I dress this wound?” she asked.
Zahril cradled her arm close to her side. She glared up at Aasha like a wounded animal.
“My bedroom,” she said, finally.
In that moment, Aasha felt as though the entirety of the Spy Mistress’s tower was an unfamiliar maze. It did not matter that she had crossed its stones and knew its secret doors and memorized the rough stones of the staircases. Now it was an unfamiliar land because she was going to see Zahril’s bedroom. It was as if the sky had pulled back a corner of itself, revealing a vast, beating heart.
Aasha held her by the elbow, gingerly. It was only as they walked through a new passage of stone that a realization caught Aasha by the throat…
For the first time, her blue star hadn’t flickered to life in response to surprise. Or danger. In fact, it hadn’t happened at all since that time with the rock monster. The work that spoke to Aasha’s soul had calmed something within her. Weeks ago, she would have been too scared to move Zahril out of the way. Too convinced that to touch her during one of those moments would only end her life or injure her another way. But there had been a strange shift within Aasha.
Even now, she didn’t feel that pang of worry that she might harm Zahril. It was only concern. It was only them moving through the familiar darkness of the Spy Tower, the light from the lanterns tense and pale, not illuminating anything more than two girls making their way over the stones, their arms linked, worry etched in their faces. Their care for one another enough to chew down the pain. If only for another moment.
And to Aasha, that was all anyone needed to see.
Zahril stopped outside of Aasha’s room.
“Did the oil get to your head too?” she asked. “That’s my room.”
“And mine is beside it,” said Zahril.
At an alarmed look from Aasha, Zahril managed a single, powerful snort.
“This is tradition with every potential Spy Mistress,” she said. “You’re not special.”
Special.The word stung more than it should have. It’s not like she wanted to be the only person that had inspired Zahril to spend each night, unknown, near her. But she wanted, she realized, tobespecial to someone even if it meant being ordinary and unnoticed to everyone else.
At Zahril’s touch on the wood paneling, a door shivered to life.
“Who made this tower?” asked Aasha. “I only know of onerakshasaking who can make illusions like this.”
“Do you now?” Zahril smirked. “You’re getting better at interrogation. Well done. Always ask when you perceive a person is at their weakest. They’re far more likely to open up.”
“Are you at your weakest?”
“Certainly,” said Zahril with the kind of breezy casualty as if Aasha had asked something as inconsequential as the time of day. “But my weakest is leagues above everyone else’s strongest.”
She stepped through the door, leaving the question unanswered. Aasha followed after her. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness of Zahril’s chambers.
When her eyes finally did understand what they were looking at, her imagination pulled her vision off center. Aasha hadn’t even realized how secret corners of her mind had wondered at Zahril’s personal chambers. Sometimes, after grueling exercises, she thought Zahril slept on a stone circle. She thought that there was nothing but one candle guarding her. Her imagination had coaxed forth a place of bareness. Cold.
The reality was anything but.
