“Pickpocket. Lying despite being full fae. Getting girls kicked out of pageants. Inciting violence.”
I give him a pointed look. “I’m serious.”
He taps his hind claws. “We’ll have to think of something. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Brother Billius proposed to Franny Delafonte before she left!”
“Did he now?” I say, although it shouldn’t surprise me. It’s clear the church is desperate to pair more of its brothers with wives. “What did she say?”
He scoffs. “She refused, of course. I’m surprised she didn’t punch him in the face too. The girl seemed more than happy to be free of this place.”
“I do remember her saying she never wants to marry.” For a moment, my heart sinks with my familiar companion named guilt. Even though I targeted Franny because I knew I wouldn’t feel so bad if she was forced to leave, I can’t deny that I wronged her. I got her accused of theft. At least she held her own. I recall what Dorian said to her when he gave her the lily—that he admired her strength. I’m not sure how to feel about that. On one hand, it seemed a kindness, a way to demonstrate that he respected her despite his decision to eliminate her from the competition. On the other hand, his admiration of a girl who gives another a black eye makes me think of his father and his repulsive fighting ring. Perhaps it wasn’t kindness that promoted Dorian to say such a thing but a sick obsession with violence. He is of the Order of Strength, after all.
I shake the thoughts from my head and return my attention to my friend. “How are you learning so much intel, anyway? Are you spying in everyone’s windows?”
“I’m a good climber and an even better hider,” he says defensively. Then he clacks his pincers together, his tone softening. “You’re my best friend, Maisie. I’ll do whatever I must to help you, no matter how ill your mission makes me feel.”
My heart cracks a little at that. For not the first time, I wonder if I deserve such a friend like Podaxis. A brother connected not by blood but loyalty. Before I get too sappy, I force a grin. “I’m glad to hear you say that. Because tomorrow I’m going to need your help.”
21
The next morning, I stand near my slightly ajar door, awaiting the sound of clacking claws. When I hear none, I check my reflection in the mirror. Without many other options, I wear the same outfit I wore the day I arrived—my tartan skirt and lace blouse with its long, puffed sleeves. I smooth out the folds of my skirt, then try to do the same to my hair. It doesn’t work, of course, much to my growing irritation.
Up until now, I’ve loved my short pink tresses, but with my intention to impress Dorian weighing heavy on my mind, I can’t help noting how different I look from the other girls. My hair is neither long and smooth nor curled and orderly—the two most common styles I’ve come to recognize, and in almost all cases, fixed in some sort of updo that looks like it was arranged by magic. Instead, my cotton-candy hair floats in haphazard waves around my face, and the only part that stays in place is the section pinned up by my stolen shell comb. Even that is surrounded by loose tendrils that are either too thin or too short to stay with the rest.
“He’s alone and the coast is clear,” Podaxis says, making me jump. “Hurry!”
Giving up on taming my appearance, I grab the paper bag off my dresser and rush into the hall after my friend. The women’s wing is thankfully empty, and as I follow behind Podaxis, I find no one else outside it. It was the same earlier this morning, when Podaxis guided me along a route he insisted is the best way to sneak in or out of the church without being noticed.
Podaxis turns a corner and heads down a staircase. “He’s down here.”
“Where is…here?”
“How should I know? It’s some place where people hit things.”
“Hit things?” I echo, but Podaxis pays me no mind as we continue down the stairs. I clutch the paper bag closer to my chest, its contents warm and comforting. A strange smell greets me as we near the bottom of the stairs. Something not quite as terrible as an alleyway garbage bin, but less pleasant than a beach on a hot day. Like a beach, it holds a similar quality of salt in the air…
The room beyond comes into few, and my heart lurches as I find Dorian at the center of it.
Shirtless.
My eyes widen as I watch the muscles flex and strain on his back, bronze skin glistening with sweat as he pounds his fists into a weird firm-but-squishy bag of sorts. It hangs from the rafters and is almost as tall as Dorian himself. He shuffles forward and back, jabbing the bag again and again. I gulp, unable to look away as I whisper furiously at my friend. “Why the shells did you bring me down here?”
“You said you wanted to get him alone.”
“Yes, but did you not think he should be wearing clothes?”
Podaxis looks from me to Dorian. “He’s wearing trousers.”
I clench my jaw, fully prepared to dart back up the stairs. Then Dorian halts and looks over at me with surprise.
Eyes narrowed, he approaches on swift feet. “What are you doing here? You aren’t to leave the women’s wing unaccompanied by your initiate.”
“That’s my cue to leave,” Podaxis says as he scrambles up the stairs.
I cast a glare at my retreating friend, then face Dorian as he closes the distance between us. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude.” I back up a step but trip as my heel comes against the bottom stair. My other leg gives out. I reach back, nearly losing my bag as I try to catch myself—but someone else catches me first.
I find Dorian standing a mere foot away, one hand around my upper arm, the other at my waist. He moves the hand from my waist as quickly as if he were scalded but waits until I plant my feet before releasing my arm. My skin feels hot beneath my sleeve and blouse, burning where he momentarily touched me. I reason it must be because he’s so warm, the evidence being the glistening beads of moisture that trickle down his face, his hair, his neck, his…chest. Now I know what that salty pungent smell was. It’s sweat. And for some reason, I’m not at all repulsed by it.
My nose twitches as my eyes lock on the firm musculature of his torso, and I feel a sneeze coming on. Shells, not again. Wasn’t sneezing in his face once enough? I hold my breath to stifle it, willing myself to look away from him. But I’m too transfixed. Podaxis was right when I first pulled him from the sea. That sure isn’t blubber on his bones, yet I find myself captivated by it just the same. His skin bears pale scars here and there, and I wonder what they’re from. Then I notice one scar that’s much more severe than the rest. Over the curve of one shoulder, a patch of flesh about as large as my fist is marred with jagged scar tissue. My eyes wander down the rippling front of his stomach, ending at the waist of his cream linen pants. I’m surprised to see him in something other than the black trousers of his uniform. Unlike the starchy black he normally wears, the material is light and thin, gently hugging his thighs before tapering at the knee. Below that, I find firm, shapely calves—
