I jab a finger into his bicep. “You should consider yourself lucky to even be there at all.”
He winces, feigning hurt before grinning with both dimples. “You’re right. After all this time, I guess I’ll take what I can get. Oh! That reminds me.” He pulls open his vest, retrieving something from the satin inner pocket. “I believe this belongs to you.”
In his palm lies a miniature bronze sand clock with deep plum grains.
“You got it back!” I say, fetching the heirloom from his hand and rubbing my thumb along the inscription.
Gabe nods. “My father left it on the shelf in his office. I wanted to give it to you sooner, but figured it was best to wait until we were away from the cameras.”
“Thank you.”
“Any time,” he replies, then cocks his head. “I am curious to hear the story of how you dropped it, though. You tried to run away?”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Fallingasleep was easier than I’d thought.
Nocturnal sleep cycles are a byproduct of living in Caligo. It began as a superstition that too much movement during daylight hours would lead the Sols right to us. Over time, it morphed into an ideological rebellion against the sun itself and what it represents.
Despite my near-constant fatigue, I often spend far too many daylight hours awake, and I’d feared trying to swap my sleeping cycle would trigger another insomnia episode. Instead, I was out within minutes of my cheek pressing against Gabe’s shoulder.
Staying asleep, however, is a different issue.
Gabe is fully out, not even stirring as I startle upright and wriggle away from his side, unsure if minutes or hours have passed. The star-riddled sky above does little to help. It could be midnight or four in the morning. Not a trace of yesterday’s storm remains as I blink up at the inky aerial landscape. Constellations blur into shapes and faces the longer I stare, my mind running rampant with how yesterday’s highlight reel must’ve been received back in Caligo.
Chancellor Bren is likely in an uproar over his son’s deception.Iimagine he’s ordered the production team to delete as much of the footage as possible, but surely they can’t erase him entirely from all ten of our cameras.
And Gabe’s wife . . . How is she handling the news of her husband’s abrupt departure? If Gabe’s to be believed—and I think he is—perhaps she’s relieved to not keep up the act of being Caligo’s favorite couple. Or maybe she’s annoyed by the uproar his actions have caused.
I can hear the gossip now . . .
“Did you hear that the chancellor’s son is risking his life and his marriage to participate in the Hunt with his throwaway?”
“I know! His poor wife.”
“His poor children!”
“I can’t fathom why Gabe Bren would give up everything for a Tier Three rat, of all people! Do you think they’ve been having an affair?”
It’s exactly what his father had wanted to avoid—hearing dozens of folks uttering both our names in the same breath. Even if Gabe survives the Hunt, his public persona might not.
The man I thought I knew wouldn’t have risked it. Maybe the shock of me being drafted would’ve upset him, but he’d ultimately choose his duty to his constituents over any echoes of feelings he has for me. The Gabe I knew lived by the motto: Caligo first, above all. Has that truly changed? Or will a delayed sharp regret hit him as soon as he wakes? Now that I’ve dismissed his advances, will he remember I’m not worth the risk?
The pads of my thumbs rub at my closed lids like I can erase all the painful questions, accusing whispers, and disappointed faces from my mind if I press hard enough. When that doesn’t work, I stand, surrendering any lingering hope of blissful unconsciousness reclaiming me.
There’s no other movement in the meadow to suggest any ofthe others have woken yet as I leave Gabe and carefully pad over to the opposite tree line ahead, scanning the moonlit ground to avoid snapping loose twigs. I round the thick trunk of what I think is some sort of pine tree, using its privacy to relieve myself.
With only the chirping insects as company, I slowly trot towards the creek, intent on washing off and rehydrating before the day ahead. The stream’s current sweeps gently across the rocks as if it, too, is groggily waking from slumber. After a few drinks, I succumb to its lure, easing the entire lower half of my body beneath its surface. It’s deeper than I thought, forcing me to stand on tiptoes to keep my chin above water. Latching onto a boulder protruding from the shore as an anchor, I dip my head into the stream. There’s a warmth near the surface that contrasts with the chill at my toes. The sensory juxtaposition relieves some of the mounting pressure on the right side of my skull. Not entirely, but enough to ease the stiff tension from my neck and shoulders.
A shadow glides past overhead when I resurface. A small bird, from the looks of it. Thoughts returning to Demi’s tale of her aunt’s survival, I wonder whether this could be one of the creatures that offered Jacqueline guidance when she needed it most.
I wipe away the droplets coating my lashes and haul myself back onto the creek’s shore. Once the laces of my boots are double knotted, I set out in the direction of the sweeping shadow, not stopping until the dense thicket becomes sparser and something round catches me underfoot, rolling my ankle.
“Burning pits,” I curse, trance broken as I balance on my good foot.
I bend over to inspect the culprit and find a misshapen peach, along with dozens more scattered along the grass. A peach tree looms overhead, its branches weighed down by the fuzzy reddish-yellow fruit. Did the bird lead me here, as if it sensed the growing hunger I’d yet toacknowledge, or is my happening upon this tree a lucky coincidence?
If luck exists, I’m certain I’d be its primary allergen, so I doubt that’s it. But the bird I’d spotted—if it was, in fact, a bird at all—wasn’t lit by golden light like those from Demi’s story.
