‘We don’t understand her power. She can’t control it.’
‘Yet,’ Finlyr insists. ‘She can learn with practise.’
‘Today she’s making mangoes ripe again; tomorrow she might be boiling the ocean beneath our feet,’ I continue.
‘I see your point, but those are very different extremes,’ Finlyr continues, rubbing at his stubble. ‘Not all magic is so malignant and destructive.’
‘Consider the tea,’ Sinigang says, dipping his paw into a cup and licking it.
I sip my tea again and the tingle runs from the top of my scalp down my spine. My jaw pops, finally unclenching. I stare down at the mug and inhale the floral aroma and the oils of the herbs. On the counter is the bag containing the leaves, wrapped with Ligaya’s unmistakable bow.
‘Power itself is not malicious. It’s how it is wielded. Sometimes magic can be delicious,’ he says, a glint in his eyes.
We fall into an uneasy silence. After a moment, Finlyr stands, draining his mug. ‘I think Ris could do with some alone time right now.’ He says, ushering everyone out of the captain’s quarters.
When they are gone, I slump back into my chair and let the tears finally come. I try to cry silently, my body heaving, when thedoor opens again. I abruptly try to fix my face and Finlyr turns heel at the door.
‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to disturb you,’ he says, reluctantly coming closer. His face is flushed, and he holds out a slice of mango, cut and scored ready to eat. ‘I thought you might be hungry.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, as he places it gingerly on the table.
‘I’ll leave you alone now,’ he says, shutting the door again.
I watch the mango until the rich smell of it is too much to bear. I pull a chunk of the scored flesh from the skin. It comes away so easily, so softly. I put it on my tongue and chew, letting the explosion of the juice run down my throat. By Paranish, it really is a good mango. I reluctantly swallow and take another piece. Before I know it, the tears have stopped, and all that remains is the empty shell of the mango skin.
chapter thirty-seven
hanan
The queen insists onmoving out of the birthing chambers as soon as possible. She clutches my arm with one hand as we ascend in a muted procession to one of the upper bedrooms, where she installs herself. She has my things moved to a connecting bedroom; she wants me kept close at all times. She allows no one else near her or the princess.
For weeks food is brought to us: lavish platters of meats and rice balls, stews and cakes. The queen insists we eat together, and I find the lady’s maids glowering at their usurped position as favourite. My mind wanders to Pocket. I haven’t seen him in days. I wonder if he’s found some food. If he’s worried about me. How stupid to be worrying about a bird, but I can’t help myself.
‘We are fading into nothing.’ She sighs melodramatically. ‘We must have energy.’
The queen insists on a regular exercise routine. One afternoon we stroll, the child in her arms, cloistered from prying eyes. Salvacion accompanies us even here. There must be very little the queen can conceal from her shield. The arbour sits in the middle of the courtyard next to the sundial. It’s position and pendulum mechanism allow the queen to be in the light across the day, gently rocking the princess. Today the air is chill, but the sky is cloudless and wewalk the concentric paths lined with flower beds and shrubs, almost labyrinthine in design and breadth.
‘I must feel the air on my skin, Hanan,’ the queen says, breathing in the flowers of the inner courtyard. They remind me of the perfume the queen dabs on her skin, crushed white flowers trapped in oil in glass bottles. ‘A daily turn about the gardens is good for my constitution, is it not?’
I nod, still unused to the way in which she defers to me like this. Even bundled, I can see the princess is looking healthier. She has gotten bigger, her cheeks full and round with large curious eyes. She squirms and fusses, throwing the blankets off. Perhaps wanting to feel the air on her skin, like her mother.
‘I am glad to see the babe looking so hale,’ I say, filling the silence. The queen seems content with my omnipresence, but I find her attentions stifling, afraid I’ll say something ill-considered.
‘A great many things are well since your addition to our household.’ The queen smiles, and I avert my eyes. Her gaze is like the sun and I cannot stare directly into it.
‘I can’t take credit for all these successes, Your Grace. It is very generous of you to say so, but the work here is all your own.’
I share a look with Salvacion, who lets a slight smile slip out. We both know that many invisible hands lighten the load of the Bastion, without which the careful order of things would collapse.
The queen gives me a wry look. ‘You must stop your pandering, Hanan. Are we not friends?’
I’m not sure how to answer this. We are nothing like friends, but my queen will have whatever she wants.
‘Of course, Your Grace. I will do whatever you ask.’
She indicates we sit on a stone bench, and she inches closer to me. I can’t help but stare at her. She’s so close I can smell the oils andperfumes in her hair and on her skin. She smells sweeter than all the treats that have been ferried up to our rooms of late.
The lustre has returned to her skin, her hair, her eyes. They are shrewd and watchful but with a fervent energy behind them. I feel exhausted looking at her and clutch the cool stone for support. To feel something sturdy and unyielding beneath my fingers.
