Shamaïra’s words blazed in the air between them long after she was silent. The tears on Ana’s face had cooled and, ashamed, she turned away and swept a quick hand over her cheeks. Her thoughts focused on two words.Little Tigress.
It was the nickname Mama had given her. “Why do you call me that?” she said quietly.
“I know who you are.” Shamaïra’s voice had the silent strength of steel. “I saw the events of that day, at the Vyntr’makt in Salskoff. The Sister showed me; she whispered to me of a great fire inside you, and a grand destiny.”
Ana summoned the courage to meet the woman’s gaze. “Who are you?”
“I am an Unseer, my darling.” Shamaïra’s smile was charming yet dangerous beneath her shawl. “There is a myriad of faiths practiced in Nandji, but my particular beliefs also lend to a form of magic. A…branch of what you Cyrilians call ‘Affinities,’ I suppose. We believe in a divine Spirit, split into two halves between a Brother and a Sister.” She held up the lamp. “The Brother, the Lord of Light and Lender of Fire, rules over all that is visible to the eye and physical in this world. And the Sister”—Shamaïra set down the lamp—“is the Deity of Darkness and the First Unseeress, goddess to all things metaphysical and spiritual. My Affinity is to her; specifically, to time—both what’s past, and what’s to come.”
Ana frowned. “You can…change time?” It felt ridiculous to say.
“No, my child. But I can catch glimpses of it, as one might dip a finger into a grand, sweeping river.” Shamaïra put a hand to her heart. “I unsee, Anastacya.”
“Then can’t you unsee your son?” It felt too easy, too unfair; it felt like false hope, all over again. “Can’t you find him?”
And,she thought, ashamed to say it,can you unsee where I’m meant to go from here?
Shamaïra laughed. “I cannot unsee withoutseeingfirst. Without you in front of me, I would unsee nothing.” Her smile turned sad. “Without my son before me, I cannot unsee his path.”
“Then you are as cursed as I,” Ana said, “with your Affinity.”
“All Affinities are a double-edged sword. One must simply learn to wield it.” There was a brief silence as Shamaïra lifted her cup to her lips. “Drink your tea. It’ll get cold.”
Ana took a sip; she thought she tasted roses. “Can you tell me where to go from here?” The question stole from her lips in the barest breath.
Shamaïra set down her cup with a gentle clink. Lifting the samovar, she poured herself more, and offered to refill Ana’s cup. “That’s the funny thing about time, my child. It is a great river, made of an infinite number of little streams. It is your choices that define your path.”
Your choices.The words stirred a gentle breeze around Ana.Your Affinity does not define you.
But no matter how she wished her Affinity gone or even just different, she was an Affinite.Us,May had whispered, back in the Kyrov Vyntr’makt and at the Playpen.Like us.
May and countless other Affinites were all victims of cracks in her empire. Ana would fight her way back to Luka’s side with Pyetr Tetsyev’s confession. She would end the Affinite trade.
Promise me.
She and Luka would fix it all, together. Crack by crack.
Ana drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with the refreshingly cold Cyrilian air. Overhead, the clouds had parted, and stars twinkled in the vast canvas of the moonless night. The scent of snowfall lingered in the air. Snow was coming,and soon. “It has been a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Shamaïra.”
Shamaïra’s chuckle was like the sound of metal grating. “I have a feeling this is not the end for us. Our paths will cross again, Little Tigress.” She placed a hand on Ana’s shoulder. “Now, my darling, the Sister tells me there is someone waiting for you in the back room. Someone you, too, wish to see.”
—
The lamps burned low in Shamaïra’s parlor when Ana stepped inside. The Affinites and Yuri had spread blankets and pillows across the floor, and most were settling in or already asleep. The air smelled pleasantly of the stew and crispy rice Shamaïra had served for dinner. In the silence, Ana could hear the creak of the windows and door as the wind rose outside. She held her breath as she parted the heavy brocade curtains that partitioned the backroom from the rest of the house. Bookshelves leaned against all four walls, crammed with old, dusty tomes and parchments. In the middle of it all sat a single burgundy settee.
Ana’s heart leapt lightly when she caught sight of a familiar mop of sand-brown hair.
Ramson looked up from the settee. He paused, a rag hanging from his hands. His eyes met hers, and heat rushed to Ana’s cheeks when she realized that he had taken his shirt off and had been cleaning the blood from his body. A small bucket of water sat in front of him, swirling crimson. Ana’s breath hitched as she remembered that he’d been wounded by an arrow when he’d hauled May to safety from the arena.
For a moment, she wanted to turn back and crawl into the blankets Shamaïra had laid out for her. But something pushed her forward.
“Do you…” She gestured helplessly at his towel, at the blood still splattering his torso.
He was gazing at her, his face a blank slate, those cunning eyes forever assessing. His voice was quiet when he held out the towel and said, “All right.”
Ana carefully seated herself at the edge of the settee, within reaching distance yet as far from him as she could manage. Her hands fumbled with the sodden rag as she began to dab at the splatters of blood on his skin.
He smelled of sweat and iron-tanged blood, infused with a strange mixture of a nobleman’s kologne. As she’d suspected, Ramson was all taut cord and lean muscles: sinewy enough to be strong, yet slim enough to slip through his enemies’ fingers. White slashes crisscrossed his flesh—scars, perhaps from the past that he so resolutely hid from her. And his chest…she flinched as she looked at it—his chest bore a section of pale, marred flesh. A brand.
