A spike of loathing and loss plagues me, but I am not surprised. Maxian has not just taken her hand, but her current and future livelihoods.
Her eyes fill with tears. “Eli has offered me a place in his kitchens. It would be a Scarp position, but it’s something. I’m thankful,but…”
My friend will not look at me. I brush my shoulder against hers. It feels like the greatest of leaps when she leans againstme.
“I was born in Reign, have never lived anywhere else. My mother walked those halls, my father fixed up those chambers, so what will become of them now? There are no markers to visit, no records save for debt I paid off years ago, as if I were ashamed ofthem. It was all I had left of my family, to exist where they did, and now that is gone.”
My arm wraps around her shoulder, and Lila cries. She cries and I pull her closer and cry with her.
“They cannot understand,” I say. “These spaces—they are our only inheritance.”
To the High Fae, we are a rotation ofstuffthey want to always keep current. Yet for us, our lives and livelihoods are ripped up and planted somewhere else at the whim of a cruel gardener, always cultivating an aesthetic, with little regard for the roots we attempt to put down.
“And the king…” Lila swallows. “The things he said!”
“I know.”
“I didn’t even know hethoughtlike that.”
“I know.”
“And he kept…going. He kept going, but I didn’t break.”
Now my heart breaks again for my friend. “Oh, Lila…”
We sit in silence for a moment, hugging each other, before I dig into my pocket.
“Here.” I pull out a folded blank parchment paper and a small tin. With the push of my thumb, the top springs open. Inside, a small, thin paintbrush lies next to four spheres of clay, each with an indent at the top. “It’s paint. You can take it wherever you go and just moisten the tops of it—the pigment will remain in the indent here.”
“But…” Lila blinks. “Paint’s expensive!”
“I had the coin.” I pass the tin onto her lap and she grips it. Her severed arm emerges from the folds of her skirts, the end wrapped up in bandages. I force myself not to stare.
“Avery.” Lila looks at me. “You know you did not have to bring something for me to still want to be friends.”
“I know.”
“But I appreciate it.” Lila leans in once more, closer this time. “I grow tired, but you must visit me again. Tell me: How are you faring?”
“Better,” I say, and I mean it, hugging my friend once more. “So much better.”
“Have you returned to it? The…”
I scan the garden, quiet and yet not vacant. Shaking my head, I reply: “We should not speak of this.”
“Listen to me.”
“Lila, look what has happened! You have lost—I mean—”
“Do not use my injury for your narrative,” she seethes.
I close my mouth, blinking. Looking into her face, I do not find fear or even anger, just the hard lines of her conviction.
“Yes, look at what has happened. We have been burned, badly, and what does it mean? That we are closer to the fire than ever before. I don’t just mean the tapestry and its truth,” she whispers. “It feels as if everything has unraveled around us. As if there’s a larger picture than just his…heritage.”
“The king is always the most powerful fae in the land.” I echo the old adage, and we swap a look.
Lila is not wrong. She is rarely wrong, and she’s brave enough to look it in the face. Reign power corrupted that chestnut tree, kept it alive to co-opt its strength. Is Maxian intrinsically the strongest in the land? Or does his power come from something else? And where do we faeries fit into this picture, if at all?
