I raised my gaze back to his. “Bagwa.”
His smile firmed up. “I deserve that.” He smoothed the tunic back over my abdomen, then washed his hands.
“Too bad we didn’t end up in a hospital or a haberdashery. A needle and some thread would’ve been convenient right about now.”
He contemplated my tattooed palm.
“No,” I said before he could suggest I make both with my dust. “I won’t be able to use it if it’s stitched into my skin. What if we need it for something else?”
“We’ll use what’s around us.”
“No.”
“Amara, you’re bleeding out.”
“If I were bleeding out, I’d be dead already.” Or would I? How long did it take for a body to empty itself of blood? “Besides, it’s not my dust. What if it poisons my blood? I might not resuscitate from death bywita, Remo.”
His jaw seemed sharper. All of him seemed sharper. Even his gaze as it cycled around the dense copse of twisted gray trunks topped with palm-shaped blue leaves, set against taller, tawny trunks with midnight-blue fronds draped in lianas, and shorter tufts of a curly yellow specimen. When he brought his eyes back to mine, resolve hardened him some more.
He latched on to the sleeve of my suit, the one which had ripped in Deception Central, and tore it clean off the bodice. “Make some scissors then.”
I crafted the tool and handed it to him. He sliced up the sleeve until he had two lengths, which he tied together, building a rope of sorts. He handed me back the scissors, then cupped some water to rinse out the wound, soaked the strip to divest it of sand, and slid it underneath me. After positioning it around my waist, he knotted it so tightly it rid me of breath.
“I’m sorry for being so selfish, Amara.”
“Selfish?” I whispered, my throat throbbing as wickedly as my waist.
“I shouldn’t be trying to keep you alive. Not if dying could just fix you and take away your pain.” The indent between his eyebrows deepened.
I melted the scissors back into my palm, then lifted my index and touched the dip to iron it out. “You’re a lot of things, but selfish is not one of them.” My fingers trailed along the side of his face, against the rough stubble and taut skin. When they reached the edge of his jaw, the strength to keep them raised left me.
All of my strength left me, and the world faded quietly away.
This time, wherever it was that my mind went, there was color and sound. And warmth. Slow caresses from the sharp bone of my shoulder to the inside of my elbow. I felt as though I were sinking to the very deepest parts of the Pink Sea and languidly drifting there.
When I awoke, the sky was still white, the sand still velvety.
I stretched out, but it tugged on the wound beneath my belted bandage, and I winced. “Remo?” I croaked.
When he didn’t answer, my pulse quickened. Had something happened to him? He’d probably just gone off to explore. I tried to push myself up, but fire spilled into my veins, and I collapsed right back down.
“I wouldn’t try getting up if I were you.”
My heart banged against my throat, and even though it felt like I was being quartered, I shifted to glimpse the speaker. A girl with hair so blonde it looked white stared down at my crumpled form. Her jaw was soft and rounded, her skin finely freckled, and her ears, which held back pale dreads, slightly prominent.
I tried to inch away from her but made zero progress. “Who are you, and where’s—where’s my friend?”
“The better question is, who areyou?” She tipped her head to the side, her long locks springing out from behind her ears and frolicking around a long necklace made of sharp, golden claws.
Even though I wanted her to answer my questions first, I was in no position to act pushy, so I wet my lips and parted them. “My name is—”
“Amara Wood,” a nasal voice finished for me.
I jolted from the familiar timbre.
“Ace and Catori Wood’s daughter.” The boy approached, his handsome but hateful, elongated face framed by curled wisps of honey-brown hair. “My niece.”
Iba had been right.
