With a sigh, he says, “No. For they were safer living away from Isolacuori. Especially once you were born.” His gentle tone makes my fingers slip off the bodice of my dress.
What a perplexing male he is . . .
He starts to raise his palm to the door to rub out the sigil when I ask, “Whose side are you on?”
Palm hovering over the bloody knot, he says, “Yours, Nipota.”
This time, when he calls me granddaughter, I don’t remind him of our lack of kinship. I may not descend from him, but, through Meriam, Justus and I have become bound by blood.
Blood and secrets.
Speaking of. . . “Why did you let Meriam blood-bind us?”
“Because the blood-bind will thwart his magic.” He hovers the heel of his hand over the glyph.
“I thought the Nebban supplement was taking care of that?”
“Notthatmagic,” he murmurs.
Before I can ask him what the Cauldron he means, he draws the door handle down. Cato all but collapses atop Justus, evidently eavesdropping.
“At least pretend to be stealthy, Brambilla. It’s more dignified of a sergeant.”
A deep flush creeps up Cato’s face, made redder by the stark contrast with his fair hair and uniform. “I-I-I was knocking. I was not—”
“Settle down. I’ve got more important business to tend to than to downgrade you to foot soldier.”
I almost snort. Thankfully, I keep a lid on the sound. I cannot appear at all amused by Justus or we’ll raise eyebrows that must absolutely remain flat.
Although my focus stays on the general’s swishing ponytail during the walk back to my cell, I’ve crawled into my mind to sort through all the pieces of the past he’s just given me.
My mother mutilated her own ears. It’s atrocious and heartrending. Also, it does little to lessen the guilt of having invaded her womb.
I suddenly wish I’d taken better advantage of our veiled cocoon to ask Justus if there was any hope of restoring her mind. Perhaps Meriam knows a spell? Or Zendaya? Perhaps she can undo the damage she caused? Where is she?
Out of all the questions I have for Justus and Meriam, this one is the most pressing. I decide then and there that I’ll strike a bargain with Meriam the next time we meet. I’ll ask for a meeting with my mother against breaking her throne curse.
* * *
Interminable days passduring which the only souls I see are the sprites and soldiers assigned to my cell. I will Justus to open my gated door, but he doesn’t come. The same way I will Bronwen to take possession of my gaze—or however it is our eye-link works—but however hard I will it, I don’t travel to the Sky Kingdom.
The only entertainment I get is watching Dante’s sprites sweat like Selvatins as they drill through the spiraling racks of wine to accommodate the four poles Cato and a fellow soldier float up. I find it far less entertaining when I understand the reason for the poles—raising my cage so that it no longer sits on the floor. No more twirling in my near future.
A fire-Faerie has just finished soldering heavy chains to the fitted poles when Justus finally whitens my cellar doorway. “Meriam has awakened. It’s time for Dante’s first lesson.”
Dante’s? Or mine?
I surmise only Dante’s, for how could my grandmother in the same lesson teach him the wrong symbols, and me, the correct ones?
Perhaps she has no intention of teaching me how to use my magic. After all, she knows just as well as Justus that the second I understand how to wield spells, I’ll pack up my magic and run for the hills, or rather, for Lore’s mountain.
Eighteen
Istop short when I emerge from the tunnel because a tree has been grown, one outfitted with fat branches that jut out in all directions. But that is not what arrests my attention. What stops both my feet and heart is the sight of my friend standing beneath the largest branch.
Antoni is propped atop a gnarled root, wrists and ankles cuffed with vines, neck collared with a thick chain, dark as tarnished silver. Although fabric stands between the iron and his pumping chest, the links must’ve grazed his skin for a rash has appeared along his neck.
Molars gnashing, I trail the chain to where it’s been slung around the branch, before lowering my gaze back to Antoni’s. His skin is as sallow as fishbones, his hair as ropy as seaweed, his eyes as haunted as Catriona's the night an arrow snuffed out her life.
