Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73154 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
He faces me, tight-lipped. “I’m fine.”
He’s lying. The pain’s still there, clinging to the air like smoke.
“You’re not,” I murmur. “I can sense it.”
“Just . . . leave it.”
I open the pouch. “I can—”
“I said leave it!” The words lash out, but beneath them . . . a slight tremble?
I flinch. Not at the volume. At the wall that just slammed down between us.
I reach toward his arm, gently—
And he roars. “I’ll heal myself!”
My hand drops. I let the pouch flap fall shut. Silence blooms, and it tastes bruised and bitter.
He glares. Actually glares. After everything.
Something twists inside me. I step up close to that marble-perfect face, my pulse still ragged.
I breathe him in. Pain still shivers off him, but underneath . . . that mask. That magic. It pulses with scent. Ancient herbs, rare, exact. Detectable enough for me to name them, if I focused hard enough. “This isn’t your real face.” I say, breath hitching. My nose brushes his hair.
The air hums between us, charged and prickling.
“What are you doing?” he rasps, and clears his throat, too quickly.
“I recognise these herbs.” My voice is quieter now, my lips tingling from the proximity of his magic.
His nose flares.
I draw back slightly. “Were those redcloaks chasing you?” I tilt my head. “Are you a wanted criminal?”
He snaps, “What if I am?”
My breath stutters. Then I square my shoulders. A dangerous thrill flickers under my skin. “Then I guess I’ve become an accomplice—”
He’s already turning away. Already disappearing into the trees.
I start forward, but Akilah grabs my arm and shakes her head. “Just leave it.”
But . . . but . . .
There’s something about him. That arrogance. That impossible mask. That voice.
It itches under my skin. Part curiosity—no one masks like that. That level of precision is definitely criminal. But mostly?
It’s the sheer rudeness.
Even after we’re back at the manor, I’m still fuming.
I dart my gaze left and right, then slip into an alleyway, narrow and hung with icicles. Down the slippery stairs I go, careful, breath fogging, until I reach the canal path.
In the distance, fires flicker beneath the bridge. The homeless and the sick huddle around fissures of warm air still venting from the last earthshake. Their coats are threadbare. Their fingers, blue. The cold will only deepen their ailments.
I quicken my step.
And promptly slip on the ice.
My heart leaps into my throat as the world tilts and I flail toward the freezing canal. For a suspended second, time stretches. Far too much time to imagine how utterly miserable the next few seconds will be—
It doesn’t happen.
I let out a long breath of relief, eyes still squeezed shut. Then I feel them. Fingers still wrapped around my arms. Strong. Steady.
I glance over my shoulder, and don’t need to hit the canal to shiver.
I blink, and then, despite everything, a laugh escapes. “Maskios!”
That beautiful, fake face pinches. “That’s not my name.”
“Who are you, then?”
“What are you doing down here?”
I yank free of his grip and face him fully. “Did you follow me?”
“You looked like you were up to something you shouldn’t be.”
“That’s not an answer.” I eye him. “So are you here to stop me? Or help?”
He glances past me, to the bridge and the sick beyond it. Hesitates. Then—
“Why not. I’m a criminal, after all.”
That surprises me. He was so rude last time I saw him.
I laugh again, soft, involuntary. Then I rise onto my toes and tug his hood up over his head. A small gesture. Unnecessary for a man already masked, but I’m . . . compelled to do it.
“Follow my instructions,” I murmur.
I take his hand and lead him beneath the bridge. I pass him three bottles of herbal teas and my apothecary pouch. “Do you know your herbs?”
“Better than most,” Maskios says, with just enough arrogance to make me snort.
There’s already a line. They greet me with kind smiles and offerings—prettily knotted thread, wildflowers. Whatever they have. I slip one posy of flowers behind the clasp on Maskios’s cloak and get to work.
“Why not use a medius spell rather than all these simplex ones?” Maskios asks, batting away a wildflower as it droops toward his mouth.
I raise a brow. “Have you not heard how sharp the blade of a guillotine is?”
“I’ve seen . . . I mean, you’ve never used medius spells before?”
I lean in and whisper, “Only when I’m sure I’ll get away with it. The local luminist loves to—”
As if summoned, he appears. A luminist, in glowing white robes, ringing his spiritual bell as he walks the far side of the underbridge. My heart leaps into my throat.
“Live virtuous, modest lives. Follow the rules of the linea, and be reborn as linea. Pay homage at the luminarium.”
I yelp, grab Maskios, and duck behind a brazier.
He murmurs against my neck, “Why are we—”
I slam a palm over his mouth and shake my head.