The hours pass, the sun crawls. I am restless. But when I get up from my pallet and try to leave the pavilion, I run into the docteur, and he ushers me back to bed. I don’t know what my status is—prisoner, or patient? So I obey, at least for now.
“How are you feeling?” he asks me. He is an older man, his black hair salted, his eyes lined with wrinkles. Kind eyes, like Papa’s.
“Better,” I lie.
“Good. You still need to rest. Eat and drink.” He moves on to Maman then, kneeling beside her pallet and pulling back the mosquito net. “You’re awake.”
Surprised, I glance over. Maman’s eyes are open, and the relief I feel is like balm on a wound. “Maman?”
“How are you feeling?” the docteur says, but she gives no answer. He looks at me. “Can she speak?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, waiting for her to prove it, but Maman says nothing.
“You need to drink water,” the docteur tells her, his voice soft. He offers her a cup. I hold my breath—at last she takes it. “Good,” he says gently. “Good.”
She drinks slowly, in silence. When the cup is empty, she hands it back and lies down on the pallet again. Her movements are mechanical—a fantouche held by an unskilled puppeteer. The docteur refills the cup and sets it down at her bedside. “Keep drinking. Try to eat if you can.” He looks at me again. “Let me know if there are any changes.”
He moves on to Akra then, fussing over his ribs and warning him not to get out of bed. But I roll over to face Maman. Her eyes are still open, but I can’t tell what she sees, or where she is in her mind. Back in the temple? With Le Trépas, or with Papa?
Slipping a hand under the netting between us, I take her fingers loosely in mine. “Thank you,” I whisper. “For saving us. For saving me.”
If this were a play, they would be the right words—she would turn to me and smile. But she just lies there, staring upward. I squeeze her hand one more time, and let it go. “Don’t give up now,” I say softly, turning back on the pillow.
By the time the docteur is finished with Akra, Cheeky has returned, this time without Leo. But instead of staying to chat, she only drops off the bowls—one for Maman, one for me, the last for Akra—before she practically flees the hôpital.
But despite the docteur’s orders, I am not hungry; besides, the man is nowhere to be seen. So I put my bowl aside and follow her. “Cheeky. Cheeky!”
She turns, then, her face still red—this girl, so worldly, tongue-tied at the sight of my brother. For a second, part of me wants to laugh . . . but I have more important things to do. “Cheeky, I need to talk to Leo.”
She cocks her head, and then her wicked grin returns. “He’ll be glad to hear that. I’ll send him right over.”
“No . . .” I glance back at the pavilion, where Maman is still lying on the pallet, staring up at the rafters. “I need to talk to him in private.”
One eyebrow goes up. “Oh, sure. Talk. I get it.”
“Cheeky . . .”
My voice is strangled, but she only laughs. “Come. Lots of privacy at the river. It’s about time you had a bath, anyway.”
I follow her through the camp, and at first my legs are still weak. But as we walk, the groggy feeling lifts like mist, burned away by the brightness of the setting sun. Little golden vana drift between the tents; in the thatch of the roofs, the breeze whispers. The mud squishes between my toes, cool and comforting. We pass an open kitchen, where a pair of women are plucking soft feathers from a brace of pigeons. “Aren’t those messenger birds?”
“Maybe for the armée.” Cheeky shrugs. “Generous, aren’t they? Not only do they send us news to intercept, but dinner too.”
“News?” I glance over toward the women again. One is staring back at me, her arms covered in blood and down. I nod a greeting, but she only frowns, tearing another handful of feathers from the pale pink skin. I wet my lips. “What sort of news?”
“We can ask, if you like.”
“Maybe later,” I murmur. Cheeky catches my tone, glancing over to the woman, returning her glare with a wave and a brazen smile.
“It’s only the uniform making her nervous,” she murmurs to me as we walk on.
I look down at the clothes I’d stolen from the soldat. “I suppose I can’t blame them.”
“Me neither. That thing is frighteningly filthy. Don’t worry, I have something you can wear instead.” She winks at me then, coaxing back my smile. “Let me take you back to my place.”
She takes a sharp turn, leading me on a detour to a little canvas tent at the end of a row. “Wait there,” she says, ducking inside.
I peek in through the open flap. The tent is as messy as the dressing room at La Perl. Garter is there, coiled atop a nest of lace and silk. The boa writhes as Cheeky starts to paw through piles of clothing. Pieces go flying against the sides of the tent. Finally she emerges with a rough-spun towel around her neck and a scrap of fabric in her hand.
“Here,” she says with a grin. She shakes it out—it’s a little dress in creamy white, trimmed in lace. Practically a slip. “War rags.”
“Is that one of your stage costumes?” I say incredulously.
“I grabbed what I could carry.” She looks down at the tiny thing. “If you crumple this up, it practically fits in your fist.”
“You say it like that’s a good thing.”
“I have a shawl too, if you absolutely must.” She draws a length of raw pink silk out of the tangled pile. Then she holds up something else, shining like a net of stars. “Oh! Or this one’s floor-length, but it’s dripping with rhinestones.”
“Cheeky.” I tilt my head to catch her eye, trying to make sure she’s looking at me and not at her wardrobe. Then I gesture at the mud, the drifting smoke, the ramshackle tents. “I can’t wear any of that here.”
“Well, those need washing,” she says, pointing at my sooty, muddy uniform. “Or maybe burning. Besides,” she adds then, her voice going wistful as she runs the soft silk between her fingers. “Sometimes it’s nice to remember what things were like, before.”
I take a deep breath. Now I understand. “Of course. You’re right. Thank you,” I say, holding out my hand, but she snatches the dress away.
“You’re not touching this till you wash.”
Breezily, she starts off toward the river, the tiny dress in one hand, the towel in the other, and the pink shawl thrown across her neck like a highwayman’s scarf. Laughing, I follow. We walk downstream in the twilight. Little vana glimmer in the mud of the bank, and the arvana of fish glow in the water. Under the bubbling music of the stream, the sounds of camp fade. Finally we reach an area where bathing pools have been dug out of the riverbank—one of the Tiger’s projects, no doubt. Huge stones divert water in one side and out the other, and the pools are lined with a bamboo screen for privacy.
Seeing the water makes my scalp itch; the dank filth of the prison still clings to my skin. Suddenly I don’t care what I’m wearing, as long as it isn’t the uniform. I pluck at the buttons as Cheeky folds the silk dress onto a flat rock along with the shawl and the towel. “I’ll go get Leo.”
“While I’m bathing?”
“He can scrub your back!”
“Cheeky—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll tell him to wait on the respectable side of the screen. But if you shout, he’ll come,” she says with a grin. “Or maybe it’s the other way around.”
She disappears through the curtain, her laughter lingering. As I pull the shirt over my head, I vow to think of some way to tease her about my brother.
Next, I shimmy out of the pants, feeling self-conscious, but the evening is quiet—there are no other bathers nearby, not this late. I can see why when I dip a toe into the water. Chills race up my spine and gooseflesh skitters across my skin. I draw back, but at this point, the feel of the grime is worse. And I’ll have to bathe quickly, anyway. How long will it be before Leo arrives?
So I count to three and plunge into the pool.
Gasping and splashing, I wade to the center. The water only reaches to my waist, but the temperature is shocking, and I can hardly catch my breath. I let myself pause a moment, trying to adjust, using one leg to scrub the other—both to clean my skin and to rub away the shivers. Then, gritting my teeth, I bend my knees, letting the water rise to my ribs . . . my breasts . . . my neck.
Quickly, gently, I rub the dirt from my skin. Then I gather my courage, along with a deep breath, before dunking my head. In a strangled scream of bubbles, I scrub my scalp with my fingertips, letting the water lift the grit and muck from my hair. Resurfacing, I gulp in air before plunging back below for one more good scrub.
Then I hear a splashing sound, and the water rocks in waves around me—someone else is in the pool. Startled, I stand, and see Leo crashing through the water, a crazed look in his eyes. I scream, scrambling backward, covering myself with my hands, and he freezes, waist-deep in the pond. “What the hell are you doing?” I shout in the sudden silence.
“I thought you were drowning,” he says at last, his face pale.
I stare at him, crouching to keep my body below the surface of the pool. “In waist-high water?”
“Right.” He takes a deep breath. Then embarrassment darkens his face, and he whirls around, wading toward the bank. “Right. Désolée . . . I’m so sorry.”
I watch him scramble out of the water. His shoulders are heaving, his jacket is dripping—his leather shoes squelch as he walks. My own heart is pounding, and I’m shivering, but not from the cold. How could he think I couldn’t find my footing? Did he not know how shallow the pool was?
“I don’t understand,” I say, but then I realize I do. “You thought I was doing it on purpose.”
I am still watching his back. He hangs his head, but anger sparks in me.
“I would never . . .” I falter then. “I have never done anything like that.”
“No one does until they do,” he says.
The sorrow in his voice only makes it worse. I splash through the pond toward the bank, no longer worried about my modesty. “I don’t need you to save me,” I tell him through clenched teeth, grabbing the towel from the rock and scrubbing myself dry. “I don’t want to be rescued.”
“What do you want then?” he snaps, shrugging off his jacket, his back still toward me. He wrings it out, water dripping onto the bank. “Because if Cheeky sent me here on a prank, I swear to god, I will use her fishnets to go fishing.”
The mention of Cheeky brings me up short—he’s here because I wanted him to be. “No . . . I . . . No.” More gently now, I twist the towel around the wet mass of my hair. “I . . . I did want to talk to you.”
“About what?” he says, his voice still cold.
“About a cure,” I say softly. He is quiet for a moment, and suddenly I am afraid—sure he will scoff, laugh, shrug me off. Why would he want to help me, after all I’ve done? But he only tosses his jacket over another stone, kicking off his wet shoes. I reach for the silk dress—it’s so soft on my fingertips. Gently I slip it over my head, and the smooth clean coolness is heaven on my skin. I wrap the shawl around my shoulders; it smells faintly of perfume, distantly familiar.
“I’m sorry about La Perl,” I say then. “About Eve. About Eduard. And leaving you on the boat. You were right. It was all madness. But I don’t want to be that way.”
Leo says nothing, but between us, the quality of the silence changes—no longer cold, only sad. I reach out a tentative hand and touch his shoulder. After a moment, he laces his fingers through mine. For a long while we stand there, in the cool fragrant evening, and then his shoulders rise and fall. “Can I turn around now?”
I laugh a little, and let go of his hand. “Yes.”
He does, slowly, his eyes flicking down at the dress. Then he looks away, embarrassed, glancing at the vines, the rocks, his shoes. “I’m sorry too,” he murmurs. “For putting you and your family in danger. You were desperate, back in Luda. But so was I.”
I wave his words away—I know too well what desperation does. “You’ve more than made up for it. Thank you for keeping my secrets.”
“Well.” He takes a deep breath, looking up into my eyes. “Like I said . . . I did the best I could.”
Something about his tone, the hesitation in it—and the cold rushes back. Colder than the water in the pool, colder than the stones of the temple prison. “What does that mean?”
He shifts on his feet, leaning down to tip water out of his right shoe, then his left. “The king knows,” he says at last, but the words don’t make sense.
“The king was killed aboard Le Rêve.”
“The king was rescued from Le Rêve,” he says. “The assassination was staged.”
“But . . . I saw him shot!”
“You saw a man shoot, and the king fall over the side. Raik is in league with the rebels, Jetta. He needed to get out from under Legarde’s thumb. Apparently the general had planned to have him killed after the marriage to my sister.”
His words wash over me; I grasp at them, but it’s like holding water. “In league . . . ? How could the king be in league with the Tiger?”
“What’s so strange about it? They both want the Aquitans out of the country.”
“But the Tiger is . . .” I trail off, all the stories rising in me only to die on my tongue. Distantly, the sounds of village life drift from the camp—so different than the silence of Dar Som, the screams in the prison, from all the aftermath of the armée’s work. What was real, what was show? I shake my head, trying to gather my thoughts. “How do you know all this?”
“We left the ship together.” Leo takes a breath, hesitating. “I had your dragon with me at the time.”
“My fantouche?” I blink at him. “You didn’t drown them all.”
His smile is sad. “Well. It is a very beautiful piece of work.”
“Where is she now?”
“The king has her,” Leo says. “He’s very eager to meet you.”
A month ago, the thought would have left me breathless. I suppose it still does now, but not for the same reasons. “And where is he?”
“Out in the jungle,” Leo says. “Looking for the bird you brought to life.”
I shiver, pulling the silk shawl tighter across my shoulders. “What does he want, exactly?”
“Can’t you guess, Jetta?” Leo stands then, sliding his feet back into his shoes. “He wants an army. And he might be able to get you what you want in exchange.”
“An army.” My mind drifts to the flying machines. Could I have given each one a soul? Could I command a flying horde, blazing fire and vengeance? I imagine it for a moment—all the death . . . all the blood. “No. No.” I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms, using the sting to focus. “What about your sister’s letter?”
He gives me a cautious look. “What about it?”
“‘Les Chanceux is not the only cure,’ she says.” I paw through the pockets of the uniform, thrusting the letter into his hands when I find it. “So what else?”
“I didn’t exactly get a chance to ask her on the boat,” Leo says. “And rumor has it, she might not be so receptive to the question at this point.”
“What do you mean?”
“You stole one of her machines.” He raises an eyebrow. “Destroyed her workshop. You might have burned a bridge there. The king, on the other hand—”
“No,” I say again, more emphatically. “I’ve seen enough war. Enough blood.”
“And they haven’t?” Leo’s voice is incredulous; he gestures to the camp.
“You expect me to save them when I can’t even save myself?” I stare at him. “Every choice I make is wrong. Everything I’ve done has only made things worse!”
“Then maybe this is the chance to set things right!” His words scorch the air; it’s hard to breathe. He must see the pain on my face; his look softens and he takes my hand. “I know what it’s like to have regrets, Jetta—things you can’t undo. The only way to soothe that pain is to try to do better.” He hesitates then, wetting his lips. “But I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to.”
“What does that mean?”
“Just what I said! If you want to leave now, I’ll tell the king you’ve vanished. I’ll say you went back to the city or . . . wherever it is you aren’t going. But I think this is your best option, if you really want the cure.”
“What are you getting out of this?” I say, still suspicious, and he cocks his head. “I know you, Leo. You’re a smuggler. A dealer.” In my words, I hear an echo of Legarde: a traitor, a pimp. Familiar with loose women. “What do you get in return?”
“What do I get?” He stares at me. “Do you know what it’s like? Seeing someone you—” He stops then, suddenly, but the unspoken words shimmer in the air between us. I cock my head.
“Someone you what?”
“Someone you know,” he says. “Watching them struggle with something you can’t help them fight.”
His voice is so soft, but the hard part is what he isn’t saying. I wet my lips. “Do you think I’m your redemption, Leo?”
“No. It’s not that.”
“What, then? Pity?”
“No! I . . .” He scrubs a hand through his hair. “I care about you.”
“Why?” I say, my voice fierce. “Because I’m mad? Because I’m broken? Because you want to fix me?”
“Because you burn too bright for me to see you burn out,” he says, and it brings me up short. He takes my hand then, pressing my palm with his fingers—and there it is again. The spark I’d first felt as we rode away from Luda . . . but this time, not a whim, no passing fancy born of my malheur. It is not danger that draws me now—it is Leo himself. What I know of him, and what he knows of me. The way he looks at me makes me feel seen.
“And . . .” I brush my thumb over his knuckles, considering the warmth of his hand in mine. “That’s all you want.”
“Oh, I want many things,” he says, quirking an eyebrow. “But only if you want them too.”
He gives me that smile, and my anger banks to a different heat. I can no longer help it. I lean closer, as does he, and press my lips against his, my heart beating fast, my thoughts rolling slow. His hands slide around my waist, smooth on the silk, and inside, I no longer spark, but burn. He crushes me close and I drink him in, drowning as I try to quench this sudden flame. It billows in the pit of me—this want, this need—nearly a rage, fierce and frightening. I need him closer . . . so I push him away, hard.
Leo stumbles back, raising his hands. His breath is coming fast, but he doesn’t move, and his eyes are cautious—patient. In them, a question: yes or no?
Do I want this?
No. Yes.
Do I?
I hesitate, but before I can decide, the sound of cheering rings out from the village. Leo turns, both of us staring back toward the camp. There, coming through the trees, is a group of rebels all in a line, like ants. On their shoulders, the bound bamboo form of the flying machine; even here I can see her fighting her bonds. And even worse . . . at the head of the column, with my fantouche draped around his neck—the Boy King, alive and well, just as Leo said.
Gone are the fine scarlet silks, the casual posture, the easy smile he wore at his coronation. How had he orchestrated his escape under the noses of his advisers? Between the guns smuggled to the ship, the rebels brought aboard in servants’ dress, and the faked assassination pinning blame on the armée, it seems the rumors of his playboy attitude were much exaggerated. Should I go to him? I still don’t know. I take a deep breath, trying to collect my thoughts, but then a voice—too close—makes me whirl.
“What are you doing with my sister?”
Akra materializes out of the dark in a flurry of motion, shoving Leo back into the greenery, though I was the one with my hand on his chest. “Akra!” I take his arm, pulling him back, but his muscles are tense under my hand. “Leave him alone!”
“What are you doing with him, then?” he says, turning to me. “Maman would be furious!”
I can’t help it—I laugh. “Trust me, Akra. Leo is the least of her worries.”
“I’ll see to that,” Akra says, his mouth twisted. Then he turns as Leo pulls himself out of the vines. “Stay down, you moitié bastard.”
Suddenly, the air is as still as the dead. My eyes go wide, but Leo only brushes off his wet jacket and gives Akra that easy smile. “Good to meet you, capitaine. I’ve heard so much.”
The words are simple but loaded. Akra bristles. “From who?”
“Here and there,” Leo says casually, putting out his hand, Aquitan style. “Leo Rath, at your service. Or if you prefer, Leo Legarde.”
“Legarde?” Akra’s eyes narrow. He ignores Leo’s hand to take a step closer, so they are face-to-face. “So whose side are you on?”
Leo’s smile doesn’t budge, and he doesn’t drop his eyes. He only tilts his head toward me. “For now? Hers.”
I pull Akra back again, before he can respond, and step between the two of them. “We were just discussing how to get us out of here.”
Now my brother looks at me with hope in his eyes. “Back home?”
“To Aquitan,” I say, harsher than I have to. I hesitate then. But what are my options? “With the king’s help. Or so Leo says.”
Leo raises an eyebrow. “You’ll do it, then?”
“I’ll talk to him,” I say. “See what he wants. See what he’ll give me in return.”
Leo’s careful smile breaks into a real grin. He offers me his arm. “Should we go back? I could use a dry set of clothes.”
“You go,” Akra says, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I need to talk to my sister.”
Leo hesitates—why? It takes me a moment to understand the sudden fear in his eyes—fear for me. I draw myself up. Though Akra is angry, he would never hurt me. But Leo doesn’t know that. How many men has he had to run off from La Perl? “Go on,” I tell him softly. “I need to talk to him too.”
Leo narrows his eyes, as though trying to see past the lie, looking from me, to Akra, and back. I lean closer to my brother, suddenly defensive. And after a moment, Leo nods. “I’ll tell the king you’re coming along shortly.” He gives me one last look—a chance to call him back—then starts back up the river.
After he’s gone, Akra turns to me. “Who does he think he is?”
“He helped us get here,” I say, but Akra scoffs, gesturing at the dark jungle, the rebel camp.
“That’s not exactly something to brag about.”
“We would still be in Luda without his help.”
“Closer to home.”
“Home is gone, Akra.” The words are hard—I take his hand to try to soften them. “We lost everything getting this far. There’s nothing to go back to. The only way is forward.”
He takes a deep breath then. His eyes glitter in the dark. Are those tears? If so, this man who was my brother never lets them fall. “Forward to Aquitan,” he says at last, and I nod. “Because of your malheur.”
“Yes.”
On his face, emotions flicker—the longing for and parting from a home he’ll never see again. It had taken me months to make the same journey—and in a way, I’m still on that road. My brother swallows; I can see the muscles moving in his throat. Suddenly, it comes back to me . . . does he remember? The first time I knew there was something wrong with me. It was years ago—I was eleven, maybe twelve. Teetering there, at the edge of the broken stone, looking over the water rushing through the lava tunnel. Inching closer and closer, standing on the edge of oblivion, imagining what might come after.
Akra had found me there as the sun was setting—long after the other children had tired of losing the game of dares to me. He had taken my hand, led me home. He never said anything about it, but I think he knew too. And now, after a long moment, he nods. “D’accord. If you want to get to Aquitan, we’ll get there. And if you think the king will help you, we can ask. But I don’t trust him, or your friend,” Akra says, practically spitting the word.
“Because he’s m—” I stutter over the word, changing my mind at the last moment. “Mixed?”
“Because I finally spoke to that girl. The quiet one.” It takes me a moment to realize he means Cheeky. “That’s how I knew where you went. She and another girl. Tia. They had this.”
Akra pulls something out of his pocket: a little slip of paper, about the length and width of my finger. It wants to roll up like a scroll—the sort of paper a messenger bird would carry on its leg. I unroll it, squinting in the dark, but even by the light of the spirits, I can’t make out the tiny words.
“They said they were told not to give it to you,” he says. “There were dozens, all the same. The rebels burned the others. She hid this one in her . . . she took it for you.”
“What is it?” I whisper. The paper trembles in my hand.
“It’s from Legarde,” he says. “An offer. He has Papa. He wants to trade him back to us.”
My heart leaps—my mind races. “What could he possibly want?”
Akra raises an eyebrow. “He says he wants Leo.”