His notes are full of sketches: long, delicate lines of the thread patterns he sees woven around each Elite in a halo, the countless ways that they shift as the Elite uses her energy; then, the Elites themselves, fleeting, hurried sketches of them in motion. He now lingers in particular on notes he took during Lucent’s training, peering closely at what he had written beside his sketches of her.
The Windwalker’s energy pulls from her bones. She has a marking invisible to our eyes—her bones are light, like a bird’s, as if she had never meant to be human.
It was a single note, one he never touched upon again, and a detail that he had largely forgotten about. Until today. Raffaele leans forward in his chair, thinking back on the tangle of energy he had been observing around Lucent’s broken wrist earlier.
What a strange break, the servant wrapping Lucent’s wrist had muttered. As if twisted from within.
A cold dread seeps into Raffaele’s mind. Outside his door, Gemma calls for him, asking whether he wants any supper, but he barely hears her voice.
Lucent’s bones are not just light anymore. They are brittle, more so than they should be for someone her age … and they are hollowing out.
He wanted to live in a house built on delusion, would rather believe in a million lies than face one truth.
—Seven Circles Around the Sea, by Mordove Senia
Adelina Amouteru
Enzo looks the same. I can’t stop staring at him.
Magiano watches us from the doorway while he tunes the strings of his lute. The house we’re staying in sits somewhere in the Estenzian countryside, an old, crumbling barn that roving bands of thieves must have started using as a stopping place. True to Sergio’s word, other mercenaries have secured this place for us. I can hear them talking in low voices downstairs, taking stock of the horses they have. A few soft neighs float up to us.
From the window, I can see the beginning of the malfetto camps. Sergio’s storm has finally cleared, and what clouds remain are painted a brilliant red by the setting sun.
“How long is he going to sleep like this?” Magiano finally mutters, plucking a few strings. His song sounds agitated, the notes harsher than usual and oddly off-key.
Violetta, seated on the other side of Enzo’s bed, frowns. She rests her chin on one hand and concentrates harder on Enzo’s energy. “He’s stirring,” she replies. “It’s hard to tell, though. His energy is nothing like any of ours.”
We settle into a long, silent wait. Magiano props himself up by the door again and plays a little song, then wanders out into the hall right by the door. Time drags on.
“Adelina.” I look up at my sister as she rises from where she’s sitting and comes to my side. She crouches down and leans toward my ear. I sit back. “Enzo’s link to you is growing stronger by the minute. Like he is strengthening himself by tying himself closer and closer to you.” There is uneasiness in her voice as she says this. “Can you feel it?”
I do, of course. It’s a pulse that rises and falls, pulling and pushing at my chest. It makes my heart feel like it’s beating in an uneven rhythm, and it makes me short of breath. “What is his energy like?” I whisper.
Violetta bites her lip in concentration. She tilts her head at Enzo’s sleeping figure. I can tell that she is reaching out toward him, testing him. She shudders. “Do you remember when we learned needlework together?” she says to me.
Violetta had learned it faster than I did. She’d once switched our two pieces so that our father would praise mine for once. “Yes. Why?”
“Do you remember one time when we each picked out a color of thread, then sewed a pattern together, and our two colors were so interwoven that they looked like a completely new color?”
“Yes.”
“Well, the way Enzo’s energy is tied to yours, the link between you two … it feels like that.” Violetta turns her frown on me. “A new form of energy. His threads are so tangled with yours that it’s almost like you two have become one. For example, I cannot take away his power without taking yours, nor yours without his.” She hesitates. “His power feels like ice. It burns me.”
How ironic. I return to staring at Enzo, trying to get used to the new link between us.
“He’s not the same, you know,” Violetta adds after a while. “Don’t forget that. Don’t …”
“Don’t what?” I reply.
Violetta purses her lips. “Don’t be blinded by your old love for him,” she finishes. “It might be dangerous for you to get too caught up. I can tell.”
I cannot sense what Violetta senses. I know I should believe her, and take her warning. Still, I can’t help staring at him, imagining him awake. When I first met Enzo, he was the Reaper, and I was tied to a stake and left to burn. He had materialized out of smoke and fire as a whirlwind of sapphire robes, a long dagger gleaming in each of his gloved hands, his face hidden behind a silver mask. Now, he looks more like he did on the night we kissed in the Fortunata Court. Vulnerable. Waves of dark hair framed by light. Not a killer, but a young prince. A sleeping boy.
“You’re right,” I finally say to Violetta. “I promise I’ll be careful.” She doesn’t look like she believes me, but she shrugs anyway. She gets up and returns to the other side of Enzo’s bed.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Magiano returning to hang out in the doorway. I don’t know if he heard any of what was said between us, but he keeps his eyes turned away. The song he plays sounds sharp, jolting.