The Broken Sands (Empire of Usmad

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THE BROKEN SANDS
THE BROKEN SANDS
Empire of Usmad Book I

Iren Adams
 Copyright © 2024 Iren Adams

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical
methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law. For permission requests, contact the author at irenadams.social.
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this production are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and
products is intended or should be inferred.
ISBN: 978-2-9592142-0-2
Book Cover by Giulia F. Wille
For the girls who never stop dreaming of adventure
 CONTENTS

Title Page
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Map of Empire of Usmad
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
Thank you for reading
Newsletter
Empire of Usmad
Books By This Author
About The Author
MAP OF EMPIRE OF USMAD
 1

I skid around the corner and keep running down the hall, the guards heavy on my heels. I hear them calling my name over the
shuffle of feet and clank of armor, but I speed deeper into the palace, clutching the parcel in my hand.
Metal doors bar my path. I could spend hours admiring the flowers etched into their surface, but with a prayer to Evanae
that they aren’t locked, I press forward.
“Stop right there, princess,” orders a voice ravaged by years of smoking.
I dare to glance over my shoulder.
Dozens of guards—all clad in golden armor with sharp swords and glinting guns on their belts—spill into the hall with me.
The one with a sash of green around his arm comes to a stop. The others mirror their captain.
We glare at each other for a breath. Just long enough for me to dash the last few steps toward the door and for him to draw
the pistol from his belt.
“I said, ‘Stop’.”
The soldiers of my father’s army are all fine shooters, but his hand still trembles as he lifts the heavy barrel toward me.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I say with a smirk.
I don’t stay to test my theory but push the door open and slip out into the garden. My heart thumps in my chest to the rhythm
of the guards’ boots drawing closer. The metal doors shut behind me with the silent click and drown out any sound with it. I
twist the lock before the guards can join me even if it’ll only slow their pursuit for a few moments.
I close my eyes, desperately trying to catch my breath. Of all the nights to wander through the palace, I chose the one when
there were patrols on every corner.
Another deep breath, and my heart seems to calm a little. The dizzying smell of flowers tickles my nose, making power
surge in my veins, and I don’t even have to open my eyes to know the branches are swaying with the night breeze. Yet I do. Just
to drown out the call of ethera. It begs me to dig my hands into the trimmed grass, to let the green blades wrap around my
fingers.
I tear my gaze away, searching for a thick bush or the lush foliage of an apricot tree, but the full moon in the inky sky renders
any attempt at taking cover futile.
The first bang comes, and my heart skips a beat. The guards will break the lock with the sheer power of their muscles. Give
it enough time, and even hardened metal will eventually yield to their effort.
The desperation kicks in as I give the garden another glance.
The truth is so painfully obvious. There is no place to hide.
As another bang comes, I ditch my boots, slide the parcel into the waist of my pants, and sprint to the stone wall. My fingers
find the first handhold as the doors swell after another blow from the guards. I’ve climbed this wall a dozen times, but the
scorching sun had warmed the stones for the whole day, and they burn the skin of my fingertips and toes hours after sunset.
It’s easy to ignore the pain when I know the consequences I’ll face if the guards catch up, and I press upward, searching for
any stones that jut out from the wall just enough to push me higher. If only I could reach the balcony on the second floor before
the soldiers arrive, they’ll have no proof they actually saw me.
Creaking and groaning, the doors finally burst open, and the guards spill into the garden with me.
I press my body against the stones, blending with the stones. Trying is more like it, I think to myself.
Scraping my skin, blood oozing from my fingertips, gripping the burning stones with the last strength I have left, I blend with
the wall as well as a sleek black train might in the endless sands.
With the pistol still hanging loosely in his hand, the captain looks around until his gaze falls on my boots. Another second,
and he has seen me. “Get down here,” he says, sliding his pistol back in the holster. “Right now.”
“I don’t think so,” I huff in an answer and dry the sweat from my brow on my shoulder, the fabric of my shirt scratching my
skin.
A fissure runs through the wall, and I follow it to the edge of an impossible leap toward the balcony.
 Impossible is right up my alley.
Shifting the weight of my body to the leg hitched in between the stones, I push myself away from the wall and leap into the
air. I land with my feet on the railing, but my body’s momentum doesn’t carry me all the way across and I lose my balance.
A shout from somewhere too far below confirms what I already know for sure. I’m going to fall.
My arms flail, searching for something to grip onto long enough so I can regain my balance. Anything would do. There is
only air and, soon, ground, which won’t make for a very soft landing.
Someone yanks me up onto the balcony by the waist of my trousers, and I land on the flagstones, face first. A grunt comes
from somewhere deep in my throat.
I roll onto my back, pushing away, but a grip strong enough to break bones pulls me to my feet and forces me up against the
wall.
“Let me go,” I cry, bucking against the tight restraint on my arm, but I’m forced back against the wall with a hard shove.
“That’s enough, Idris.” Even if I can’t see him, I recognize the voice of the captain, who was so eager to shoot me.
“Yes, Captain Siro,” answers the guard, holding me down.
I push again, and the soldier lets me go. Stumbling and rubbing my arm where Idris’s fingers made angry marks on my skin, I
turn, eager to face the captain.
A flash of metal is all the warning I get before he puts steel manacles coated with silver around my wrists. I might be a
Princess of the House of Our Sun and Light, but the bite of metal on my skin is as harsh as if I was nothing more than a criminal
on the loose.
“Let’s hope this is enough to keep you in check,” Siro says, showing me two rows of teeth marred with brownish stains. “I
wouldn’t want to make you unfit for tomorrow’s ceremony.”
“What ceremony?”
The captain doesn’t answer, but pushes me through the opening and back into the palace.
“What are you talking about?” I ask, which earns me a hard shove from the same guard, who I would have thanked for
saving my life, if only I didn’t find him so detestable right now.
“The ceremony that’s been a year in the making. The one that in no way should be hindered by a princess wandering in parts
of the palace she’s not allowed to be in,” Siro says. “Now, move.”
With one final shove, the soldiers escort me through the halls bathed by the silver light of the moon, following a fast tempo
only they can hear. Their pace doesn’t even falter as we cross another threshold. One with far too many soldiers swarming its
entrance. No coin is spared to protect wives and daughters of Our Sun and Light.
Siro pushes me into my room, showing me those rotting teeth again.
“You can’t be here,” I mutter. “If my father finds out—”
“You shouldn’t be out there, either,” the captain interrupts me, his arm waving in the vague direction of the library where his
patrol found me sneaking in to read my father’s books. “This night, we are all breaking rules.”
Unceremoniously and methodically, he pats my sides until he finds the parcel I slipped into the waist of my trousers. “This
doesn’t belong to you,” he says before removing my manacles.
“Nothing in the Empire of Usmad belongs to anyone else but to my father,” I answer, offering the captain’s retreating back a
glare that could kill if he only dared to look.
Siro doesn’t answer, walking out of the room and closing the door behind him. I wait for a second and, sure as the Maker’s
will, the lock on it turns from the outside.
I curse and slide down the wall, rubbing my wrists where the manacles left a burning ring. No metal chains my hands, but
I’m far from being free.
The guards retreat the way they came, the stomping of their boots fading. I wait until I can’t hear anything, not even the
shuffle of servants’ feet. Only when Aunt Jera’s snores break the drowning silence of the palace do I dare to dig out a
parchment from a double lining in the waist of my trousers.
Satisfied with his success, the captain abandoned his search as soon as he found the lifted book packed neatly into a parcel.
I would have loved to erase that righteous smile from his lips and reveal the fact that his search failed because I still have one
of the dozen identical parchments that I found on the desk in the room filled with more books than there are grains of sand in the
desert. Yet that would have made him take even this small treasure away from me.
“Now, what ceremony were you talking about?” I whisper, unfolding the ornate parchment.
Written in long oval letters and with my father’s personal stamp of a thorny rose entwined with a circlet at the bottom, the
invitation to a betrothal ceremony grows heavier in my hand with each passing moment. A betrothal between Ajaia from the
House of The Sour Peaks and Neylan from the House of Our Sun and Light.
My father has traded one of his daughters, his last green-eyed gem, for yet another favor from a noble.
“A ceremony one year in the making,” I echo the captain’s words.
The parchment slips from my fingers, and I let my head fall into my hands. The day I dreaded is finally here.
Because I’m Neylan, and it’s my turn to carry out my duty to ensure the prosperity of the Empire of Usmad.
 2

S omewhere in the palace, a door bangs shut with enough force to jolt my sluggish mind awake. I rub the last of the sleep from
my eyes and desperately try to figure out where I am and what is going on.
My gaze lands on the parchment on the floor that must have slipped from between my fingers as I fell asleep. New tears
rush to my eyes, but I blink them away.
The shuffle of feet grows closer, followed by a clamor of voices and cackles.
I can bet my life on a guess as to their destination.
My eyes dart around the room. I won’t have time to hide all the items I’ve collected over the years. The swords with
swirling leaves stolen from the armory. The set of books on an unauthorized loan from the library. The sketchbooks with
shimmering gems and golden paint on their covers. Even if I could, it wouldn’t matter. After the betrothal, I’ll join my
husband’s household with the rest of his wives. All my trinkets will lie forgotten in one storage room or another until the sand
claims even them.
I tear the parchment to pieces and let it slide through my fingers as if doing so could change my destiny. As if I had a chance
at another life. As if I could flee from the path my father has charted for me and see the world outside the high walls that have
held me prisoner for eighteen years.
The last piece glides to the floor just as the door swings open. A woman appears on the other side surrounded by a flock of
my sisters and, further away, a cluster of servants.
The air is as thick as syrup, sweat beading on my skin, but a shiver still runs down my back. Even the servants hover an
arm’s length away as they follow the woman with jingling bracelets on her wrists. Her back straight, her gaze hard, her dark
hair drawn back in a tight coil, the most powerful woman of the empire, the second wife of Our Sun and Light has graced me
with her presence.
“I’ve heard about your little adventure last night,” Ofara says, looking at anything but me.
“Mother, I would never—”
Her slap rattles my bones all the way down to my toes and erases any trace of sleep still lingering on my mind. I stumble
away, tripping on a pile of clothes strewn on the floor, and land hard on my already bruised side.
“Stand up,” she says sharply.
My foot stuck in the sleeve of a shirt, I battle to stand up when another slap sends me back down. “Can’t you hear me when I
speak to you?”
I stagger to my feet, rubbing my bruises as my mother gives the room another glance. My sisters lower their heads and divert
their gazes as soon as they feel Ofara might take even a speck of interest in them. When she clicks her tongue, even the most
brazen of my sisters stiffen.
“Come,” my mother says, gripping my hand with another jingle of bracelets. “We are already late.”
We cross the palace yet to be awakened in a silent procession. My mother doesn’t care if she disturbs anyone’s sleep, but
today even she must feel nervous. Her nails, coated with gold flecks and genuine rubies, dig into my skin, and she doesn’t let
go until we step into a room filled with polished mirrors, enamel baths, and a heated pool. I fell into it once, when I was
younger. Back then my sisters already avoided my presence as if I was cursed by Livith, the god of death and oblivion. My
throat tightens at the memory, fighting the water dribbling into my lungs. I’m on the other side of the room, but my vision still
blurs.
“Get into the tub already. We don’t have all morning,” my mother says, yanking me back to reality and, for once, I’m
grateful.
I pull my shirt off, my muscles screaming in agony. A gasp, muffled by the shuffling of robes, betrays Tylea’s indignation.
Her eyes run over different shades of purple and yellow painted on the canvas of my skin. Some are from my mother’s last
beating, but the bright violet ones are from my altercation with the guards last night.
Dismissing her worried glance, I hurry to shrug off my dirt-stained garments and get into the tub before Ofara can be
distracted from the cup of strong coffee in her hand and the jeweled kaftans of every shade of green being brought forward for
her evaluation.
A gasp breaks out from my lips as servants pour biting-cold water all over my body. Every bathroom in the palace has
heated water running through copper tubing, and yet, my mother has me sitting in a tub of melting ice. I don’t dare to protest.
Not when it would only earn me another beating. My teeth clattering, unable to stop the trembling, I wait as the servants rub my
skin with perfumed oils and struggle to disentangle my hair with a comb of obsidian and diamonds.
Ofara floats across the room, her cup with swirls of golden paint still resting between her bony fingers. She catches the hand
of the servant working on my hair, a cry escaping the lips of the young girl. “We wouldn’t want her to go bald in your care,
would we?”
Tylea steps closer, her hands rolled into fists.
“You won’t like it no matter what the girl does to my hair,” I say from the tub before my sister can open her mouth. “If only
for that simple reason that it’s attached to my head.”
Ofara lifts her hand, and I stiffen, waiting for a blow that never comes. When I dare to meet her gaze, I see a smile grow
sharper on her lips. A smile that never fails to steal my breath. “Soon, it’ll be your husband teaching you manners, and you’ll
remember how kind your mother was to you, how much she has sacrificed for such an ungrateful brat.”
Ofara turns away, her attention seized by a new set of kaftans presented by the servants. Their hands shake. Their eyes are
cast down. I open my mouth, the retort sitting on the tip of my tongue. Maybe if she beats me like the last time, Ajaia won’t
want any part of me, and I won’t have to leave. Or maybe she’ll beat me into a sleep that will be my last.
Tylea takes the comb from the servant’s hand and runs it through my hair with a soft caress. “It’s not worth it,” she whispers
with her next breath.
Of course, she’s right.
I press my lips into a thin line before I can say anything else that’ll inevitably attract my mother’s attention. Willing my heart
to stop hammering in my chest is harder. Even more so when I see my mother pick a kaftan for the ceremony in which I don’t
want to partake. My sisters observe the proceedings with a glimmer of jealousy in their eyes. They would kill me in a heartbeat
if it only meant they could take my place, but they don’t have green eyes like my father does. Like I do. A jewel of his empire,
I’m his property. Even more valuable than any of his wives or other daughters. I was always destined to be a reward for a man
who has offered Magnar something he couldn’t refuse. A coin bargained in a trade.
Tylea catches a tear that has formed in the corner of my eye just as my mother glances our way to check on the progress.
Satisfied with whatever she’s seen, she turns away and clicks her fingers. The servants dash across the room to usher me out of
the bath and into the thick towels.
An hour later, the girl who has been working on the intricate braid woven around my head slides the last pin adorned with
emeralds into my rusty-red hair, and brings a crushing migraine with it. My mother merely glances at me from the divan where
my sisters have clustered around her, gossiping and giggling. They all lift their gazes to me from time to time, like they do now,
as servants rush to cloak me in a kaftan of deep green. The silk woven from lotus stems shifts and glides, making my skin itch,
and if I dare to move, the countless gems stitched to the fabric sparkle under the sun climbing higher into the sky.
My mother gives me one last hard look before she snaps her fingers again, with a jingle of bracelets echoing through the
bathroom. Like an army waiting for her command, my sisters form a semi-circle, waiting for the jewel of the Empire of Usmad
to complete the crown.
With a stroke to the back of my hand, Tylea offers me a reassuring smile. Now that I am coated in powder and with kohl and
gold lines around my eyes, I wonder if she can see how grateful I am that she’s here.
“Remember, girls, there will be many men here today. Men who can bring support to Our Sun and Light. Men who can help
lead this desert into a better future,” says Ofara.
No wonder they call her the Dealmaker.
Giddy smiles break out on my sisters’ faces. They are eager to join any of the households of the empire, no matter how
bloodthirsty their leader is.
“I’ll be watching you,” my mother adds. The anger simmers in her deep ocher eyes brighter than the jeweled ring on that
finger she points straight at me. “By the grace of Evanae, if you even dare to think of something stupid to say or do…”
I bow low enough for her to find it acceptable. When I stand up straight again, she has already turned away.
Her eyes cast down, one sharp nail tapping on that jeweled ring, Ofara is reciting a prayer to the Maker and his bride, and
even though I have never cared to learn the words, I want to join her. Before I can scramble my thoughts together, my mother
straightens her shoulders, lifts her chin, and motions for the servants to open the door the corridor bathed by the morning sun.
 3

A jingle of bracelets and click clack of Ofara’s heels accompany each of her strides as she guides us through the maze of
corridors that form the bowels of the palace.
“Don’t look him in the eyes,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s talking about my intended husband or my father. “Keep your
mouth shut. Unless he asks you anything. Even then, keep it short. Men don’t like it when women speak out of line.”
The rules keep coming, but I’m busy counting turns and recalling where each passage leads. Old habit, learned after years of
nocturnal escapades when I feared getting lost in the palace and its countless halls. I don’t dare to think about anything else. If I
do, a storm that is brewing might spill from my prickling eyes.
A group of guards marches through the hall in their burnished armor of gold and black, bowing their heads to Ofara but
meeting none of our gazes. None of them want to lose their head.
We turn another corner, and our procession comes to a halt. A few steps away a long queue of guests lingers next to the
double doors as tall as the ceiling. The artist has marked the entrance to the Throne Room with the symbol of the Empire of
Usmad. Metal roses so beautifully carved they seem real peek from under thorns so sharp they would draw blood if only one
dared to touch them. They rest on a simple circlet my father has never actually worn. He has never needed a crown to command
over his subjects. Fear runs deep enough in the sands without it.
A servant detaches from our group and dashes toward a squad of guards. Their ornate armor is polished to a shine, their
swords bear gems bigger than the jewelry of the nobles waiting for their announcement. They are as much part of the decorum
as anyone else in my entourage, but they still are a deadly force. My father wouldn’t have it any other way.
With a profuse bow and a string of words, the servant directs the captain’s attention to our group. I curse my luck as I
recognize the guard with the green sash over his arm and a smirk on his lips my father hasn’t managed to erase. He doesn’t
offer even a speck of attention to the servant, but calls for his squad and crosses the corridor in a few large strides.
Siro only glances at Ofara. She would have him clobbered for such sign of disrespect on any other day, but nothing is to
spoil my betrothal and that means even my mother will have to behave. The captain looks me up and down with an approving
nod. I must finally look like something he expects from a princess. Although last night, he unceremoniously patted me down,
today his bow is as profuse as of any other guard below his station. I itch with the desire to see if he would trip and fall with a
flicker of my finger. As if knowing what I’m thinking, Tylea grabs my hand, and I have to swallow a rasping ball forming in my
throat. She won’t be able to keep me out of trouble any longer. Not with the endless desert and my father’s will keeping us
apart.
The captain turns on his heels yet to utter a word, and we resume our march toward the Throne Room. Guests waiting in line
follow our passage with hushed whispers of exquisite gossip. The future bride has arrived, and they’ll talk about every single
detail of my attire for at least a month.
We stop in front of the engraved doors, and, with one last squeeze, Tylea’s fingers leave mine.
An eternity passes, or maybe just a second, before a loud bang ripples through the hall and stifles even the lowest of
murmurs. The doors glide open of their own accord, and all the gazes turn to us. A shrill voice from somewhere deep in the
hall announces our names, and the soldiers click their heels together.
Ofara is already walking, my sisters following close behind, but my feet feel as heavy as lead.
As soon as I cross that threshold, everything will change. Forever.
And if I don’t force my feet to move, my mother might change her mind and send me into oblivion by her own hand. Yet this
is a battle I’m not eager to win.
“If you want to make a run for it, Nel, this might be the worst time you could pick.” Tylea’s soft voice breaks through the
spell when she utters that nickname. She had used it when we were kids, and she couldn’t properly spell my name, and it stuck.
I dare to look at her even though my mother has already turned, waiting. Even though all the guests have directed their attention
at us, and the ones closest can hear every word. “Believe me when I tell you, no matter what happens, you are strong enough to
get through this.” Tylea turns away, and, as if nothing has happened, starts toward the hall. She doesn’t wait to see if I’ll follow.
She doesn’t have to.
Taking one last deep breath that tugs on my bruises, I lift my chin and step into the hall.

Beads of water roll down glasses of cooled drinks servants carry under stars of gold and diamonds painted on the metal dome
rising high above us. Heavy columns carry its weight with vines of metal descending upon us with precious gems bursting out
of man-made flowers.
My father has yet to make an appearance, and the guests cluster around their acquaintances, gossip flowing from their lips in
a steady stream.
My sisters have drifted across the Throne Room to flaunt their charm and beauty in front of the nobles, leaving me girdled
by the servants. Even my mother is nowhere to be seen. She must have dug her nails in a governor of a household or a grand
general, ratifying details of another marriage with one of my sisters.
Gold and black of armor dots the ever-rearranging mosaic of coats of vibrant dyes and kaftans of shimmering gems. A chord
of golden thread adorns the edges of the green sash on the guards’ arms. Some are my distant brothers, too old to remember me,
others had climbed the ranks from poverty and anonymity, but they all bear the mark of a general of Our Sun and Light’s armies.
These are the men who drench the sands with the blood of my father’s enemies.
All of them except for one man.
With cheekbones that could split my skin if I only dared to run my finger along them, the guard stands as alone in the sea of
men as I am. His armor is a darker shade of black with no gold to glimmer under the light spilling from kerosene lamps and
melting candles. His gaze is cast on a governor with a thick beard dusted with gray and fingers bulging around jeweled rings.
As if feeling my eyes on him, the guard tilts his head and brings the whole depth of a starless night on me.
My breath caught in my throat, I cast my gaze to my feet, counting the emeralds dotting my sandals. No man—not even a
general—would dare to meet my gaze without fearing my father’s wrath. Yet when I glance at him through my glimmering
lashes, he’s still observing me. A hint of a smile tugs on the corner of his lips, softening those hard features.
“Rev,” Tylea says from my side, where she has appeared from thin air like a shadowleech.
“What?”
“Rev is his name. In case you were wondering,” she adds, dipping her lips in the glass of a chilled infusion of berries and
herbs. She nods toward the other guard, also missing the golden thread of a general who has his full attention on the same man
Rev was observing mere moments ago. “That one is Olaf, and neither of them is worth the trouble.”
“What are you talking about?” I dare another glance at the guard, who has yet to cast his attention elsewhere.
Tylea picks up another glass from a passing servant’s tray, pressing it into my hand and forcing me to look at her instead of
the captain. “Rev and Olaf are our father’s personal guards.”
My heart lurches in my chest, and I have to fight the urge to meet those black eyes.
My father can kill a man with a dull knife without spoiling a white shirt. He doesn’t need a bodyguard. Much less two. What
he needs are men with a special set of skills. Men who can accomplish any task. Men who will sacrifice everything in order to
achieve their goals. The generals awaiting the emperor might be winning battles, but these two men are winning wars.
“How do you know that?” I ask, soothing my thundering heart.
“Everyone knows it.”
“I don’t.”
“If you would spend less time on your little adventures, you might actually learn what happens in the real world.”
I open my mouth and close it back again. There is no point arguing with Tylea. She knows me better than anyone else. Better
than I know myself, as she likes to say.
“You don’t want this life. You’ve made it painstakingly clear to me and to everyone else,” Tylea says over the rim of her
glass. Her smile is as dazzling as ever as a member of a household lost somewhere deep in the desert passes by our side. “No
matter how unfair everything is, to cause trouble today is just not worth it.”
Her words bring the prickle back to my eyes, but I fight it as well as I can and muster a smile. No matter how bright and
beaming, it won’t fool Tylea.
“Evanae’s grace, won’t he stop,” she mutters, her gaze trailing over my shoulder.
I can no longer fight the urge and dare to look at the guard protecting the most powerful man in the empire. Our gazes cross
with a silent clash of black steel and emerald will. Rev’s smile deepens further, adding a touch of mirth to his eyes. He takes a
first step, and the sea of men parts in his path.
It seems no one else is as ignorant as I am.
 He stops a few paces short and offers us a deep bow. When he lifts his head, his eyes find mine. “Princess Neylan of the
House of Our Sun and Light,” he says, his voice as sharp as the blade on his hip. “It’s a pleasure to see such a refined jewel in
the midst of the rabble.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I’ve never expected a guard of his rank to have such a way with words. “The pleasure is all mine,
Rev of the House…” I hesitate, unsure of his provenance.
“No House, I’m afraid,” he says, gauging my reaction to the absence of his noble birthright. “Just Rev of The Jagged Stand.”
I’m no fool. Now that he’s close, I can see the scars peeking out from under his armor, tugging the skin under his lip,
crossing the bridge of his nose. Medals of a silent war he’s waging against Magnar’s personal enemies. And those eyes of
black. Cold and calculating.
I simply offer him the most radiant of my smiles, even if it must look false. “It’s an honor to have the attention of a man of
such importance, Rev of The Jagged Stand.”
His features soften as he offers me his hand. “Might I ask for a dance?”
I glance around. “No one is dancing.”
“That’s not what I asked,” he says, and that smile of his dips into a full smirk.
From the corner of my eye, I can see Ofara stride toward us, her face set in a grimace of fury and contempt. Before I know
what I’m doing, I press the glass into Tylea’s hand. “It seems sometimes trouble finds me,” I mutter low enough that only she
can hear me.
Before Ofara can draw any closer, I slide my hand into Rev’s, and she stops in her tracks. Not even the second wife of Our
Sun and Light would go against the will of his personal guard.
The calluses on his hand rasp my skin as we get closer to the dais. Rev gives me a twirl, and conversations come to a halt.
Only shushed whispers ripple through the Throne Room. It’s only when he’s sure that everyone’s eyes are on us, that Rev
wraps his other hand around my waist and takes the first step.
We float through the hall to soft notes from fifes and chords, undetectable a moment ago over the chorus of gossip. Swashes
of color swirl before my eyes as Rev twirls me again. Others must have joined us, but I’m too busy keeping up with the
intricate steps of the dance, careful not to stumble on the long hem of my kaftan or my own two feet. Rev seems to have no
trouble, his posture radiating a calculated calmness I so earnestly crave.
We dance long enough for the musicians to change the rhythm three different times, and for the Throne Room to blur into
streaks of gold above carved stone. For a moment, nothing exists except the endless darkness of Rev’s eyes.
We stop with the last notes still hanging in the air. All around us the couples are retreating to the back of the hall, fanning
their flushed faces, but Rev’s hand is still burning the small of my back. “Thank you for this dance, Princess Neylan of the
House of Our Sun and Light. I would have never imagined one could be so graceful.”
I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We both know I was as graceful as a drunk governor on a Shattered Night. “If your
proficiency with weapons is at least half as good as your way with words, my father has not to worry about his safety, Rev of
The Jagged Stand.”
Loud laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside his chest. Governors and their wives turn their piercing gazes but don’t
linger, feigning interest in a stain on a sparkling kaftan or a worn-down coat on a governor’s back.
Rev picks up my hand, brushing my knuckles with his lips. “Princess Neylan, you’re truly a gem of this empire.”
I bite my lip, hoping that the mask of powder and kohl is enough to hide my flustered cheeks. I open my mouth, but a loud
bang echoes through the hall, and steals my breath away before I can answer.
I know the time has come. I know there is nothing left to do but await my fate. Yet I still clutch Rev’s hand in mine as I turn
to the dais. As if he can shelter me from what’s coming.
Emperor Magnar’s boots echo through the hushed stillness of the crowded hall, and not even the most reckless general
would break the silence with a sigh.
The spotless black attire couldn’t be simpler, but no one would confuse him for one of the guards, for gold and green corded
seams run from his shoulders to encircle the cuffs of his shirt. Combed carefully back, his charcoal-black hair has a few
strands of gray at his temples, but his face is yet to show a single wrinkle.
Our gazes meet, and I don’t dare to look away. Not from those eyes lined with anger and betrayal.
“Our Sun and Light,” I say loud enough for my voice to carry through the Throne Room.
Rev offers my father a respectful bow, but mine is so deep I could touch my toes. If there is one man in Usmad with whom
I’m not ready to play games, it’s my father.
His eyes sweep the hall with an indifference only he can show for the privileged men of this empire before landing on me
again with a full force of a sandstorm, as if he can peel away every part of me, until only truth remains.
 4

I know my mother is glaring at me from somewhere deep in the hall. I can feel her gaze burrowing between my shoulder
blades, but I don’t dare to turn away from the emperor.
“My dear guests, I thank you for this wonderful performance,” Magnar finally says, and a sparkle of amusement flares in
those green eyes. “Neylan, daughter of mine, I have also prepared a surprise for everyone gathered here to celebrate your
betrothal.”
Following a silent command, guards in armor of polished gold drag a half-naked man into the hall. No resistance is offered
by the prisoner, who can’t even walk or stand on his own. His feet hit each slab of stone, and by the time they cross the hall, the
newly-formed blisters spurt open, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.
The soldiers stop mere feet away from the dais, where golden leaves creep higher up invisible branches to form a
cushioned seat on which Our Sun and Light would sit on any ordinary day. My father doesn’t claim his throne though, not this
time, but stays next to the prisoner, whose breaths come out in labored huffs as the guards force him to his knees.
“I’ve wanted to share this marvelous news with you for a while, my dear people of Usmad.”
The prisoner doesn’t even fight the soldiers’ grip. His black hair hangs in greasy clumps, his skin is swathed with bruises of
different shades of yellow and green, and, when my father pulls his head up, dark circles of a man who hasn’t had a good
night’s sleep in a very long time show under his half-closed eyes.
“I present to you the last leader of the rebellion,” my father says, contempt bringing his voice to a rasping murmur. “The
rebels try to instill fear in our hearts. They try to shake our belief that all our hard work and the sacrifices we make are not
worth it. They try to paint us as the oppressors of this desert.”
The hall ripples with whispers and curses as the guests take in the sight of a tortured man before them.
Rev presses my hand, but I force myself to look at the rebel. If I look at him, I fear I might crumble. I might turn into the
senseless girl everyone thinks I am.
“I say, we’ve suffered enough.” Magnar’s voice hushes the crowd with the power his words carry.
He lets go of the rebel, and his head falls back down lifelessly. Under a patchy birthmark on his neck, the proof of his crime
glares at us. A symbol I’ve seen before in books I’ve been sneaking from my father’s library. The one rebels leave blazing
everywhere they go to undermine my father’s work. Etched into his skin is a tattoo of a rising sun.
As if hearing my thoughts, the man looks up, the fire in his brown eyes, long dead. His dried lips crack and bead with blood
as he forces the words to leave his mouth. I have to strain my ears to catch what he says, but the way my father’s lips turn into a
thin line, the way Rev’s jaw reveals a tick just below his ear, I know I’ve heard him right.
“For the King of Rebels. For the endless fight. For the next dawn.”
My father rolls his shoulders back and steps forward, regaining his composure in a blink of an eye. “Any man, no matter
their rank or status, will suffer the consequences of their actions,” Magnar says, the whisper growing into a growl that echoes
through every crevice of the Throne Room. “Not even Evanae will stop me from exerting revenge on those who stand between
me and the prosperity of Usmad.”
A guard pulls out a whip and brings it down on the rebel’s back with a wet snap. It hits his skin again before even a drop of
blood could form on the ragged wound. The prisoner’s wails of agony find no compassion or mercy as the whip lands again on
his already broken skin. I force myself to watch the horror of the punishment amidst the cheers from the guests, counting the
rises and falls of the knotted cord.
Four, and the blood splatters my kaftan and my face, bringing the taste of copper to my lips.
Five, and I take an unsteady breath.
Six, and the rebel arches his back, spittle and agony unleashed from his swollen throat.
Seven, and the man pulls so hard, the guard stumbles.
Eight, and his body goes limp.
Nine, and the pain brings him back to consciousness.
 Ten, and only a wail from somewhere deep inside his chest reaches my ears.
The guard steps aside, leaving a crimson trail where the whip slithers over the stones. Blood oozes from ten deep gashes
across the rebel’s back, overlapping over each other in a grotesque painting.
A cheer erupts somewhere deeper in the hall. Another one follows until thrilled cries and applause overtake the crowd.
I don’t share their excitement. A treacherous tear escapes my eye, and before a tremble could settle, I roll my hands into
fists. I forgot Rev’s hand was still in mine, and he presses it back. I dare to hope that even for him, it’s just too much. That this
boy, a few years older than I am, dressed in the uniform of a captain, finds it as despicable as I do.
I couldn’t be more wrong. Only scorn burns in the all-devouring blackness of his eyes. For him, the rebel deserved what he
got. For him, torture in front of dozens is a fair punishment for someone who only fought for his beliefs.
The emperor basks in his glorious act while the crowd cheers for the torment inflicted on the man guilty of the worst crime
in Usmad. A glimmer of hope and the will to fight for it.
When the ovations die down, the guards drag the rebel out of the hall. A bloody trail, that servants will spend days
scrubbing out of the stones, is all that is left.
Dropping Rev’s hand, I take a step toward my father. I won’t stay idle and wait for another torture the emperor has planned
as entertainment for the blood-thirsty nobles.
“Father,” I say and the ruckus of voices dies out.
I can hear Ofara click her tongue somewhere in the crowd, but Magnar turns at my call. Amusement pulls his face into a
semblance of a smile, and I know it’ll haunt every single one of my nightmares.
What’s another broken rule when my oblivion is so close? I square my shoulders and mirror Magnar’s smile. “I hope to
speak in the name of all gathered here when I say that we’re grateful for you watching over the safety and prosperity of the
Empire of Usmad, so we can steal moments like this from the endless cycle Evanae spins.”
A hum of approval spreads through the hall. The nobles might not have heard much about me before, but now they’ll
remember me as the girl who dared to speak. I bow again, and with loud swishing and rustling of expensive fabrics, the nobles
follow my lead. When I stand back up, an eerie smile still tugs on the corners of Magnar’s lips, and the kaftan sticks to my legs
where blood has drenched it to the last thread.
“Forgive me for my insolence, but I’m unwilling to wait another moment to meet my betrothed.”
My father doesn’t have to voice a command. He doesn’t have to click his fingers to make the guards obey. The crowd parts
to let Olaf guide the man he and Rev were so intent on observing.
Ajaia of the House of The Sour Peaks.
A trickle of sweat runs down from his receding hairline, over his brow, and disappears in the curls of his unruly beard. His
eyes are sluggish after ingesting one too many glasses of chilled wine, and it takes everything in me to keep up a smile even
Tylea would be proud to see. When he grabs my hand, his palm is damp with sweat and not a single scar webs his skin. This
man hasn’t fought a single battle in his life, but earned his position through immoral intrigues and petty plots. Yet this is a man I
am to marry, whether I want to or not.
Another bang of the ceremonial gong rings loudly. The voice is no longer as sharp when he calls the name of the newcomer
and it reaches our ears in a sinuous string of titles.
Leaning heavily on a jeweled staff with the symbol of Evanae’s watchful eye on its peak, the priest in robes of blue and red
shuffles toward us. I should have learned his name, but the priests who serve in the palace have a habit of disappearing,
replaced by new ones within a day. This one, now wrapping a sash of gold and green around our hands, has proved himself an
exception. He has been in the palace for over a year. His milky gaze and the fact he has no tongue has saved his life in a place
where no god could reign over the emperor’s will.
“My dear guests,” my father says when the priest has dabbed his finger in a blessed blend of ashes and herbs mixed with oil
and drawn a sacred symbol on our foreheads. A circle to represent Evanae’s endless cycle of life and a straight line cutting it
in two to symbolize Livith’s will and the certainty of death it carries. The mixture trickles into my eyes, mixing with unshed
tears and flecks of gold. “This union brings me immense joy, and I can only hope the Maker will grace them with his blessing,
for our empire will only be stronger for it.” My father unfurls the sash from our hands, revealing angry marks where Ajaia’s
fingers had pressed too hard into my skin. “I trust the Governor of the House of The Sour Peaks to do everything in his power
to ensure my daughter’s safety, and I can only wish them luck on their trip back to their household.”
The nobles behind us explode in joyful cries and drown out what my father says next. Maker knows they’ll need it.
Ignorant of my father’s last words, Ajaia pulls me closer. His hand wrapped around my waist, he makes me face the crowd,
as the whole hall is thundering with applause.
“Remember this, little one. Our marriage might be in a few months, but you’re already mine.” Ajaia’s breath is slick,
coating my skin with memories I won’t be able to scrub off even after hours in a bath. “There will be no more dancing with
other men. I won’t allow you to forget your place.”
“Which is?” I ask, lifting my chin.
Stirring up trouble might not be worth it, but cowering under threats of a man with no honor would tear me to shreds.
 “Another piece of my property.”
Ajaia salutes the hall with his ringed hand waving high in the air. Under my father’s wary glare, I force myself to do the
same. The ceremony won’t be botched by a rebellious princess. Not when the emperor’s threat still rings in the air as if the
whip never stopped splitting skin.
 5

A trunk snaps shut, and I startle, glowering at the servants dashing around my room. I’m not sure I can still call it mine with
upturned cupboards, scattered clothes and attentive guards. Half a dozen chests have been moved out, but the only things I
would call mine have been discarded.
I stiffen when Rev picks up one of two swords resting against the desk. His fingers run over the blade I’ve sharpened and
polished countless times. He throws it up in the air and catches it with the other hand, and I’m ready to march over and snatch it
away, but I pull the sleeves of my kaftan down and stand still. Even when he twirls the blade and sends a beam of sunlight into
my eyes.
“Why does my father think I’m in need of protection?”
Rev’s lips pull into a smirk, and he sheaths my sword with a loud click. “Who said anything about protection?”
A dozen questions are on the tip of my tongue, but anything I have to say gets silenced by my mother’s glare. Yet she doesn’t
say a word. Not when she knows my presence in the palace will be ending in mere hours. She clicks her fingers and motions at
my kaftan, not to anyone in particular, but a servant dashes to a closet so large it takes up most part of the wall. She pulls a
kaftan from the depth of a shelf, and I have to stiffen a groan. Of a deeper shade, but it’s still gauzy green with emerald buttons
running from the collar down to the hem.
“Get her into that already,” my mother says, her voice a command but no longer as assertive as when she was the most
important person in the room.
The guards don’t even have the decency to allow me to change without their sharp gazes surveying the proceeding, but they
make a point of looking at anything but me as servants rush to make the last preparations while I stand shivering in a underdress
of pale green lace. One girl rubs the blood off my skin with a wet rag until it’s so red and stinging she might have left it there
and no one would have noticed the difference. Another servant works on the emeralds of the kaftan. It takes her an eternity to
clasp the five sitting above my collarbone. No sooner than she starts on the next that my attention drifts to the questions circling
my mind.
The betrothal is a part of a bigger game. I’m just a pawn moved around by men with more power than I could ever have. I’m
nothing but a reward for a governor who was dealt good cards and managed to cheat the emperor out of his jewel. I know
nothing of the ploy unraveling with my betrothal, except for one thing. Magnar has high stakes in this game. After all, his
personal guard—the one who has gained what little trust the emperor has to offer—is here to make sure I leave the palace with
my betrothed.
A servant brings me back into the real world as she pushes another emerald pin to smooth down a rebellious lock that has
escaped my braid, scratching my skin in the process. She cowers under my glare, and, for once, I can’t gather any remorse to
even mouth an apology.
As another trunk snaps shut, Rev finally drops the sword.
“Princess,” he says, offering me a mocking bow.
“I thought you were here just to violate my privacy,” I slide my arm through his, “but you’ll be around long enough to
oversee my departure.”
The smile that splits Rev’s lips erases what little twinkle there was in the darkness of his eyes. “I’ll be there until the very
end.”
The guards click their heels together and, like tightly wound-up automatons, march to enclose us in a circle. Their armor
clanks and jangles as we cross the palace without a word uttered. There are no longer any frivolous flirtations. Not while I
walk toward the life of torment awaiting me.
A door bursts open, and Tylea appears on the other side. In a kaftan of flowing scarlet, she has her own escort of guards as
accessories. I curse my luck when I notice Siro’s scornful glare.
“I didn’t know you were coming,” I say as soon as the wall of guards parts and Tylea joins my side.
Her eyes trail over my arm, hooked into Rev’s before snapping up to meet mine.
 “Neither did I,” she answers, deciding not to bring up my closeness to Magnar’s personal guard. Until we are alone, at
least. “It is so irritating to find your own rooms being turned upside down by servants after such a long day,” she adds with a
sigh. “I can’t say I don’t find it most convenient, though.” I arch a brow, and she smiles. “Who will keep you out of trouble until
you settle in, if not your favorite sister?”
I let her chirp about the trip as my insides churn with anticipation. With each step we make, we draw closer to the walls of
stone and metal, wards and soldiers. Beyond, the empire spreads into the desert that knows no bounds.
No matter how unwelcoming, I’ve always wanted to tread through its shifting trails, to uncover all of the secrets buried
deep under the sand, to dive into a life of adventure, but it’s not the path Evanae has charted for me in her endless cycle.
The guards come to a halt, and I would have run into Siro’s back if not for Rev stopping me with a gentle tug. The silence
falls over us like a heavy blanket. Even Tylea quietens at my side, observing the high doors of metal and gears rising to the
arched ceiling of colorful mosaic. The mechanisms look so complex, I can’t see how one could remember which lever to pull
in which order.
“How long?” Rev asks.
The captain guarding the entrance to the palace doesn’t answer, but only nods at the corridor with his bearded chin. We all
turn the way we came when a jangle of metal breaks the silence. The rattle grows louder until it’s the only sound bouncing off
the walls.
Rev tilts his head, searching the vast corridors for the source of the noise, and pats my hand where my fingers have latched
to the cuff of his shirt. I force my fingers to uncurl from the fabric just in time for the first guard to appear.
Dressed in a uniform a shade lighter than the midnight black, the only color is the green sash on his arm. Wrapped a few
times around his hand and dragging loudly over the ground, a thick chain of glimmering metal winds its way up to a collar and
spreads in a net to five other guards holding the other ends. Covered in rags and dragging her feet, a woman stumbles and falls
to her knees. The captain pulls on the chain, hefting the prisoner back to her feet. Bruised and smeared with blood, another
wound splits open where the metal of the collar digs into the bare skin of her neck.
Maker’s breath, stop torturing her. I don’t dare to utter the words, not with Rev still patting my hand as if I might lose my
wits, run away, or both.
The soldiers come to a halt with the door rising an arm's length away from the woman.
The captain turns toward the prisoner. “Spears.”
Without dropping the chains, the guards click their heels together and bring forth spears, resting the shafts on their forearms.
The blades hover less than an inch away from the already scarred skin of her neck.
“You know the rules,” murmurs the captain. “You even think of doing something, and my men will return you and your family
to Livith and his domain.”
The woman doesn’t say a word at the threat to be put to death. When a guard draws a drop of scarlet with his spear, the
woman finally nods.
It takes another beat and a bead of blood to form into a rivulet before the captain motions for the guard to move the spear
back an inch. He slides his ring into a fitting hole in the collar, and the mechanism snaps open. The collar falls to the woman’s
feet with a clank.
“The Key to the Empire,” Rev’s voice is a thick velvet. His features are something between admiration and aberration as
the prisoner stretches her trembling hand toward the metal.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
Even if he was going to answer, he wouldn’t have had time. A deafening groan makes me turn to the door. Gears of greased
metal move as if of their own accord, each one unlatching its thick clutches from the door one after another.
“A metal binder,” I breathe, unable to believe what I’m seeing.
Binders are hunted down and killed as soon as their powers are unleashed for the first time. The ones who can wield water
get burned alive. Those who can bind air get a noose. And those who can bring Usmad to its knees with all the metal buried
under the endless sand, get crushed with the worst of Magnar’s wrath. Yet the woman stands proud. With her shackles at her
feet, a dozen spears ready to bring her to her death, there’s enough metal to kill us all.
 6

T hewhile
last of the locks slides free, and the doors sway open. Rays of blistering sun filter through, but none of us moves. Not
the prisoner is still a threat. Sweat beading on her grime-covered brow, the woman stumbles away. The metal
quivers, expanding with each strangled breath she takes. Her shoulders sagging, her features taut with strain, she still
conjures a venomous glare as she turns toward the captain.
The Key to the Empire lifts her hand in the air, and my breath hitches.
Will she use the metal to exact her revenge?
Tylea’s lips move with a silent prayer, and I’m ready to join her. Even the guards in our entourage seek a comforting touch
of their pistols. Only Rev holds his gaze steady, his shoulders relaxed.
No wonder. Nothing happens. No metal lurches from the walls in a vicious strike. No screams tear through the palace.
The captain puts on a metal-studded glove and grabs the Key’s hand. Her lips grow white, the color draining from her
features. Our eyes meet but only for an instant before Rev pulls me through the door and over a bridge strung across what once
was a river.
I’ve read countless stories about what The Cataclysm had done to the land, and yet as I take my first steps into the desert, I
know nothing could have prepared me. The storm of sand has bleached the world. Turned lush fields into endless dunes.
Bottomless oceans into abysses of stone.
We cross the bridge over what once was a moat but now harbors spikes of sharpened metal and barbed wire, and spill onto
a street. The sand has polished the stones to a dull white, and they pile into houses sagging one against each other, no longer
able to carry the weight of the desert. The few men and women present on the streets in the heat of the day snap their heads in
our direction. As the crowd thickens, the guards tighten their protective circle.
The doors behind us groan in protest as The Key urges the metal to fold over itself into an impenetrable barrier, and even
Rev mindlessly brushes his fingers over the carved grip of the pistol on his hip.
“I thought The Key to the Empire was a man,” Tylea says when she can’t bear the silence any longer.
Siro’s glare makes it clear no one is to talk as we cross the city, but Rev doesn’t take orders from him. “The Key to the
Empire is a name for anyone who can open those doors. There is never more than one, and they don’t last for long. Power is so
easily abused.”
I smirk at the irony. Whether it’s to annoy Siro as much as possible or to trample my curiosity, but I turn to Rev with another
question on my lips. “Why didn’t she use her binding on her shackles?”
“Everyone has their weakness.”
We reach another bridge, and the guards step even closer, snuffing out any air left between us. From the way Rev’s
shoulders tighten and his eyes sweep the alleys cloaked in shadows, I know this discussion is over. On the other side, The
Slums carve their place in the desert. The houses are older, covered in the grime of years of neglect, and from the empty
sockets of their broken windows their inhabitants gaze down on our procession.
The heat of the desert licks my face. Sweat rolls down my brow and mixes with liquid gold on my eyelashes. No wonder
folk on the streets are wearing thick fabrics wrapped around their heads and faces even if their colors had long ago faded by
the sun.
A man in the crowd has unhooked his scarf. Sun and wind have creased his face with deep lines, and hunger has sunken his
once handsome features. He reaches into the folds of the rags that once must have had a semblance of a shirt, but before he can
pull anything out, Rev pushes me behind his broad back and draws his revolver out. The guards stop, forming a wall of metal
and muscle between us and the rest of the world.
“Take your hand out,” Rev commands in his deep growl. “Slowly.”
The man gulps and takes a step back. “A gift for the princess— “
Rev doesn’t wait for the man to finish his sentence but motions for the guards to move. I have to stand on my tiptoes to see
over their shoulders as they close in on the man, bring his arms behind his back, and drag him away. He doesn’t struggle,
turning his head from one soldier to the other, until the understanding dawns on him. Words of protest form on his lips. His feet
hit each slab of stone in a futile attempt to slow their advancement, until the group disappears around the corner, and all sound
ceases.
A few swift strides, and Rev has Siro by the lapels of his shirt. “Have you forgotten that you are here to protect the
daughters of Our Sun and Light?”
Siro pushes Rev back and straightens his shirt, sporting a foul look. “Who do you think you are?”
“Someone who can destroy you with a mere word. Stop acting like a fool, lest I believe the performance.”
The captains keep pinning each other down with contempt dripping from their dark gazes, but I look past them and to the
spot where not a moment ago the man stood gawking at me. Now, a small object twinkles under the rays of the sun.
Tylea mutters my name as I push toward the outer circle of guards. Before I can reach for the bauble attached to a thinning
cord, Rev catches my arm. He sweeps up whatever the man has left behind and makes it disappear in an act any illusionist
would envy.
“What was it?”
“Nothing for the princess to fret about.”
I level my gaze with Rev’s. Seconds pass, stretching into an eternity as I try not to lose myself in the dark abysses of his
eyes. “It wasn’t something over which you should drag that man to my father’s dungeons.”
“He disobeyed an order, Princess.”
A sharp explosion of gunfire breaks the silence, and hatred fills my mouth with its acid taste until I can’t stand it any longer
and my words leave my mouth coated with liquid anger. “Something tells me you wouldn’t lose your life if you ever did the
same.”
Tylea throws me a tentative glance as I rejoin her side and pull my arm through hers. I can feel Rev’s gaze burning on my
face. Or maybe it’s the sun. So, I hold my chin high, my gaze straight, and wait for our procession to move again.
Holstering his gun, Rev doesn’t walk back to my side but takes his place at the head of the squad and sets the pace for the
march. My gaze carves a hole in the middle of his broad back, the city fading to fleeting glimpses of boarded-up houses, quaint
taverns and crowds vibrating with our passage.
It takes the rest of the trip to the train station to soothe my anger.
Soldiers click their heels together and march to form a corridor as if we were a convoy of prisoners. Yet this time, they
search for a threat outside and not within. Men and women in shimmering silks and jewels wound around waists, necks, and
heads aren’t used to being pushed out of the way. An indignation blossoms on the lips of a woman with rubies and gold
freckling her cheeks. One look at my eyes and whatever she wanted to say is replaced by an apology and a profuse bow.
I look over her shoulder and toward the thick wall of glass splitting the station. A small passage carved between the two
sections hosts a squad of guards checking the thin strips of paper that are the tickets and the metal tags everyone must wear
around their necks. A symbol of devotion to the empire with a stamped thorny rose and a circlet on one side, it carries the
name, provenance, and occupation of its bearer on the other.
A line has formed behind a balding man with a dandyish mustache over his lip who is yet to present his ticket or his tags to
the soldier who’s growing impatient with each passing second.
“Someone must have stolen them,” the man shouts, emptying the pockets of a coat too heavy for the stifling heat. A tremble
settles in his joints when he spots the guards approaching. “I’ve heard such things happening to others.”
Not paying any attention to his protests, the soldiers guide him through the crowd to a heavily-guarded door. He won’t be
leaving it any time soon. Missing identification is not a crime they take lightly.
The guard at the glass wall straightens his back and clicks his heels together when our group approaches, but the excitement
dims as soon as we walk deeper into the train station and he lazily waves for the next in line to move forward.
We spill onto the vast platform where a beast of tainted metal spews thick smoke into the air. Opened windows in the dome
are too few to clear the smog. It blurs my vision, scratches my skin, and I almost run into Idris’s back as I try to stifle a cough.
“Are you all right?” Tylea mutters.
I nod, fighting another coughing fit scraping on my throat. “Why are we stopping?”
Tylea motions in Rev’s direction who has pulled a blooming rose from the pocket of his trousers and deposits it next to a
metal plaque. The artist has carved Evanae’s figure bowing over a burning candle with lines running on both sides of her. It
takes a beat for me to realize that those aren’t just lines but names.
When Tylea notices the lost expression on my face, she rolls her eyes. “There was a bloody attack by rebels sixteen…no,
seventeen years ago. A bomb went off moments after the train’s arrival. I don’t remember all the details, but it’s said at least
six hundred people died that day.”
“Do you think he lost someone?”
Tylea shrugs. “Everyone in The Shadow City has.” Scorn brings her voice to a murmur. “The rebellion leaves grieving
victims wherever it strikes without offering the next dawn they promise.”
My sister diverts her gaze as soon as Rev climbs to his feet. When he motions for our group to move, she is ready to follow
him, the conversation already forgotten. I dare one last glance at the memorial plaque stretching on both sides of the glass wall.
The explosions didn’t spare those who had filled their purses from the hard labors of the less fortunate, any less that it did the
ordinary folk. I might not be fearless enough to voice it, but I know my father’s regime should end. As my eyes glide over the
countless names, I’m not sure if the price is right when innocent people become victims of the endless fight for the next dawn.
Tylea tugs on my arm and motions at Rev, who offers the conductor a stack of paper strips. Her meaning is clear. We have to
go before our father’s guard gets impatient. I offer her a tight-lipped smile as we cross the platform. When we stop next to the
car, the heat rolls over my skin in waves and cloaks me in its thick smoke.
The voice of a child travels from the other side of the glass wall. “Is that a princess?”
Holding her mother’s hand with another child on her hip, the girl points a dirty finger in our direction. A few men lift their
heads, trying to catch a glimpse of whatever the child has seen, but most avert their gazes, holding to their tickets and meager
possessions. The mother pulls on the girl’s hand with an indifferent expression and climbs into the car as soon as the conductor
lets them pass.
The one on our side hands the stack of tickets back to Rev and motions for us to follow. Most soldiers stay back, but some
will travel with us, and they climb into the car with their hands on their weapons. I’m grateful to see Siro and his squad staying
back at the platform, but when a soldier with an ugly smile turns to me, I recoil from his outstretched hand. A scar runs across
his face from right brow down to his left cheek, splitting his face in two, and revealing another vile creature under Rev’s
command.
I ignore his hand and pull myself into the car. Silk wallpaper with golden thread drapes the walls. Each sliding door bears
polished brass handles under jeweled scenery carved into its surface. The conductor guides us toward one with a cherry tree
with sparkling diamonds for flowers. He picks a long key from his chain and hands it to Tylea with a profuse bow. My sister
presses my hand one last time before retiring into her private suite. The conductor bows again, closes the door behind my
sister, and starts down the corridor, not even sparing a glance in our direction to check if we’ll follow him. It should have
earned Rev’s indignation, but his gaze is focused on the view the windows offer.
A few workers walk next to the train, looking under the car from time to time. The one with a badly-healed broken nose
slides a tool too alien for me to identify in between the wheels. Rev cursed, and pushes by the conductor, covering the length of
the corridor in a few long strides.
“Your compartment…sir,” the conductor stammers, unsure of the appropriate way to address a captain of the guards of no
noble birthright and yet with enough prestige to travel at the front of the train.
Even if it bothers him, Rev doesn’t answer. He halts next to the door that leads to the rails where workers still tinker with
tools.
“It’s the one with the oak tree design on the door,” the conductor rushes to add.
Rev doesn’t even nod and jumps out of the car. It takes only a few sharp words exchanged before the workers pull their tags
from their necks and hand them to Rev for inspection. He doesn’t seem to be willing to take any chances with our security.
“Right here, Princess Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light,” the conductor says, reclaiming my attention.
We have stopped next to a door with a willow weeping over the remnant of a river. Among the emeralds dotting the
branches, one has fallen, leaving a crevice through which a dot of light filters to this side. The conductor tries the knob, but the
door doesn’t budge. Offering me a flimsy attempt at a smile, he fumbles with the chain of keys on his hip until he identifies the
one with a smaller version of a willow twirling at the bow. As the conductor turns the key in the lock, the door slides free to
the deep frown on the conductor’s face. He looks at the bow of the key wedged in his fingers and then at the collar peeking
from the lock.
“Let me guess, I won’t be able to lock it from the inside.”
My words break through the haze, and the conductor turns to me with his eyes darting from one guard to another. I’m sure he
doesn’t even understand how grateful he should be that Rev decided some simple workers required more of his attention than
seeing me to my compartment.
“I’m sorry, Princess Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light. This has never happened before. I…I’m sure we can find
you another suite.” He gulps, realizing the car must be full and changes his tactic. “Or maybe we might be able to switch you
with someone.”
I sigh and step into the cramped space of what feels like the smallest compartment in the whole car. I wonder who has
chosen it for me. It can’t be a coincidence that it looks as if someone had splattered a bucket of green paint all over the suite,
coating every surface with a different shade of the nauseating color.
“There will be no need,” I mutter, settling in the deep green velvet armchair.
The conductor brushes his white-gloved hand over his brow beaded with sweat. “Does the princess desire a refreshment?
We have the best wine from The Ashen Bend.”
“No, thank you. Just close the door,” I say, looking out the window.
A few men still stand in line for the other car, which shouldn’t be able to hold as many people as I’ve seen board it. As the
door to my compartment slides shut, the servants from the palace pass the porter the last of my trunks to stow in the cargo
wagon. The baggage safely secured, he jumps down onto the platform. Not a moment later than his feet touch the stones, a
whistle pierces the air.
The car staggers, and I catch myself on the sage-colored table before it can hit my chest. Metal digs into my skin as the train
staggers again. The beast is unwilling to move after a long rest. It takes another whistle and the will of the workers shoving
coal into the engine for the train to crawl out of the train station, gaining speed until it’s gliding through the desert, bathed by the
purple rays of the setting sun.
 7

T hefloor.car rumbles on uneven rails. I lose my footing and land back in the minuscule bathtub with a splash of water on the tiled
“Are you all right in there?” Tylea’s voice comes from the other side of a door with another unfunctional lock.
“Fine, fine,” I mutter, climbing back up to my feet and checking a cut on my hip where it made a rough contact with the tap.
“Will you be much longer?”
I sigh, fighting with one emerald button after another. Despite the fact that I hate this kaftan to the last stitch of the green
thread, I’m not ready to sift through what the servants had packed for me. I manage to clasp the last button when Tylea knocks
on the door. I open it so fast I catch her with her fist still in the air and her mouth agape.
“Go,” I say. “Your beau is waiting.”
Tylea’s cheeks flush pink at the mention of the man whose company she has been enjoying, and her gaze searches for
anything to settle on except my face.
“I’m all dressed now. You don’t have to stay to guard the door,” I say, picking up the ebony brush and running it down my
long locks. The emerald pins are long gone, traded with the conductor for bits of information about the whereabouts of my
betrothed and the guard faithful only to the emperor.
Tylea lingers with her hand on the brass knob. “Promise me something. You’ll come out of this compartment today.” I pull
the brush through my locks harder than necessary and have to stiffen a groan. “At least for a meal,” Tylea adds. “You can’t
spend a month crammed in here.”
I sigh.
“Do it for me,” Tylea begs.
It’s been five days, and I already crave for a breath of fresh air. My hands itch with the desire to feel the grass of my father’s
gardens, but only sand stretches on each side of the rails. Some change of scenery would do me some good.
Tylea doesn’t have to be privy to my thoughts to know that she has won me over, and her lips curve into a victorious smile.
She dashes toward the restaurant car where she has been spending every waking hour of the day, and I put the brush down,
looking out the window.
The desert is motionless, and only the passage of the train disturbs its silent existence. The sand whirls around the metal
beast, tapping gently on the glass between us. A glint on the horizon catches my attention, but it’s gone in a mere moment. The
sun is playing tricks on my eyes. No one would be mad enough to venture this far into the desert without the protection the train
offers.
A rattle of the car on uneven rails makes me stumble and takes me out of my thoughts. I might as well go now.
Outside of my compartment, a woman in a kaftan of dazzling yellow offers me a small smile before disappearing inside her
own private suite.
A wave of sand glides off the closest dune, sending ripples over the desert. I take a deep breath of dry air as I wait for it to
hit the train and take us into its depth. With a hiss and a cloud of steam, the train takes the hit, staying on its rails despite the
assault, and the sand drifts past us into the bottomless precipice of what once was a river on the other side. I wish the sand
were more resilient. I wish the train hadn’t survived the assault. I wish I never had to confront the choices my father made for
me. I’m sick of the cage with ornate wallpaper and lavish carpet. Though I may not see it, I can feel the coldness of metal
seeping through the fabric, gnawing on my skin, weighing on my chest with every breath.
A door to the compartment next to mine slides open, and I fight the urge to hide back in mine. I wanted to leave the palace,
to see the world outside. Now that I’m here, I owe it to myself to see as much of it as possible before I’m locked in another
place of riches and intrigue. I dare a glimpse over my shoulder and catch sight of a man with a thick stubble on his cheeks and
chin. His black eyes twinkle with an undying spark as he notices me looking, but I turn away, fixing my gaze on the barren land
with flowing sands.
“Good afternoon,” his warm voice reaches out through the thunder of clanking metal and swirling sand.
 I nod with a taut smile, sparing him but another glance, hoping that it’s enough to let the conversation die. Yet like any man
in the empire with at least a morsel of power, he won’t take no for an answer.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says.
“We have not.”
The amusement warms his voice when my attempts at being rude don’t dissuade him. “Might I ask for your name?”
“You might.” From the corner of my eye, I can see the man raise his scarred brow. “Just as I might not tell you what it is.”
The stranger chuckles, shaking his head, and a few strands of hair escape from a cord holding them at the back of his head.
“Let’s make a deal,” he starts and runs his gloved fingers over his hair in an unsuccessful attempt at keeping it out of his eyes.
“We discuss it over lunch, and whoever utters the other’s name last pays the bill.”
I swallow hard, still not looking at him. I didn’t think we had to pay for the meals. The conductor never demanded payment
when I asked him to bring a tray of food to my compartment. Not that I have even a single coin. Maybe I could say that Ajaia
will cover any of my expenses. Or, Rev.
The door at the far end of the corridor slides open, and, as if hearing his name uttered if only in my thoughts, Rev steps
through. He stops, his gaze lingering on my figure.
“Ah, I’m sorry,” says the stranger, looking over my head. “I don’t want to impose.”
Rev takes one step in our direction, and that’s all it takes.
“It’s a deal,” I say, hiding my gaze under my long lashes.
Without daring another look over my shoulder, I motion for the man to start walking and follow him into the restaurant car,
hoping Rev will take the hint.
As the door slams shut behind us and stays closed, I allow myself a deep breath.
An automaton with a face of spinning gears is mixing a chilled drink behind a bar that takes up the center part of the car. A
collection of spirits of every color and variety hangs down from the ceiling above it, a tap screwed in each bottle’s neck.
With one last rattle of ice on metal, the animated machine opens the shaker and pours the contents into a crystal glass. It
slides the cocktail to a man who has a small golden hoop dangling from his ear. He spills a few coins on the bar before the
automaton can roll to another noble thirsty for a refreshment.
As if feeling my gaze, the man offers me a crooked smile before he pulls his dark hair away from his face, downs his drink,
and jumps down from the high stool. He walks past us with a nod, but his black eyes never leave the clock made of buzzing
lamps and switching numbers that hangs on the wall behind the bar as if he had somewhere to be where only eternal sand and
rattling trains existed.
The mysterious man, whom I’ve dubbed “Nameless One” until I can discover his name, barely has time to take a few steps
into the car when a server drifts from behind the bar toward us. His spotless blue attire sags on his shoulders, but he guides us
to the last free table in a swift manner.
I spot Tylea as I take a seat on a cushioned bench. She lifts her glass in my direction before a man in a charcoal vest similar
to the one the Nameless One is wearing claims her attention. That must be the suitor she had mentioned. I think his name started
with a N but I can’t remember what it was. As I wrack my brain, the server slides a small bowl of nuts for an appetizer and
waits patiently as we peruse the menus. Once he has taken our order, he offers us a small bow and departs toward what must be
the kitchen.
An uncomfortable silence settles on our table. At least for me. Starting a conversation was never my thing. The Nameless
One doesn’t seem to mind. His gaze set on the desert on the other side of the glass, he twirls the silver spoon with his gloved
fingers. It’s such an unusual thing to do, but whatever he’s hiding, I’d rather know his name than his secrets. At least for now.
I lower my eyes to the elegant cutlery and battle the desire to steal a knife. I’ve never missed my swords as much as I do
now. Before I can slide the polished silverware into the sleeve of my kaftan, the server comes back with the plate of steamed
vegetables for me, and a bowl of cold soup for my companion.
We clank our glasses with chilled tea, but the Nameless One’s gaze rests on my face. I quickly lower my eyes at the roasted
eggplant and carrots on my plate, but it’s too late. A knowing smile creases my companion’s handsome features.
“So, it’s either Ishta, Kayala, Sumari or Neylan,” he says, reciting the names of the four green-eyed daughters of the
Emperor of Usmad while he takes off his gloves and reveals scars left on his skin by corrosive flames.
“I seem to be at a disadvantage here, Nameless One,” I say with a smile mirroring his own tugging on the corners of my lips.
“My eyes betray me in a way none of your features do.”
“I’m willing to offer you an honest answer to a single question,” he says with a shrug and swirls his spoon mindlessly
through his soup.
“Are you saying you are not usually honest?” I bite my lip and rush to add, “Wait, no. That’s not my question. Where are you
from?”
“The Veiled Rock.” Nameless One brings his glass to his lips and murmurs over its rim the answer to my other question,
“No one can afford to be honest in this desert.”
“This will be too easy,” I say and lean on the bench, the cushions sighing under my back.
 That scarred brow of his rises again, and I can’t stop a blush from heating my skin. “There are only three of you. Bonar,
Nazar, and Aaron.” And I remember now that Tylea’s suitor’s name is Nazar.
“Aren’t you counting Rusad?”
“As the Governor of The Veiled Rock, and a father of three sons and a daughter older than them all, I doubt there would be
so little silver in your hair and no wrinkles creasing your skin.”
“I don’t have gray hair.”
“Keep telling yourself that, Nameless One.”
He shakes his head with a chuckle on his lips. “What if I’m not of noble roots?”
“Then, there wouldn’t be ‘Household of the Governor’ stamped on the tags.”
I lean closer, trying to read the name, but the server distracts me with a bowl of pumpkin mousse and a cup of steaming tea
for each of us. He takes my empty plate and Nameless One’s untouched soup, but before he can take the cutlery away, I give
into temptation and swipe my unused knife. I won’t spend the rest of this month-long trip with no weapons, even if dull
silverware might not count as one.
When I lift my gaze again, the Nameless One observes me with his tags safely tucked under his shirt and a smile dancing on
his lips. “You showed impressive deductive skills, so it’s my turn,” he says. “Ishta and Kayala married some five or six years
ago, and we haven’t seen them since.”
I try to hide my frustration and wrack my brain for any detail the tutors tried to drill into me about the noble houses of
Usmad. If only I had paid attention, I would have more information to help me decide if it’s Aaron or Bonar sitting across from
me. The only thing I remember is that they both have black eyes and black hair.
“We haven’t heard of Sumari since that incident at the Shattered Night…” he trails off.
“Bonar,” I say, gripping my spoon too tightly. I’m not sure if I’m right, and my companion’s face doesn’t betray a single clue.
I open my mouth, ready to change my answer to Aaron, but the Nameless One tilts his head, and I remember the gossip I’ve
heard from Tylea. Bonar was the one who had disappeared for a month when he was nothing but a child of five and returned
with no memory from his time away from his household. He came back with a deep wound across his neck. The same wound
that would have left the scar running from the man’s right ear and disappearing under the collar of his shirt before it could
reach his left shoulder. “It’s nice to meet you Bonar of the House of The Veiled Rock.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light. And it’s your win.” He takes the last sip of his tea
before fishing a few coins out of the pocket of his trousers and dropping them on the table next to his untouched dessert. “But
after this meal, maybe we could drop the titles.”
I chew on my lip, unsure of what to say. I must have broken every single one of my mother’s rules in the presence of this
man so easily amused by a silly game over a meal he hasn’t even touched.
“Or if you insist on keeping them, I would rather have the one you’ve attributed to me.”
“Nameless One?”
“At your service, Princess,” he says, standing up and offering me a small bow.
“Nel.”
I slide my hand in his outstretched one, and he puts a kiss on my knuckles, my name echoing from his lips.
We walk back to our compartments in silence while men and women with ringed fingers and jangling bracelets enjoy their
meals and pretend that they don’t observe us through the haze of smoke and glimmering eyelashes. Back in our car, Rev still
lingers by a window at the back, as if he hadn’t moved since we left. Bonar walks across the corridor, paying no attention to
one of the most powerful men in the desert, and stops next to the door with the jeweled willow.
“It was a pleasure to share this meal with you. If you desire any company before we reach my hometown, I would be happy
to oblige.”
“I might take you up on that.”
With one last bow, Bonar drops my hand.
No sooner than he retreats from my side, Rev pulls away from the window, but I duck into my compartment. There is no
place to hide from the captain able to turn the tides of history, but I’m too stubborn to give up without giving it a try.
 8

B efore I can settle in the armchair, a knock brings me back to the door. I don’t even bother to feign surprise when I find Rev
on the other side and only cross my arms over my chest, waiting for him to say the words he came here to utter.
Seconds stretch into minutes. Neither of us is eager to break the silence. I still haven’t forgotten about what happened
back in The Shadow City, and the anger bursts into a simmer under my skin.
When somewhere in the car a door slides open with a silent whoosh, I’m ready to close mine. Even if Rev is one of the two
most feared soldiers in the desert, my station is still above his. Before I can actually shut the door in his face, the tick below
his ear tugs on his skin. Rev scoffs and pulls a small pouch from the pocket of his trousers. Without a single word, he hands it
to me.
I frown but untie the simple knot, and a silver flower falls on my hand. “What…” my question fades into nothingness when
Rev shrugs. That tick builds up in strength as I turn the flower in my hand, the delicate chain flowing between my fingers.
Rev turns away and makes it halfway to his suite before I can realize that—even if it’s a delicate chain where it was once a
thinning cord—it’s still the same trinket the man tried to offer me back in The Shadow City.
“This doesn’t change a thing,” I whisper.
Rev stops in his tracks but doesn’t turn. Moments pass, and I wonder if he heard me or if he’s waiting for me to repeat
myself. Just as I open my mouth, he strides back toward me. If only it was fury or anger blazing in his eyes, I could stomach it,
but the darkness that has swallowed his features makes me stumble back a step.
“My mission here is not to babysit a stubborn princess,” he says, overshadowing my suite with his presence. A retort sits on
the tip of my tongue, but Rev isn’t done. “You were right. I wasn’t sent to the dungeons for the mistakes I’ve made, but Our Sun
and Light isn’t a man who shows mercy. Believe me, I’ll do whatever it takes to see this through.”
He glares at me for another moment, as if waiting to confirm that I’ve understood the meaning behind his words, but he
walks away before I can formulate a retort.
I slide the door closed, leaning heavily on it, curling my hands into fists. The sharp edges of the petals dig into my skin and
before they can draw blood, I clasp the silver chain around my neck. The least I can do is to wear this gift when a man had paid
with his life to offer it to me.
I drop on the bed, rubbing my eyes, trying to erase the unease Rev has infused in me. It eludes me why my father has deemed
the marriage of one of his countless daughters so important that he has sent the most dangerous guard of the empire to watch
over me. I might never learn the answer to that question. But I promise myself one thing. I’ll spend the next three weeks as far
away from Rev as possible.

My limbs are heavy. My mind, sluggish. And I hear the thump of feet coming from the corridor outside.
The door slides open, and I jump to my feet as if I’d never fallen asleep. Tylea appears on the other side. “He asked where
you were at lunch, and I just told him there was a man with you— “
Ajaia pushes by her. “Shut your trap.”
He tries to close the door, but Tylea doesn’t let him. He raises his hand, and I dash between them.
“Tylea, go.”
“I— “
“Go,” I insist, turning away from her.
She takes a small step back and that’s all it takes for my betrothed to slam the door shut.
 He turns to me, anger making his bloodshot eyes twitch. “I thought I made it abundantly clear. You are mine. Mine and no
one else’s,” he says, spittle flying through his gritted teeth. He grabs my wrist, his fingers digging into my skin. A little more
pressure, and he’ll break a bone. A whimper escapes out of my lips, but Ajaia doesn’t seem to hear me, or he doesn’t care.
“Didn’t your tramp of a mother teach you anything?”
I would have protested, asked him how he dared to say such things about a wife of Our Sun and Light, but I don’t dare to
open my mouth. Countless beatings from my mother taught me to fear the signs. Bared teeth. Hands rolled into fists. Anger
lining the skin around his eyes.
“You are not to leave this compartment for the rest of the trip.”
I quiver away from him, biting my lip to stifle the tremor building up there. His slap comes with ringed fingers digging into
my skin. I clutch my cheek, fire spreading where gems have drawn lines on my face.
“Did you hear me?”
I nod, unable to utter a word, uncertain of how my voice will sound as my breaths echo the tremors of my body. He drops
my hand, and I don’t dare to look at the bruises pulsing under my skin.
Ajaia takes a few breaths, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “Don’t make me do that again,” he says.
His voice is calm now, but I rush to nod again, unsure of how fast he can draw on the anger I saw raging in his features not a
moment ago. He reaches toward my face, wiping a tear that has formed at the corner of my eye, and his fingertips glide over my
still burning cheek.
Ofara was right. I would rather face her than a man who can switch between raging anger and a tender caress in a flicker of
a moment.
His fingers run deeper into my hair. The caress leaves a clammy feeling on my skin. The next moment, his mouth is on mine.
His beard rasps my skin. The smell of sour wine on his breath fuels the nausea building in my stomach.
I push him away, but Ajaia only laughs into my mouth, holding me flush against him, no matter how much I wrestle in his
hold. His hands slide down my back, and I can’t hold it any longer. He might beat me so hard that I’ll hear Livith’s beckoning
call, but anything is better than this.
To eternity with consequences.
I stomp on his foot, bury my rolled fist in the flaccid belly hanging over his groin, and stumble away, realizing my mistake.
I’ve hurt him, but not enough to cause pain. Only rage. It unfurls like a blooming flower.
Even if he’s not a man of battles, Ajaia is still strong. He grips my hand once more, twisting my arm behind my back. I open
my mouth, but my throat is so dry, only a croak comes out. He pulls me by my hair and bashes my head on the metal table. My
vision blurs and darkens, tears mixing with blood from my split brow. Between my spinning head and the bile rising in my
throat, I just have enough strength to focus on breathing.
I feel his hands tear the fabric of my kaftan and slither up my skin. I hear the emerald buttons ricochet from the walls and
roll on the wooden planks of the floor.
I want to kick him. I want to fight.
Instead, a muffled sob escapes my lips.
Evanae save me.
Before he can reach for my skin, his grip lessens and the world sways around me.
With a yelp, Ajaia flies across the compartment, hits his head on the table, and lands in a crumpled mess on the floor.
Another stagger of the train, and the back of his head hits the wall with a crunch, blood trickling down the collar of his shirt.
The tremor in my body has nothing on the shaking of the car, its wheels struggling to stay on the rails with an ear-splitting
screech. We come to a halt with a rumble of cars, and I hit the table with my chest. Pain clutches my lungs. Bile rises to my
lips. Each breath is a battle. I rush to the bathroom, empty my stomach over the sink and wipe my mouth with what is left of the
sleeve of my kaftan. With my hands still shaking, I force as many buttons to clasp as I can, but too many emeralds lie scattered
on the floor.
I’m still fighting to catch a healthy gulp of air as the door to my apartment slides open. I press against the wall when a man
steps into my compartment.
“Nel,” calls a warm voice while its owner is still looking over his shoulder into the corridor.
Emeralds crunch under his boots, and Bonar finally looks down. A frown knots his brow. Slowly, his gaze finds Ajaia
strewn on the floor. A moment later, he turns to me.
I must look nothing like the princess he has met only hours earlier, clutching the lapels of my kaftan, trying to cover as much
of my body as I can with what little fabric is left.
He takes a step toward me, and I stumble away.
“I…” he swallows, “Nel, I won’t hurt you.”
His words ring clear as crystal, yet they float around detached from one another.
Another wave of nausea has me dashing to the sink again. Bonar steps toward me, and this time I have no place where to
crawl and hide, not while I’m still retching and spitting. He pulls the hair away from my face and waits for me to be done.
 “I’m sorry,” I mutter when the last of the nausea recedes.
“You have nothing to be sorry about,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Do you have something else to wear?”
“Probably. Somewhere in the trunks or—” A loud clank cuts me short. “What was that?”
Bonar leans into the corridor and looks both ways before opening the bag I haven’t noticed and pulling a shirt out of it.
Before I can utter a word of protest, he wraps it around my shoulders and presses one of the sparkling white towels to my still
bleeding brow.
“What is happening? Why have we stopped?” I ask, trying to occupy my thoughts with anything other than what I just lived
through.
“We’re under attack.”
“From whom?”
Bonar looks at me, his eyes drifting to the back of the car and at me again. “I don’t have all the answers. The train isn’t
supposed to stop, but it did. All the doors to the compartments locked. I broke out of mine and came to see if you were all
right.”
“Tylea,” I whisper, stumbling toward the corridor.
My knees shake. I know I won’t make it far into the car, but before I can even reach the door, Bonar catches my arm. A
shiver runs up my skin. A wince breaks on my face. The desire to stomp on his foot and hit him in the face overwhelms my
every other sense.
Bonar lets go. “Nazar has broken out of his suite too and went in search of her.”
A groan at our feet interrupts our conversation, and Ajaia stirs.
“Oh, no, you won’t.”
Bonar hits him hard on the temple, and Ajaia’s head rolls on his shoulders, lulling him back to sleep. Pulling a rope from
what seems to be a bag with endless supplies, he wraps it swiftly around his wrists. Ajaia’s hands turn blue, and I chide myself
for hoping they fall off.
Back on his feet, Bonar gives the compartment another glance. “We should go.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere but here.”
Bonar’s gaze glides to my whitening knuckles where I hold onto the planks of the wall for support. It’s the only thing that
tethers me to the here and now. Where I can hold at bay tears that burn at the back of my eyes and knot my throat. Where Ajaia
is but a man lying unconscious on the floor.
“We can hide in the restaurant car.” Bonar shrugs as if it was the simplest solution. “I can clean your wound there.”
I don’t care where we go, but I can’t spend another moment next to Ajaia. So, with an eager nod I follow Bonar through the
car to the sounds of the constant clanking of metal growing quieter as we get further away from my compartment.
We stumble into the empty restaurant car that took the worst of the jumble. The kerosene lamps are already lit, the flames
dancing free of the glass sconces smashed into pieces by flying dishes and silverware. The furniture lies in broken pieces
mixed with shattered ceramic and shards of crystal and glass. With a whir of gears, the automaton turns to greet us over the
split bar. Cogs and bolts spill from his smashed skull and, with one final whiz, he crumples to the floor in a heavy lump.
The clank of metal on metal still echoes through the train, its constant rhythm marking the passage of time where the clock on
the wall no longer can.
Bonar disappears behind the bar, and I follow him there, dropping the towel soaked with blood on the polished wood and
climbing up onto one of the few stools that survived the abrupt stop of the train. Every muscle tugs on my bones, the strain of
the past few hours pulling me into a tight knot.
“That knife of yours might come in useful.”
Our gazes meet as Bonar peers at me from behind the bar. I slide the blade into my palm without a word, and he resumes his
rummaging. He emerges a few moments later with a stack of towels, two glasses, a sharp-looking knife, and a bowl of ice.
“Why didn’t you use it before?” he asks.
“I could never…it’s not…” I close my eyes, take a deep breath and start over. “My father has traded me for another favor.
I’m Ajaia’s now. No matter how much I hate it, this would happen eventually.”
The words sound final, and I know as soon as this—whatever this delay, this moment of stolen time—is over, I’ll have to go
back to Ajaia, beg for his forgiveness, and only hope his punishment will not kill me.
“This empire,” he curses, and the shadows from the dying flames grow longer.
Bonar fills the crystal glasses with a splash of the murky liquid from the bottle he had removed from the ceiling of the car.
He downs his in one gulp and winces before replenishing his glass. This time, he pushes the second one in my direction. “This
might help.”
I clutch it in my hands, and the liquor tilts from side to side, lapping the faceted glass. Before I can spill any, I imitate Bonar
and down my glass. The foul-smelling drink burns my tongue and my throat, a cough breaking from my lips.
“First time?” Bonar asks when I drop the glass on the bar and manage a breath.
 I nod and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand.
“Mind if I?” He points in the vague direction of my face.
My fingers come away bloodied as I reach for my brow. I drop my knife on the bar, take a deep breath, and nod. His touch is
a whisper on my skin as he cleans the wound, and I allow myself to observe him while he works.
Scars and nicks of many battles cover his skin. Some so old he must have been nothing but a child. A sign of an early
training with sharp blades or a tumultuous childhood, both of which there is plenty in this desert. Bonar smiles when he notices
me watching, and speckles of amber dance in his eyes, but a prickle that burns my brow makes me groan. As he pours more
alcohol on a fresh towel and runs it over the wound, I close my eyes and welcome the pain. It’s better than the havoc ravaging
my mind.
“After careful consideration, I can safely say,” he pauses, stepping away. “You’ll live.”
“Thank you,” I croak, a prickle of tears already drowning me. Soon, it’ll be so overwhelming I won’t be able to stay afloat.
Bonar throws the towel on the bar and picks up his glass, twirling it this way and that. Fire spurts higher in the sconces on
the wall, its countless reflections burning at the bottom of his glass. “No matter what happens, you won’t be going back to that
piece of…” The end of what he said gets drowned in the liquor.
“You can’t stop this marriage. The Grand Priest betrothed us.”
“I don’t care,” Bonar says, setting his glass back on the bar. “I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”
Safe. I don’t dare to even imagine what that would feel like. Instead, I say, “You don’t owe me anything.”
“To a princess of Usmad?” Bonar shakes his head. “I’ve made an oath long ago. To serve the empire with each breath I take.
This includes you. I won’t stand idly by while that man hurts you anymore.”
I don’t dare to put any hope in his words, to think of a world where I won’t have to marry Ajaia. Glancing at the busted
clock on the wall, I wonder how long this moment will last. That’s when I notice it, and my heart lurches in my chest. “What
happens when the clanking stops?”
Worry in Bonar’s eyes mirrors my own. “You locked the door behind you, didn’t you?”
I shake my head, jump off the stool and grab the knife, if only to feel the cold steel against my skin.
“Check the other one,” Bonar says.
With his own knife nestled in his hand, we split up. Each step takes an eternity, time stretching around us as I cross the car,
stumbling on the broken furniture and cutting my sandals on the shards of glass.
“Sands,” Bonar curses wildly.
I turn and find him facing three men, their features concealed by masks of white enameled metal. Tears of red paint stream
from slits cut through the masks of the rebellion, revealing their eyes.
“Nel, run.”
And I do. I cross the last few steps, and my fingers latch on to the knob, but it’s torn away from my grip. Four men in black
clothes and scarves wrapped around those same masks greet me on the other side, shedding sand with every step they take. The
one with a shiny gun hanging loosely in his gloved hand tilts his head, and I stumble back.
“You’re a difficult one to find, Princess Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light,” he says in a deep voice.
Bonar takes a step in our direction, but a man on his side of the car takes out his gun and presses it into the back of his head.
“Don’t move, or I’ll paint the walls of this car with the insides of your skull.”
The one who has addressed me by my name takes another step in my direction, and I take one back, pulling the knife high.
Muffled laughter spills from the mask. “You think you’ll scare me with that stick in your hands?”
Sounds of struggle and more broken furniture fill the car, but I don’t dare to turn away to see how Bonar is faring. Instead, I
slide my feet further apart still and point my knife at one man and then another while we continue our dance. One step forward,
two steps back.
The one who spoke to me before darts to grab me but I duck under his arm and, with a crunch of glass under my feet, come
out on the other side. His companions chuckle. I dry a bead of sweat from my brow and clutch my knife tighter, paying no heed
to them. The man reaches toward me again, but I slash at him with my blade, ripping the fabric of his glove and revealing the
shine of a metal hand.
A cry from the other side takes us out of our own duel. Bonar has grabbed a bandit by the lapels of his shirt, shaking him
hard.
“Let him go,” says the same man who had threatened Bonar once already. Before anyone can take even a breath, he pulls the
trigger. Bonar ducks, the bullet grazing his shirt, but the man fires again and again until only hollow clicks echo through the car.
I hear a scream. A flash of pain, and I realize it’s mine.
My knees buckle. My arm burns with each thump of my heart. I stumble on another piece of a broken furniture, crashing to
the floor with a thud. A crimson stain spreads over the white fabric of the shirt, deepening the red of the carpet below me. I
blink hard, fighting to keep the darkness away.
The man I faced crosses the car in a few strides. He mutters something to his companions, and two of them pull the one who
had fired his gun out of the car. I blink again, and the rebel has a gun in his hand, the barrel pointing straight between my brows.
 “Don’t hurt her,” Bonar pleads.
“Or what?” The masked man flips the gun in his hand and turns to Bonar. “What will you do if I shoot her?” Cocking the
hammer, he adds, “Or if I shoot you first?”
“Do you know who I am? I’m Bonar of the House—”
“I don’t care.”
“You might if you let me finish.”
I roll to the side, retching up what little liquor I had ingested. Pain is roiling over me in drowning waves.
“I’m the heir to the House of The Veiled Rock. We train Wraiths for the empire.”
Wraiths? I’d ask. Legendary warriors dealing in shadows? Soldiers that even my father rarely uses to achieve his goals
like he fears them himself?
“You ain’t helping your situation,” says the man with that metal hand.
Bonar steps closer, pressing his chest into the barrel of the pistol, murmuring something so low I can’t discern the words.
I reach for my arm, pressing on the wound. More warmth slips through my fingers, and I can see the swirling darkness
devouring my limb.
The masked man leans away from Bonar. He looks at me and back at Bonar again before holstering his gun. “With the Maker
watching us, do I have your promise?”
“I pray to a different god.”
“Do I have your word?” the man says again firing each word faster than a bullet.
Bonar clenches his jaws. “By Livith’s will, I swear.”
The bandit turns to me, and I push away. A sob breaks out when a shard of glass digs into my foot, but I fight for each inch of
distance I put between us. Yet it is easy for the masked man to follow the dark stain on the carpet. “Ain’t today your lucky
day?”
“Livith take you,” I spit through clenched teeth.
The man pulls away and lifts his boot. It comes down on my arm with an explosion of stars in my mind, and the world
swirls around me.
Once.
Twice.
And I plunge into the eternal darkness.
 9

T he darkness is so sweet.
It laps on my skin. Curls through my hair. Swirls through my mind. Claims a part of me at a time.
Flashes of clarity break through the shadows.
It’s only heat, a racket of voices, and pain.
Grueling.
Strenuous.
Endless.
The darkness comes again. It clutches me in its grip no matter how hard the world sways around me, and clings to my skin,
no matter how much sand batters me awake.
“Nel.”
I know that voice. I’ve heard it dip with curiosity and rise in amusement, but not yet tremble with heart-wrenching worry.
The voice calls my name again, but it comes from the same place where a cacophony of cries and grinding gears awaits my
return. Where the sun blisters my skin. Where agony and strain twist into a raw wound.
“Don’t die.” The same voice utters.
I want to comfort its owner. To tell him everything will be fine. Nothing is going to happen to me. But the darkness is so
sweet and its call irresistible.
 10

E verything burns.
That’s absurd, I said to myself as it started like a thorn wedged under a nail.
Nothing should reach me in the darkness. Nothing could hurt me. But the prickle grew in power, charring my skin,
melting it on my bones, until it was only heat and flames devouring the last bits of my consciousness.
I wanted nothing other than for the darkness to hold me forever and never let go. Now I desire for nothing else but for it to
release me from its scorching strokes.
I can barely take a breath. Heat claws on my lips, dries my nostrils, cracks my skin.
“Sands.” A voice filled with gravel breaks through the haze, and for a moment the fire recedes. “What happened out there?”
“Nothing.”
“Then do tell me, why there is a dead girl in the caravan.”
“She’s not dead.”
Silence follows, and I fear for what might follow.
Will they burn my body so that my spirit can join Livith’s domain of oblivion? Or will the attackers bury me in the desert
under a nameless grave so I might lie restless for an eternity?
The torrid heat slithers over my skin, ready to devour me.
I fight to pull away, to push my lifeless body up, to run away as far away as possible. The only thing I accomplish is that my
fingers twitch. A curse follows.
“Will you help me, or will you keep standing there?” asks the deep voice, and I anchor myself to it.
“Who is she?”
“We can talk about her name, the raid, and the color of my underwear as soon as we get her inside. Deal?”
A soft sound of boots burying in sand, and a shadow looms over me. A touch on my arm, and my concentration shatters, the
heat crackling around me and scalding my body until there is nothing but pain.
My mind comes to a sharp focus, but pain soars, shattering it into shards I might never piece together.
“Evanae’s grace,” a woman’s voice breaks through the silence.
I fight through the crust covering my eyes, but it won’t concede. I can’t control the cadence of my breath, the stammer of my
heart, the flight of my thoughts.
A gentle pressure on my arm, and blood spews from my wound. I moan, stilling when powerful arms hold me down. Even if
the only thing I want is for this torment to be over, I squelch my desire to fight as soon as I hear a crisp sound of fabric tearing.
With a groan, I finally manage to open my eyes. Everything is bright around me. Too bright.
I realize I’m looking at the ceiling of a room when a curtain swirls in the air above me. I turn my head and meet the empty
gaze of a white mask with red tears. The mask of rebels who hold me prisoner. With a cry lodged deep in my throat, I recoil at
the sight, but to no avail. A firm grip holds me in place.
“Pass me the scalpel,” says the woman.
I buck under the restraints, unbridled sounds breaking out from my lips. I haven’t survived the nightmare only to perish in the
house of a stranger lost in the desert.
Someone leans over me, but my eyes can’t focus on anything.
“Stop.” My breathing shallow, I tear on the restraints again, and the woman sighs. “Hold her still. This will hurt.”
The skin of my arm splits under the blade of her knife. Pain follows soon after. Violent and sharp. What I’ve lived through in
the darkness was nothing but a dull ache pulsing through my muscle. I howl, tears streaming down my face, mixing with dust
and grime. I thrash in place, no longer caring if I bleed to death. Anything must be better than this.
The sun dims and glows brighter as I slip in and out of consciousness.
“Please,” I mumble through pain and tears.
The woman doesn’t listen, digging inside the reopened wound. Wails echo through the silent desert until my mind becomes a
tangled turmoil of agony.
“There,” says the woman triumphantly.
Metal clatters on a dish close to my ear, and I know the bullet is out of my arm.
The needle pierces my skin, and wails erupt each time it comes through my skin and back out as the thread tracks its path. In
the constant rhythm of a seamstress of skin and blood, the woman shuts the wound in what must have been minutes. Somewhere
between her tying the last knot and wrapping the bandage around my arm, even the last of the sun dims from my view.

I open my eyes to a searing world. A blanket damp with my own sweat holds me in place. I throw it off and swallow a groan as
pain shoots through my arm. Pulling the collar of a shirt I don’t recognize, I see a bandage wrapped around my arm. Blood
seeps through it, staining the shirt and the sheets of my bed.
I sit up, my head spinning, my stomach twisting. I grip the bed railing with my healthy arm, taking a few steadying breaths.
When the horizon stays as a solid line, I reach for my split brow, but only a thin crust covers the wound.
A line of fire is burning around my neck. The necklace Rev has offered me is like a noose closing shut on my tender skin. I
want to break the chain, tear it off, but I can’t. It might be the last reminder of who I am and where I come from, so I let it fall
on my chest, the metal leaving a stinging trace.
Climbing to my feet, I lean heavily on the nightstand as my aching muscles struggle to support my weight. I stumble a few
steps to the door, but the knob only rattles in place. Clutching the wall, I cross the few paces separating me from a faded brown
armchair and fall into it with a sigh.
A soft breeze enters the room. The scorching heat it brings inside makes the dirty-white curtains dance around me and draw
fading shapes in thin air. I reach for the glass of water and down it as slowly as I can, savoring each drop.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out where I am, while every single breath feels like a burden. No matter where here is,
this isn’t a household of a governor. Not when the water tastes of metal and dust, and the only thing I can see from my window
are buildings half-claimed by the desert.
Another sting of fire in my shoulder flashes images of masked men before my eyes. The dreams I’ve had while battling for
my life must be closer to reality than I’d like to imagine. This must be one of the countless hideouts rebels have across the
desert, and I’m nothing but their newest prisoner.
 11

A tickle on my skin wakes my brain from the swirling fog. I sit up, rubbing my eyes with a yawn. A drop falls on my head,
another one slides down my cheek. Dense foliage of a forest shimmers with a soft drizzle. My heart stammering in my
throat, I stand up, and my boots sink in mud.
“Impossible,” I mutter, but a slurp comes from below as I circle the clearing.
The Cataclysm has left no forests behind, no rains to batter the world. Unending sands were the only thing remaining of a
world that has withered and died. Yet I can’t see a speck of it anywhere.
A path starts at a fallen trunk and guides me deeper into the woods.
The fabric of my clothes sticks to my skin when fog falls on the forest. It swallows the branches and soon hides even the
closest trees from me.
I glance behind me. A figure clad in black emerges through the cloud of mist, marching in my direction. I can’t see his face,
but when a snarl breaks out from his lips, I dash down the path.
The branches scrape my skin, fallen trunks bar my passage, but I keep running forward, putting as much distance as possible
between the man and me.
A cabin of stone and wood peeks from behind thick branches, but as I make it past the last line of trees, my boot sinks into
another puddle. I fall, and the mud swallows my hands down to my wrists.
I chance a glance over my shoulder. The man is but mere paces away.
My heart thundering in my ears, I yank my foot out, but the sludge of wet earth claims my boot as a prize.
I stumble toward the cabin, rain battering on my skin, howling wind pushing me through the door. No latch or lock hangs on
it, but I wedge a chair under the knob just as the first bang echoes through the room.
“Neylan,” the man calls over howling wind and rain.
The knob rattles but refuses to grant passage. I search for anything to further block the door and spot an empty cupboard. My
muddy palms slip off its polished surface, but I battle with the heavy furniture all the way toward the door. Shallow scratches
on the wooden floor leave evidence of my efforts.
The next bang rattles the windows and shakes the walls, and I limp into the next room. A table with a moth-eaten tablecloth
stands under a window speckled with raindrops. I crawl under the forgotten furniture, clutching my knees to my chest and
pressing into the wall.
Seconds pass slowly marked by the rhythmic bangs on the door, and I have to smother a scream with my hands over my
mouth when the cupboard flies across the room and shatters in splinters of wood and rusted nails. My heart is beating rapidly
in my chest when the man walks into the cabin. He doesn’t waste time at the entrance but makes his way into what once was the
kitchen. The green and golden trim on his trousers catches what little sunlight has made it past the thundering sky. Crouching, he
tears the tablecloth away and looks underneath.
“There you are,” my father says, his green eyes meeting mine.
I sit up with a scream lodged in my throat. Alone in the middle of the desert and with nowhere to run, I’m more scared of my
father finding me than of the rebels who hold me captive.
It was just a dream, I reassure myself, but it still takes a moment for my heart to calm down.
As the icy wind laps on my skin beaded with sweat, I retrieve the blanket crumpled on the floor. I have no recollection of
getting into the bed, nor the faintest idea on how long I’ve slept, but the fatigue no longer chains me to the thin mattress thrown
over a net of metal springs. It squeaks and groans as I scramble to my feet and even when I do nothing besides hold myself
straight with the help of its metal railing. I wrap the blanket over my shoulders to ward away the morning cold and make my
way to the door. It doesn’t open this time either.
With a sigh, I move to the window. The sun is but a silver line on the horizon and has not yet chased the stars from the sky,
but the city is bustling with activity. Right on the edge of the desert, and all the way across the city of winking lights, a factory
with tall chimneys spews dark smoke into the sky. The flow of people on the streets doesn’t stop for a moment, not even when a
wagon covered with flapping canvas cuts through the mass and sails down the rails to the train station.
I try to shut the window, but it’s stuck. My wounded arm doesn’t help much.
I’m ready to return to my bed when a shuffle of feet on the other side of the door startles me. I drop the blanket and dash
across the room just in time for the lock to turn and for the door to swing open.
A man walks into the room. His broad shoulders tug on the fabric of his shirt. He towers over me while I cower in the
corner. He takes a few steps inside before he realizes I’m not in bed. A glance confirms I’m not in the armchair, either.
He drops the tray on the small table and turns around. Even with heavy stubble and dark circles under his brown eyes, his
gaze is still sharp, and he spots me in a second.
“You’re awake,” he says in a voice filled with gravel.
This must be one of the men I’ve heard while I was bleeding to death.
“You’re stating the obvious,” I say.
My breath hitches when he takes a step toward me. I stumble back and hit my shoulder on the door frame leading to the
bathroom. Pain sears down my arm, but I ignore it.
“My name is Valdus,” he starts again and lifts his arms up with a grind of gears. Under rolled-up sleeves, two mechanical
arms with metal skin glint under the first touches of the rising sun.
The newcomer’s brown eyes travel down my arm and to the trickle of blood dripping from my fingers. He takes another
step, but no matter how harmless he wants to appear, I know who he is. A rebel ruthless enough to steal a daughter of the
emperor, dragging her half-way across the desert. A man who keeps me under a lock and key as if I was a bargaining chip in
his fight with my father.
I stumble back, struggling to take another breath. Memories of everything that happened on the train cling to my skin, cloud
my vision. I grab the bathtub, leaving bloody imprints on its crackled enamel, and I’m not sure how long it will be until the
darkness comes again. I can already feel it. Waiting. Prowling.
“By Evanae.” Valdus’s voice brings me back to the house at the edge of the desert. “Don’t move.”
As if I had anywhere to go, I want to scream. A nervous giggle is the only thing that comes out as he dashes out of my field
of vision.
I tiptoe back to the room, but the door is closed again. I peel the wet sleeve down my arm and tear the bandage off. The
wound is angry-red, a stream of blood flowing freely down my arm, and I have to lean on the nightstand as my knees wobble
below me. I grab a towel and press it hard on the wound, just in time for the sound of hurried steps to reach me through the
door. Muffled voices follow.
I don’t have time or strength to pull the shirt back up over the simple tank top before the door opens. A woman crosses the
threshold with her hands raised high. Valdus hovers behind her, his gaze drawn to the blood seeping between my fingers.
“I’m here to help you,” says the woman.
My gaze shoots between her and the man with metal arms, and I pull away as she tries to close the last of the distance
between us.
The woman’s smile wavers for a moment, and she clears her throat. “I’m Inara. That is my son Valdus. We are only trying to
keep you safe, daughter of Our— “
“Don’t call me that,” I say, stumbling back as my gaze darts between Valdus with a knotted brow and Inara, her hands still
high in the air. “What do you mean to keep me safe?”
Inara glances over her shoulder. “Valdus, leave us, please.”
The man opens his mouth but thinks better of it.
“Let me have a look,” Inara asks when the door is closed again.
“You’re the one who dug out the bullet?”
“I wasn’t sure you remembered. You were delirious.”
She motions at the bed, and I sit down, uncurling my fingers from the bandage. A few groans escape my lips when the
woman brings a wet towel to the wound. The sharp smell of pure alcohol burns my nostrils, stings my wound until I want to
howl, and I know, at least Inara isn’t lying about helping me.
“Thank you,” I hiss between bitten out whimpers.
She offers me a small nod and picks up a curved needle with a thin thread. “A few stitches tore. Can you hold still, or do
you want me to call Valdus?”
“I’ll stay put.”
Pain shoots through my arm in its own kind of torture, but I bite my lip until I can taste blood and distract myself by
committing Inara’s features to memory. Big curls falling down past her shoulders. Caramel eyes, lined with kohl. A little
birthmark high up on her left cheekbone.
When Inara ties a fresh bandage over the wound, I can’t hide a wince, but it’s only when she puts all the tools back on a
small tray that she speaks again. “Your father…our emperor is searching for you, but a man asked us to keep you safe.”
Inara takes a folded note from a pocket of her simple black kaftan and puts it on the table next to the tray with fruit and water
Valdus has brought earlier.
“There are some clean shirts in the cupboard in the bathroom, even a few kaftans.” She climbs to her feet, her fingers
rubbing the swirling flowers on the battered tray in her hands. “I know this isn’t a perfect situation, but it’s better that no one
knows a lost princess is a visitor to our home.”
She closes the door behind her, but I don’t wait for the lock to slide back in place to snatch the note.
I don’t know where this letter will find you. These people won’t tell me a thing.
I’m working on a more permanent solution, and, I must confess, I’m not sure when, or even if, I will be able to work out
all the details. Despite all that, I made a promise to you, and I won’t stop trying. Not while your father is scouring the
desert for you. While his guards are everywhere.
The word is, he wants to get the marriage back on track, even though no one has heard from Ajaia since the attack.
The only thing I know for sure is that the people you are with, they are men of their word. They promised to keep you
safe. And to them, promises are worth much more than silver.
The next lines of text are impossible to decipher, scratched with ink until no word is recognizable. And then,
They took Tylea back to the palace as soon as the train was ready to roll. I think she’s safe.
Just keep breathing,
Nameless One.
I reread the letter a few times, torn between relief for Tylea’s well-being and confusion over Bonar’s words. Clutching the
letter close to my chest, I walk toward the window, only one question circling through my mind.
Where, in the Maker’s name, am I?
 12

T he first rays of sun kiss my face, but I’m already fully awake. I’ve been for at least two hours.
No matter how hard Inara tries, but, after seven days, this room feels like a prison. Locked door, fissured walls, and not
enough space to burn the overflowing energy of my recovering body. I suffer through each moment. The heat is unbearable
during the day while the cold is biting in the deep hours of the night.
My captors, or my saviors, I’m not sure which yet, bring me food and fresh clothes. Inara inquired if I needed anything, but
what could these people offer me that would compensate for the lack of freedom? Inara even asked me if I wanted to write
back to the Nameless One, but it’s bad enough they must have read Bonar’s letter. I’m not sure I want them to read mine.
While I wait for my breakfast, the house wakes up. Cupboards open and close, dishes clank, and the kettle lets out a solemn
whistle. It won’t be long before Inara will bring me my breakfast and Valdus will leave for the day. He usually comes back
when the sun is already down, but no sooner than the first hours of the evening. It gives me plenty of time to sneak out the half-
open window and explore the city. Maybe there is someone out there looking for me, or if not, someone who could get me to
Bonar. After all, the rebels attacked the train mere days away from The Veiled Rock, and, with enough luck, I might be in the
same town as Bonar.
I rush to snuggle deeper into the blanket as soon as I hear footsteps on the stairs. Inara walks in moments later, her kaftan
shifting between her legs with a muted rustling of fabric. A heavy sigh echoes through the room. I’m far from fooling her with
my theatrics, but she doesn’t stop the performance.
As soon as the door closes, I’m out of bed, stuffing toast and jam in my mouth and washing it down with burning-hot tea. My
tongue is numb with pain by the time I put the glass down, but I don’t pay any heed to it and rush to the bathroom. Plaiting my
hair and wrapping it in a tight coil, I pick the dullest of the kaftans Inara left for me.
By the time I step to the window, Valdus’s figure grows smaller. I wait for the crowd to sweep him in its flow before I push
myself through the window. The sill grazes the skin of my hips. The fabric creaks awfully close to a tear. I find the first grip
and push myself out, but a nail has snagged the fabric of my kaftan.
I should have worn trousers.
My fingers burn from effort and the heat of stones, but no matter how hard I tug on the hem of my kaftan the loose nail won’t
release it. A rip, and my skirt comes free. I let out a string of curses when I see a tear. As sure as Maker’s breath Inara will
notice that.
The wind carries a humming to my ears, and I stop moving. I dare to look down and curse myself again.
Inara walks toward the lines under my window with a basket full of laundry on her hip.
Muttering a prayer to Livith to cloak me in his darkness, I press against the wall. I don’t dare to move in case even a
whisper of fabric might catch Inara’s attention.
The back of my kaftan is slick with sweat by the time she has pinned the last shirt. Her humming echoes through the
backyard as she picks up the basket, but fades as she walks back into the house.
I climb down the wall, my fingers growing stiffer with each hold, the scratches on my skin add a fresh layer to the faded-red
paint on the stones. As my boots sink into the sand, I lean on the wall, huffing and rubbing my aching arm. Inara had taken the
stitches out the previous night, but my muscles are still too tender for such feats as climbing down a two-story building.
With not a moment to lose, I snatch a dull gray scarf from the line and wrap it over my head until my eyes peeking through
are my only visible feature.
The sweet smell of roasted vegetables and mint tea wafts to my nose. My stomach growls in response, my mouth waters. I
glance toward the tavern brimming with guards, wealthy guests of the governor, and enough food to fill them to a bursting.
I’ve dared only a few peeks since the crowd welcomed me in its hustling wave of restless workers, squabbling children,
and guards towering over all of us. Yawning until their jaws crack and scratching their heads, the number of soldiers defending
my father’s empire in this town are far from what I was used to seeing behind the palace walls. Yet people still lower their
heads and cross the street whenever a patrol comes into sight. Everyone knows that even if not polished to a shine, the
soldier’s blades are sharp enough to carve their hearts out.
I’ve wandered the streets for less than a day, but I’ve already spotted a railway station with a glass dome and a train
dumping charred smoke into a bright blue sky. High above it, the household of the governor swarms with guards, from its gates
and down the only road leading up the hill. I’ve dashed into shadowed alleys before anyone could spot me, ambling down
streets with no purpose or destination, merging with crowds and splitting as soon as anything caught my interest.
“You, there.” A soldier has his finger pointing at me. Righteous and accusatory.
Merry laughter spills onto the street as the guard pulls away from the door of the tavern and takes his first step in my
direction. A group of workers in clothes with stains of rust and coal bar his passage, but like an incessant storm, the guard
pushes through the throng. A man with a neat beard and a pronounced limp falls to the ground, but I don’t wait to see what
happens next.
The guard orders for me to stop, but I don’t. If I am to return to the palace and marry Ajaia, he’ll have to drag me all the way
across the desert, but soldiers live for the chase, and this one is no different. He follows me deeper into the city, past empty
stores and into a square with houses of polished stones soaring high over it. I thought I was lost before, but with the crowd
pulsing around me, dribbling into the square and down another street, I turn around, unable to decide which way to go.
Over the clamor of voices, the guard’s slurs reach my ears and make my feet move of their own accord. I dash down one
alley and up a flight of stairs, turning corners and changing directions before the guard can spot me. Sweat running down my
back in rivets, I huff through my scarf, turning another corner and bumping into someone. Hard.
Pain explodes in my arm. I catch a cry with my teeth digging deep into my lip. A girl my age drops to her knees, chasing
glistening apples down the pebbled street. I pick up the one rolling past me and stretch my hand just in time for our gazes to
meet over the stifling air and shouts of the guard echoing through the town. The girl doesn’t have to say a word, but as her eyes
linger on me, I know she has recognized me. She looks at my kaftan, and then at hers, only a shade darker than the dull gray of
mine. She thrusts the bag of apples into my hands, rips the hem over her hip similarly to the tear in my kaftan from the sill, and
turns to face the guard as he climbs the last step. Drying sweat from his brow with the sleeve of his black shirt, the soldier
takes a few labored breaths before he grabs the girl’s arm. “Are you deaf, or what?”
“I wasn’t aware you were talking to me,” says the girl with a shrug convincing enough that it’d let his harsh words slide.
I fuse with the crowd, each step a fraction of a movement, until I enter the mouth of a darkened alley. The guard snatches the
tags from the girl’s outstretched hand and turns them over, muttering something under his breath.
“This is your last warning, Lara,” he finally says, dropping the tags back in her hand. “Your father’s name won’t protect you
for much longer if you keep pulling stunts like this.”
The girl doesn’t answer. The soldier spits far enough from her feet that she doesn’t consider it as an insult and heads back
the way he came. Before she can spot my hiding place, I put the bag on a discarded barrel and slip through the back of the alley.
Light blinds me as I emerge on the other end, but I follow silhouettes haunting the streets, until my eyes adjust to the glare of
the setting sun. I have to find my way back faster than Livith chases after his sister to cloak the eternal sun with the darkness of
a night. I don’t dare to imagine what will happen if Valdus returns home from wherever a rebel spends his days and finds my
room empty.
I take the first steps in the direction I suppose Inara’s house is, but a feeling that someone is watching me creeps up my back.
I dare a glance over my shoulder, but only growing shadows surround me. The lazy gazes of what few guards remain on the
streets focus more on the old clock ticking against the polished stones of the barracks than on the faces of townsfolk ambling up
and down the streets. The chime of a bell marks the passage of another hour.
I dash down the street. The desire to break into a run presses on my lungs, robbing me of breath, but I don’t dare to hasten
my steps. I’m not eager to attract the attention of the watchful guards or curious folk. The street ends at a temple. A man with a
watchful Eye of Evanae pinned to the collar of his shirt of dim red and blue greets men and women coming for the evening
prayer.
I look both ways, trying to decide which way to go. To my right, an alley carves its way between two sagging buildings. To
the left, another one spirals down with haggling merchants occupying the sidewalk with everything from broken trinkets to
patched up clothes spread over thin rags.
The priest’s attention lands on me, beckoning me to join the believers already gathered inside. Instead, I dart into the
shadows of the alley where high walls of flaking green paint are pressing on me from both sides.
The clamor of the city recedes, and the clack of my boots on the pebbled path reverberates through the street that curves
before my eyes. I stop for a second, desperately trying to figure out how to get back to Inara’s house. My ears prickle as the
wind howls through the broken windows and missing doors.
A few seconds is all it takes for me to realize the clacking hasn’t stopped. I look down at my boots, fixed in place, and back
to the mouth of the alley. A creature breaks from the wall and swirls into existence from the leaking darkness.
Hollowcreep.
Trouble crosses my path no matter where I go, but a monster from my childhood bedtime stories? That can’t be happening.
Can it?
The creature takes another step toward me, and I stumble away, rasping my skin on the stones. I race deeper into the alley,
knocking broken barrels and stacks of crates to the ground, but I can’t put any distance between us.
The light grows dimmer with each passing moment, and I almost run into the wall that rises to meet the sky before me. I
search for fissures in the heated stone, but it’s as if the Maker himself erased every crease off its uneven surface.
“Now, now. What do we have here?”
I turn on my heels, eager to put a face to the honeyed voice.
Not a flesh-eater, but a man leans on the wall with his shoulder. His arms crossed over his chest, his foot hitched above the
other, he’s an image of nonchalance. His clothes aren’t as old and ragged as of other folk I’ve seen on the streets and a pair of
expensive-looking gloves hang from his silver-studded belt. His right hand catches the last glimpse of the setting sun, sending a
glare at me as he brushes the strand of his black hair behind his ear, the metal of his fingers a striking contrast to his olive skin.
I see the golden hoop in his ear and curse. I’ve seen him already. Back on the train. When I went to dine with Bonar. And that
metal hand?
He was one of the attackers.
As if privy to my thoughts, the man pulls away from the wall, and I take a step back until my shoulder blades meet the wall.
“What’s your name?” he asks.
I don’t answer. If I’m right, he already knows my name, and this is just a game for him. If I’m right, he’s the rebel who saved
my life, but who might regret it now.
My options for escape aren’t great. I won’t be able to climb the wall, buildings rising high around us might not be as
deserted as I thought, and the man with the metal hand has the rest of the alley hidden behind his back.
“Those green eyes,” the man says, tilting his head to a side. A half-looped smile tips the corner of his lips. “Tell me,
Princess. Do you know what happens to the girls wandering the streets alone?”
I count my breaths as the man closes the distance between us. He is so close, I can taste the smoke clinging to his clothes. I
lean to one side, but the man steps to bar my passage. I push him away, and he stumbles on the rubbish driven here by the wind.
With a wild curse on his lips, he lands on a pile of crates. He fights to regain his footing, but the metal gives and he’s caught in
a trap.
I dash the way I came. It’s so dark, I barely see where my boots land. Valdus and Inara must have noticed I’m gone, but I
don’t dare to think about it. I’ll escape the alley and get back to my room. The rest, I’ll deal with it when the time comes.
I never make it to the mouth of the alley. My boot sinks into a hole between stones, and I topple onto the paved street and
knock my head on a stone. I reach for my cheek, my fingers meeting a bloodied wound where the cobbles bit into my skin.
“Is that enough to calm you down?” asks the man through clenched teeth as if my fall was his doing.
Not again. Not again.
The thought circles in my head, drowning out everything else.
Not again.
I pull away from his towering figure, staggering to my feet. He reaches to grab my arm, but I duck under it and come up on
the other side. Before he can fully turn around, my fist is already flying. It meets his cheek with a crunch, and he staggers.
I howl, pain shooting through my knuckles.
“Haven’t you caused me enough trouble for one day?” asks the rebel, rubbing his swelling cheek.
He reaches for me again, and I pull my fist high. This time, he’s ready for it, and he catches my hand in his metal one. His
grip is so strong, I fear my already bruised bones will break. He pushes me away, and my back meets the wall with so much
force, the air whooshes out of my lungs. I double over spitting and coughing. I open my mouth and close it again, and the air is
yet to find its way back into my lungs.
“What about now?”
I scramble away, holding onto the world with everything I have. I have to hit my chest a few times before the air finally
rushes back into my lungs in a crushing wave. My head spins. I’m painfully aware that we are no longer alone in the alley, but
I’m busy getting my breathing under control.
The man pulls me straight up by the collar of my kaftan. I tug on it where it digs into my throat, my fingers twisting on the
chain Rev gave me. My skin burns as I tear the collar free and wheeze, crisp air rasping my throat. The rebel drags me toward
the mouth of the alley, but I refuse to go anywhere with him and dig the heels of my boots into the stones as hard as I can.
Hitting one pebble after another, my foot catches on some debris, and I can hear my already tender ankle crack. I howl in pain,
but the man only tugs harder on the fabric that suffocates me.
 The deep rumble of a voice breaks through our struggle. “That would be enough.”
The man stiffens with a groan and lets go of me. I fall on my hands and knees, tears filling my eyes. I don’t have to look up
to recognize the owner of that raspy voice. Yet I do.
The wind plays with the neck of his shirt, revealing deep scars running from his right shoulder and to his neck, and then they
are covered again. The tick of gears fills the silence as Valdus crosses his mechanical arms over his chest. His gaze locks onto
my face, a frown drawing his brows together.
 13

T he man turns toward Valdus, his hands rolled into fists. “This girl might bring much more trouble than she’s worth.”
Valdus doesn’t answer. Cold seeps from his eyes as he traces the wound on my cheek. He takes a step toward me, but the
rebel steps in his path. The glare Valdus shoots him would erase any remark blooming on my lips, but it doesn’t stop the
man with the golden hoop.
“How much longer will you shelter her when it’s clear the emperor wants her back? How many more lives will we put at
risk?”
“Sands.” Valdus rolls his shoulders. “You’ve gotten us into this mess, Numair. You tell me. What else must I do to make
every party of this accord satisfied?”
The rebel clicks his tongue.
“Everyone is grieving today, but it’s not her fault,” Valdus says.
His words are a mystery to me, but with a huff, Numair turns away. He doesn’t look up when Valdus walks past, not even
when he crouches next to me. Clicking his tongue one more time, the rebel stalks away from the alley and into the city while
I’m still pinned in place by Valdus’s heavy gaze.
When the silence stretches to the last corner of the alley, Valdus finally offers me his hand. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting
for, but it wasn’t an act of kindness. I let him pull me to my feet, but the pain in my ankle makes me waver. Without a word, he
swipes me off my feet. I open my mouth in protest, but Valdus silences me with a glare.
The chimes of the clock on the barracks and the whistle of a faraway train chase us back to the house at the edge of the
desert. Inara’s relieved stammer greets us at the entrance, but Valdus doesn’t put me down until we are back in the room I
already loathe.
He steps away from the armchair, letting Inara finally see me.
“I have to clean the wound,” she says and disappears through the door.
I sink down into the armchair, bite my lip, and count the specks of dust on my boots, painfully aware Valdus is waiting for an
explanation while I have none to offer.
“We’re trying to keep you safe. And you just…” Valdus doesn’t finish what he has to say and pinches the bridge of his nose.
Something inside of me bursts, and I jump to my feet. Pain rolls through my ankle, but I press even harder on it, the agony
giving me courage. “You can’t keep me caged in here. I have nothing to do. Not a book to read, a sketchbook to draw in, nor a
sword to train with. Absolutely nothing.” I take a deep breath. Anger pulses through my veins and spills into my words. “I’m
not a tender flower you can lock in a room and hope it lives off the sunlight.”
Even if Valdus had anything to say, he doesn’t have time as Inara enters the room with a tray in her hands. Her gaze darts
between us, both staring daggers at one another.
“What happened out there?” she asks.
Neither of us is eager to answer her.
“Evanae’s grace. You two are behaving like children,” Inara says and sets the tray down. She points at me. “You are going
to take a seat,” then at Valdus, “and you are going to finish cooking dinner. Understood?”
Valdus rolls his shoulders back and leaves without saying another word. A prickle settles behind my eyes as my ankle
forces me back down into the armchair.
“Does this hurt?” Inara asks as she presses a clean cloth over the split skin on my face.
I only shrug, unable to meet her eye or mutter a word without choking on it. Inara doesn’t press further and only keeps
cleaning the wound. She drops the blood-stained cloth back on the tray when she’s satisfied with her work, and I miss the
prickle on my skin. At least it held back tears.
Inara takes a deep breath, as if the burden of the words she’s about to utter is too heavy for her. “It wasn’t Valdus who hurt
you, was it?”
“Maker, no. I ran into someone. Numair is his name.” If anything, Valdus saved me in that alley.
 Inara sighs. “That boy…”
“We fought.” The words spill out of my mouth of their own accord, and the tears follow right after. “I tripped and split my
skin on the cobbled street. And I think I sprained my ankle.”
I tell her everything, no longer being able to stop the flow of words and not sure I want to. Inara doesn’t interrupt me but
unlatches the laces holding my boot in place. She rubs a cypress oil into my swollen ankle with a soft caress. By the time I tell
her everything, the last of my tears have run their course and my face is splotchy and prickling.
Inara sets my foot down just in time for the door to open again. Valdus walks in with a bowl of soup drifting steam and
filling the air with a mouth-watering smell. He glances at us only once, puts the bowl on the nightstand for me and walks to the
window. We hear a screech of metal as the window refuses to close, but his mechanical arms win that battle, and it shuts down,
along with my only connection to the exterior. In another second, he’s out of the door. It closes with a silent click, but for how
loud it echoes in my mind, he might as well have banged it shut.
Inara sighs and shakes her head.
“I’ll talk to him,” she says, putting the small bottle of oil on the nightstand. “I’m not sure he’ll listen, though.”

The first stars dot the steel-blue canvas when I spot a figure climbing the steep road toward the house. A faded-black scarf
covers his head, but his metal arms give him away.
I haven’t seen Valdus in a week. Not even a glimpse through the window, but I limp back to the bed before he can catch me
watching.
I stare at the fissure in the wall and count my breaths. I can hear the door to the house open, then, he drops his bag down on
the kitchen floor. Valdus and Inara exchange their greetings. The steps grow closer, and then a knock comes. I’m surprised to
hear it, wondering what I should say.
“Are you decent?”
The man must have already seen me naked and now he asks for my permission? I think to myself.
“I didn’t. Inara tended to you.”
My cheeks flare up when I realize I said that one out loud. “Come in,” I croak.
Valdus walks in with a bowl of an oatmeal porridge and jam and a steaming cup of tea in his hands. I watch him settle my
meal on the table and turn toward the door.
“Wait,” I hasten to say. I haven’t waited for a week for him to show up in my room so that he could leave in less than a
minute. Valdus stops but doesn’t turn around, but that’s all the encouragement I need. “I’m sorry for running away the other
day…well, not running away…more like slipping out. I never planned for you to find out.”
“So, there was a plan?”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I bite my tongue for the slip. I’ve gone over what I was going to say over a thousand times, yet
as the words spill out of my mouth, I don’t seem to have any control over them.
I clear my throat, fidgeting with the round button on the cuff of my shirt. I’m a princess of the Empire of Usmad, but I’m not
as brazen as any of my sisters.
“Maybe we could start over?” I ask in a small voice.
Valdus turns to me with a lifted brow.
“You say, ‘my name is Valdus,’ and then you ask for my name, and we talk for a while.”
“I already know your name.”
Pulling too hard on the button, it breaks loose, and I sigh. “I only wanted to smooth things over, to have something to do
other than stare at the walls, but you must have better things waiting for you than talking to a spoiled princess.” I lower my gaze
to the simple black button and add, “I apologize for wasting your time.”
Seconds pass, and Valdus doesn’t move. My cheeks heat up even more, and I can’t wait for him to leave.
“My name is Valdus.”
I look up, startled, unable to hide my confusion.
“What’s your name?” he adds.
“Neylan, but friends call me Nel,” I rush to answer before he can change his mind.
Valdus takes a seat in the armchair and rubs his metal finger over his lower lip. “I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say
next.”
I clear my throat, searching for anything to keep the conversation going. To be fair, I didn’t think he would stay.
“Maybe there is something you want to know about the palace…” I start, but his gaze, lost on the city peeking through my
Another random document with
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Then aunt took him upstairs to his room, and I was left alone with
Jack, who looked rather out of humour.

"How different from the dry-as-dust old professor we expected!" I

said to him. "He looks quite young."

"He says he is thirty-two," replied Jack. "I don't call that exactly
juvenile."

"It may not seem so to eighteen," I responded loftily.

"I shall be nineteen in July," said Jack hastily, "and you are only a
few months older, so there, Nan."

"I am aware of the fact," I said calmly, "and I consider myself quite
old enough. We were not discussing my age but Professor
Faulkner's."

"He does not like to be called Professor Faulkner," said Jack. "He
told me so."

"Did he?" I said. "That is rather sensible of him. He seems very

nice."

"Oh, of course, you'll think him so," said Jack impatiently. "Girls are
always taken with a fellow who gives himself airs like that."

"Airs like what?" I asked, but Jack vouchsafed no reply, and aunt
coming downstairs the next moment, he at once said that he must be
off. She detained him while she told him about the Americans, a
piece of news which seemed to cheer him somewhat. Then she
reminded him that he and his father were to dine with us on the
following evening, and he departed.

"Oh, auntie, how different from what we expected!" I said, as soon as

we were alone in the drawing-room. "He is not in the least like the
Vicar."
"Very different from what you expected," she retorted. "He is so
pleased with his room, Nan. He says he feels that he has come to a
haven of rest."

"How nice of him!" I said. "You like him, do you not, Auntie?"

"Yes," she said decidedly. "I feel sure that we shall find him easy to
get on with, and I am not often mistaken in first impressions."

Our guest did not join us till the dinner-gong sounded. When he
entered the dining-room I was glad that I had taken pains with my
toilet, for he was carefully dressed, and a little cluster of my
primroses adorned his dinner-jacket. He saw my eyes rest on them,
and said with a smile:

"You cannot think how pleased I was to find some primroses in my

room. It is years since I plucked an English primrose."

"You will be able to do so here," said my aunt; "they are coming out
in our woods, and will be plentiful in a week or two."

"I am so glad to hear it," he said simply. "They will be a delight to

me."

"Then you are not like the immortal Peter Bell?" I said, speaking my
thought almost involuntarily.

"By no means," he said, smiling, "since all the joys of my childhood

seem to live again for me when I see a primrose."

We got on marvellously well together on that first evening. Aunt and I

found him such an interesting companion that we almost forgot how
recent our acquaintance was. He talked a good deal about his life in
India, and it was evident that he had relinquished his work there with
great reluctance. He had met with sundry adventures there, too, of
which he spoke in the simplest fashion, but which showed me he
was a man of fine courage and a good sportsman. I thought that
Jack would like him better when he came to know more about him.
He made very light of the health failure which had brought him home.
It was the result of the warm, moist climate of the place of his
sojourn. He had got the better of the feverish attacks which had
prostrated him. What he lacked now was nervous strength, and that
he believed the fresh air and repose of the country would soon
restore.

When he said this, Aunt Patty explained that I too was suffering from
nervous exhaustion, and, rather to my vexation, told the story of my
disappointment. But as I met his look of perfect comprehension and
sympathy, I felt that I did not mind in the least.

"Ah, Miss Nan, don't I know what that meant for you!" he said. It was
strange how from the first he fell into the way of addressing me as
"Miss Nan," just as if he had known me all my life. And stranger still it
was that, though I was rather wont to stand on my dignity, I felt no
inclination to resent his thus dispensing with ceremony.

"It did seem hard at first," I murmured, "but now I don't mind."

"I know," he said. "It went sorely against the grain with me when I
found that I must resign my post at the college, and go back to
England. My students were very dear to me, and I hoped that I was
impressing some of them for good. But there was no alternative—if I
would go on living. So you and I have the same duty before us at
present—to lay up a fresh store of energy."

"I have found it an easy duty so far," I said cheerfully.

"Indeed, in this fair home, with the spring unfolding about us, and all
the lovely summer to come, it promises to be a delightful one," was
his ready response.

So a bond of mutual comprehension was at once established

between me and Alan Faulkner.

Aunt Patty got on with him equally well, and I could see by the way in
which he listened to her and deferred to her that he felt the attraction
of her unaffected goodness and kindness.

Nor was the Vicar less pleased when he made the acquaintance of
our guest on the following evening. He found an affinity with the
Professor at once, and showed a desire to monopolise his attention;
but whenever, as we sat at the table, their talk threatened to become
too abstruse, Mr. Faulkner would seek, by some explanatory word, to
draw me and aunt into it, or would try to divert it into a more ordinary
channel. How deep they plunged, or how far back in human history
they went after we left them to themselves, I cannot say. Their
conversation soon wearied Jack, for within five minutes, he joined us
in the drawing-room.

Jack was in rather a perverse mood.

"I suppose that is the sort of chap the governor would like me to be,"
he growled, "able to jaw on learned subjects in that conceited
fashion."

"Then I am afraid he will be disappointed," I said severely; "for even

if you succeed in passing your exam, you will never be in the least
like Mr. Faulkner."

"I am exceedingly glad to hear it!" he said with a disagreeable laugh.

It was so odd of Jack to take such a dislike to the Professor. I never

saw the least trace of conceit in his bearing, and he showed the
utmost consideration for Jack. I was vexed with the boy for being so
unreasonable; but it was of no use my saying anything—he only
grew worse.

For my part the more I saw of Alan Faulkner, the better I liked him. I
was glad we had time to get well acquainted with him before any
other guests arrived. For aunt's sake I was, of course, glad, but
otherwise I could have regretted that the Americans were coming on
the morrow.
 CHAPTER VII
THE AMERICANS

MR. JOSIAH DICKS and his daughter arrived on the following day,
just as we were about to sit down to luncheon. They drove in a fly
from Chelmsford and brought with them a goodly array of trunks and
valises, though they presently explained that this represented but a
fraction of their luggage.

He was a tall, thin, cadaverous-looking man, and had the yellow,

parchment-like complexion with which I had credited Professor
Faulkner; but his restless movements and keen, alert glances
showed him to be very much alive. His forehead was bald, save for a
wisp of hair which stood up on it in such a manner as to give him
somewhat the appearance of a cockatoo. His daughter was a tall,
slight, smart-looking girl. Her face was rather pasty in its colouring;
but the sharp, piquant features were not devoid of charm. She wore
a most remarkable hat, with so many wings sticking out of it that one
shuddered to think how many small birds had been slaughtered for
the gratification of her vanity. I could not admire it, yet it was of a
style that suited her. She was a striking figure as she entered the
house wearing a long, drab travelling coat with gilt buttons, and a
magnificent boa of Russian sable, with a muff of the same fur,
depending from her neck by a gold chain.

"So this is 'Gay Bowers!'" she said in a high, thin voice with the
unmistakable enunciation of an American as she looked about her,
frankly observant, "and really it is as pretty as its name. I call this old
hall perfectly lovely."
"It's real antique, this," said her father, speaking with a still more
striking accent, "that staircase now—"

But here my aunt's advance cut short his words.

"Mr. Dicks, I believe?" she said.

"Right you are, ma'am," he replied; "you see Josiah Dicks of

Indianapolis, and this is my daughter, Pollie—or, as she prefers to be
called, Paulina. We've come, as I wrote you we should, and I hope
you can take us in."

"I have some vacant rooms which I shall be happy to show you,"
said Aunt Patty, "but we were just going to lunch; will you not sit
down with us, and we can discuss business matters later."

"I guess that will suit us excellently, eh! What say you, Pollie?" was
his response. "The fact is, we left our hotel soon after ten, and the
fresh country air on the way hither has given a decided edge to our
appetites."

I took Miss Dicks to my room to refresh herself after the journey. She
sniffed with her pretty little nose as we went up the staircase, and
said, "How deliciously fresh it smells here! I hate the smell of
London, don't you? Are there many people staying in the house?"

"Why, no," I said, rather embarrassed by the question. "You see it is

a new thing for us to have boarders at 'Gay Bowers,' and at present
there are only ourselves and Mr. Faulkner."

She laughed and shrugged her shoulders. "Well, to be sure, and I

thought there would be twenty at least! I looked forward to music and
dancing in the evening!"

I felt inclined to laugh too, but I answered gravely, "Then I am afraid

our home will hardly suit you, for it is small, as you see, and we
could never accommodate more than half the number you name."
"I see," she said with a little pout. "Well, I must make the best of it
now, I suppose. I like the look of the lady, Mrs.—what is her name?"

"Mrs. Lucas," I said; "she is my aunt."

"Oh!" Thereupon she turned and looked at me from head to foot with
a thoroughness which let slip no detail of my appearance. My colour
rose, yet I gave her credit for intending no insolence by her cool
survey.

A moment later, as she removed her hat with her eyes on the mirror,
I took the opportunity to observe her more closely. Her hair was a
pale brown and fairly plentiful. It presented an arrangement of poufs
and combs, and tortoiseshell ornaments, which was quite novel to
me. I found it more extraordinary than beautiful, though when I got
used to the style I saw that it suited her.

The travellers had acquired the art of quickly making themselves at

home. As we took our luncheon they spoke and acted as if "Gay
Bowers" belonged to them. More than once I saw Aunt Patty flush
with resentment at what she evidently considered an impertinence.
But she had the good sense to hide her annoyance.

Cook, knowing that strangers were expected, had risen to the

occasion and sent up some very dainty dishes. Josiah Dicks did
ample justice to her excellent pastry, although he assured us he was
a martyr to dyspepsia.

When luncheon was over, aunt offered to show our visitors the
rooms she could give them. As they followed her from the room,
Miss Dicks turned and said to me in a very audible undertone, "How
very good-looking he is!" She jerked her head towards the window
where Alan Faulkner stood playing with Sweep. It was extraordinary
how that dog had taken to him. Ever since my arrival I had sought in
vain to coax her into accompanying me on my walks. She had
always preferred to wander alone about uncle's favourite haunts, or
to crouch disconsolately on the mat outside his former sanctum; but
now she was ready to follow Mr. Faulkner anywhere.
"Oh, hush!" I responded in a whisper to Miss Dicks's remark. "He
may hear you."

"Would it matter if he did?" she returned coolly. "Men like to be told

that they are good-looking."

"That may be," I replied; "but it is a taste I should not care to gratify."

She laughed.

"Pollie Dicks," called her father from the staircase, "are you coming
to choose your room?"

"He means to stay," she said to me with a sagacious nod, "and I've
no objection."

When she came downstairs a little later, Aunt Patty told me that Miss
Dicks had chosen the room on the left of mine. It was a large room,
commanding the front of the house. Her father had had to content
himself with a smaller room at the back.

"He seems much pleased with the place," said my aunt, "but his
daughter is evidently afraid of finding it dull."

"Do you like them, auntie?" I asked.

An odd smile crossed her face.

"They are mortals," she said. "I don't quite know what to make of
them, but I mean to like them, Nan. I cannot afford to quarrel with my
bread and butter."

"Still, I do think that they might have behaved a little more like
'guests' at luncheon," I said. "Mr. Dicks asked for 'crackers' just as if
he were in an hotel."

"I must confess that I felt rather riled for a moment," said my aunt;
"but I am sure he did not mean to annoy me. They are evidently
used to hotel life, and they cannot guess, nor do I wish that they
should, how it feels to me to receive strangers thus into my home.
My common-sense tells me that I must not allow myself to be over-
sensitive. I only hope Mr. Faulkner will like them."

"He seems to like them," I said.

Indeed I had been astonished to see the friendly interest in the

newcomers which he displayed, and the readiness with which he
talked to them.

The following day was Easter Sunday, and for once the weather was
all that one could wish it to be upon that day. It was not exactly
warm, but the sun shone brightly, and there was a delicious,
indescribable feeling of spring in the air. The trees were budding,
and the hedges breaking into leaf. Every day now showed some
fresh sign of spring's advance.

We all went to church in the morning. Mr. Dicks was struck with the
venerable beauty of our church, but he was severe in his criticism of
the service and the sermon. He had no patience with the defects of
our choir, and certainly their singing was very rural. He was anxious
to impress us with the superior order of things to be found in
America.

Jack joined us after the service, and we all, with the exception of my
aunt, took a short walk before luncheon. Mr. Dicks explained that he
was not fond of walking, but that his doctor had advised him to walk
several miles every day. His daughter frankly said that she hated it,
and certainly the smart pointed shoes she wore appeared ill adapted
to our country roads. I saw Mr. Faulkner looking at them, and
wondered whether he were admiring, or merely struck, as I was, with
their unsuitability.

"Pollie is fond of cycling," said Mr. Dicks, looking at me. "Do you
cycle?"

"I can," I said, "but unfortunately I have no bicycle of my own. I use

my sister's sometimes when I am at home."
"That is a pity," he said. "Pollie's machine will be sent down to-
morrow. It would be nice if you could ride with her."

"Do you cycle?" asked Miss Dicks, turning to Mr. Faulkner.

"I have not ridden since I came back from India," he said.

"Did you ride there?" she asked.

"Yes; I often rode with my students," he said. "In the province where I
was living the roads were as smooth and level as a billiard-table, so
that riding was delightful."

"Then I don't wonder that you have not ridden since," Jack said.

"Are the roads very bad about here?" she asked, glancing at him.
"You ride, of course?"

"They are not so bad," he replied, "but I don't say they would
compare favourably with a billiard-table."

"You will ride with me, won't you?" she said to him with a fascinating
smile.

"With pleasure," he responded, adding loyally, "and we'll hire a

machine at Chelmsford, so that Miss Nan can accompany us."

"And you will come, too, will you not?" she said, turning towards
Professor Faulkner.

I did not hear his reply, for at that moment Mr. Dicks addressed a
question to me; but it struck me that she was rather a forward young
woman.

Two days later a consignment of trunks arrived for Miss Dicks. She
had already displayed such a variety of pretty and fashionable
changes of attire that I wondered how many more clothes she had.
Judging by the size of her trunks she might have had a different
gown for each day of the year.
She appeared delighted to receive her luggage, and spent the
greater part of the next day in her room, engaged in unpacking the
boxes. Late in the afternoon I was going upstairs when I heard a
voice calling, "Nan, Nan!" Glancing upwards, I saw Miss Dicks
standing at the door of her room. I had not given her permission to
address me by my Christian name, and it would not have occurred to
me to call her "Pollie." But this was only another instance of the
inimitable coolness with which she made herself at home with us all.
I could only conclude that her free and easy bearing was typically
American, and endeavour to reconcile myself to it with as good a
grace as possible.

"Do come here, Nan, and look at my things," she cried as she saw
me.

As I entered her room I exclaimed at the sight it presented. Bed,

sofa, table, chairs, and even the floor were littered with all kinds of
choice and pretty things, making the place look like a bazaar. There
were mosaics and marbles from Italy, Roman lamps, conchas,
cameos, exquisite bits of Venetian glass, corals and tortoise-shells
from Naples, silk blankets from Como, and olive-wood boxes from
Bellagio. But it is vain to attempt to name all the things that met my
eyes. I think there were specimens of the arts and manufactures of
every place which she and her father had visited.

"Oh, how lovely!" I exclaimed. "But what will you do with all these
things? Are you going to open a shop?"

"Not exactly," she said with a laugh. "I am going to take them back to
America with me. Some are for myself, and some for my friends.
Father wanted me not to unpack them till we got them home, but I
felt that I must look and see if they were all safe."

For the next half-hour I had nothing to do but admire. There were
little boxes packed with small and rare ornaments, which she opened
one by one to show me the contents. I felt sure now that Josiah
Dicks must be a millionaire. It was a delight to me to see so many
pretty things, and their possessor seemed to enjoy my appreciation
of them.

"Aunt Maria begged me to buy everything I wanted. She said, 'Now

don't come home and say "I wish I had bought this, that, or the
other." Get all that pleases you while you are there,'" Miss Dicks
explained.

"You seem to have obeyed her most thoroughly," I remarked. "Does

your aunt live with you at home?"

"Yes, I have no mother, you know," she said. "She died when I was a
child. She nursed my little brother through scarlet fever. He died, and
then she took it and died."

She told me this in the most matter-of-fact way; but somehow I felt
differently towards her after she said that. I was feeling rather
envious of the girl who had carte blanche to spend money so
lavishly, and wondering what Olive and Peggy would say when they
heard of it, but now I felt that, though we girls had so few of the
things that money could buy, yet, as long as we had father and
mother and one another, we were richer than Paulina Dicks.

When I had looked at everything, she startled me by saying:

"Now I want you to choose something for yourself."

My colour rose as I replied by saying hurriedly:

"Oh, no, I cannot do that!"

"Why not?" she asked, surveying me with frank surprise. "When you
see that I have such heaps of things? I can never make use of them
all myself." But I still decidedly declined.

"Take this coral necklace," she said. "You were admiring it, and it
would look pretty on the black frock you wear of an evening. Why,
what is the matter with you? Are you proud? I believe you are, for
you never call me by my name, although I call you 'Nan.'"

"I will call you whatever you please," I said, "but I cannot accept any
of your pretty things, for you did not buy them for me."

"No, because I did not know you when I bought them; but I meant to
give a good many away. Oh, very well, Miss Darracott, I see you do
not mean to be friendly with Paulina Dicks!"

So in the end I had to yield, and accepted a little brooch of Florentine

mosaic, which I have to this day. And I promised that I would call her
Paulina.

"Paulina Adelaide is my name," she said. "No one calls me Pollie

except my father. And one other person," she added, as an
afterthought.

Presently she asked me if I thought Mrs. Lucas would like to see her
collection of pretty things. I said I was sure that she would, and ran
to call my aunt. When aunt came, Paulina exhibited everything
afresh, and described in an amusing fashion how she had made
some of her purchases. The dressing-bell rang ere aunt had seen
everything. Then their owner plaintively observed that she did not
know how she should get them all into their boxes again. Unpacking
was much easier than packing, she feared. Thereupon aunt and I
pledged ourselves to help her after dinner, with the result that we
were busy in her room till nearly midnight.

Paulina came to the dinner-table wearing a set of quaint cameo

ornaments, which excited Mr. Faulkner's attention. It appeared that
he knew something of cameos. He had passed through Italy on his
way home from India, and he and the Americans were soon
comparing their experiences of Vesuvius, Sorrento, and Capri, or
discussing the sights of Rome.

I listened in silence, feeling out of it all and rather discontented as I

compared Paulina's exquisitely-made Parisian frock with my own
homely white blouse. I must have looked bored when suddenly I
became aware that Alan Faulkner was observing me with a keen,
penetrating glance that seemed to read my very thoughts.

"We are wearying Miss Nan with our traveller's talk," he said. "She
has yet to learn the fascination of Italy. But the time will come, Miss
Nan."

"Never!" I said almost bitterly. "I see not the least chance of such
good fortune for me, and therefore I will not let my mind dwell on the
delights of travel!"

The look of wonder and regret with which Alan Faulkner regarded
me made me instantly ashamed of the morose manner in which I
had responded to his kindly remark. I heartily wished that I could
recall my words, or remove the impression they had created.

"Whatever he may think of Pollie Dicks," I said to myself as we rose

from the table, "he cannot help seeing that she is more good-natured
than I am."

CHAPTER VIII
A PRINCELY GIFT

"IS Miss Nan here?" asked Mr. Dicks, opening the door of the
drawing-room, where I had been pouring out tea for Aunt Patty and
such of her guests as liked the fragrant beverage. Josiah Dicks
never drank tea; his daughter took it with a slice of lemon in Russian
fashion.

"Yes, I am here," I responded. "What can I do for you, Mr. Dicks?"

"Just come this way, young lady, that is all," he said. "I have
something to show you."

As I rose and went towards him, I saw a look of amusement on Alan

Faulkner's face. Our eyes met, and we smiled at each other as I
passed him. He and I got a little quiet fun sometimes out of the
Americans. I could not help thinking that he wanted to come too and
see whatever Mr. Dicks had to show me.

It was a lovely day towards the end of April, the first really warm day
we had had. The hall door was open. Signing to me to follow him,
Josiah Dicks led the way to the back of the house, where was the
tool-house in which Pollie's bicycle was kept. She had already taken
one or two rides with Jack Upsher, but there had been some little
difficulty in hiring a bicycle for me, and I had not yet had a ride with
her.

As I approached the tool-house I saw Paulina within, flushed with

sundry exertions. She had just removed the last wrapping from a
brand-new machine.

"What!" I exclaimed. "Another bicycle! What can you want with two?"
Her beautiful machine had already moved me to admiration, if not to
envy, and here she was with another first-class one!

"Pollie does not want two, but I guess you can do with one," said Mr.
Dicks. "This is yours, Miss Nan."

I think I was never so taken aback in my life. I did not know what to
say. It seemed impossible that I could accept so valuable a gift from
one who was almost a stranger; yet I could see that both Josiah
Dicks and his daughter would be dreadfully hurt if I refused it. I knew
too that he did not like the idea of Paulina's riding about the country
alone, and that this was his way of securing a companion for her. I
tried to say that I would regard it as a loan; but that would not do. I
had to accept it. I had heard mother say that it sometimes takes
more grace to receive a gift than to bestow one, and I felt the truth of
the words now. I fear I expressed my thanks very awkwardly, yet I
was truly grateful in spite of my overwhelming sense of obligation.

"You must try it," cried Paulina eagerly. "Let us take it round to the
front of the house, and I'll mount you."

In a few minutes I was riding up and down the short drive before the
house. Mr. Faulkner caught sight of me from the drawing-room
window, and he and aunt came out to see what it meant. Aunt Patty
was as much astonished as I was by Josiah Dicks's munificence; but
she had more presence of mind and thanked him very warmly for his
kindness to me.

"That's all right," he said; "you've no need to thank me. It's just as it
should be. I like to see young people enjoy themselves. They'll never
be young but once."

Meanwhile Mr. Faulkner had been quietly examining my machine,

and he told me, in an aside, that it had all the latest improvements,
and was one of the best he had ever seen.

Certainly I found it an easy one to ride, and after a little practice I

began to feel as if it were part of myself. It was too late for us to do
much that day; but Paulina got out her machine, and we rode as far
as the village. As we passed the Vicarage we caught sight of Jack in
the garden. He shouted as he saw me spinning by, and I had to halt
and show him my delightful gift. He seemed almost as pleased as I
was. We arranged forthwith to ride with him on the following
afternoon. After dinner, I managed to get away by myself for a time,
and wrote a long letter to mother, for I felt that I must tell her about
my present.

It would not be easy to say how much enjoyment I derived from Mr.
Dicks's gift. As long as the weather continued fair, Paulina and I rode
every day. Jack accompanied us as often as he could, and was
sorely tempted to curtail the time he devoted to his studies. Then
one morning, Mr. Faulkner went to London by an early train, and
when he came back in the evening he brought a bicycle with him.
After that he too was often our companion. If we rode out a party of
four, Jack always elected to ride beside me, while Paulina seemed
equally bent on securing Mr. Faulkner as her escort, so that I had
little opportunity of talking with him. This vexed me somewhat, for
Alan Faulkner had generally interesting things to tell one, whereas
Jack's never-ceasing flow of small talk was apt to become a trifle
wearisome. We had some delightful rides and visited most of the
picturesque villages or fine old churches within twenty miles of "Gay
Bowers." But after Miss Cottrell came to stay with us, I was less free
to scour the country.

Colonel Hyde and Miss Cottrell arrived about the same time, when
spring was merging into summer, and we fondly hoped that cold
winds were over. There was no other connection between these two
individuals. The Colonel was an old friend of Mr. Upsher's. He was
Jack's godfather, and being a widower and childless, the chief
attraction "Gay Bowers" had for him was that it was so near
Greentree Vicarage.

Miss Cottrell might have been fifty. She informed Aunt Patty that she
was thirty-nine, and my aunt charitably believed her, though she
certainly looked much older. She was fond of the country, and her
coming was simply the result of seeing our advertisement. She
furnished aunt with references to persons of good social standing,
yet somehow she always struck us as not being exactly a
gentlewoman. She said she had been a governess for many years, a
fact which perhaps accounted for her worn and faded appearance,
but had taught only in the "best families." As she occasionally let fall
an "h" or made a slip in grammar, we came to the conclusion that the
"best families" known to her had not a high standard of education.
She was fond of talking of a certain Lady Mowbray, with whom she
had lived in closest intimacy for many years. "Dear Lady Mowbray"
was quoted on every possible occasion, till we grew rather weary of
her name, and longed to suggest that she should be left to rest in her
grave in peace. We knew she was dead, for Miss Cottrell had
spoken of the "handsome legacy" which this friend had left her. This
sum of money, together with some property she had inherited from
an uncle, had rendered it unnecessary for her longer to "take a
situation," a consummation for which she seemed devoutly thankful.

Yet Miss Cottrell was by no means of an indolent nature. She prided

herself on her active habits, and was especially fond of gardening.
Her love for this pursuit brought her into collision with old Hobbes,
our gardener. He could not forgive her for presuming to instruct him
on certain points, and when she offered to help him, he well-nigh
resigned his post. In order to secure peace between them, aunt had
to make over to her a tiny plot of ground, where she could grow what
she liked, and make what experiments she pleased, Hobbes being
strictly forbidden to interfere with it. The scorn with which he
regarded her attempts at horticulture was sublime.

Unfortunately, though fond of exercise, Miss Cottrell did not care for
solitary walks, and I often felt it incumbent on me to be her
companion. Her society was far from agreeable to me. It was
wonderful how little we had in common. Although she had been a
governess, she seemed absolutely without literary tastes, and even
devoid of all ideas that were not petty and trivial. Every attempt to
hold an intelligent conversation with her brought me face to face with
a dead wall.

All she cared for was to dwell on personal details of her own life or
the lives of others. She had an insatiable curiosity, and was for ever
asking me questions concerning my aunt or her guests, or my own
home life, which I could not or would not answer. Her love of gossip
led her to visit daily the one small shop the village could boast, and
marvellous were the tales she brought us from thence. She was
ready to talk to any one and every one whom she might encounter.
She was fond of visiting the cottagers, and they appreciated her
visits, for she listened attentively to the most garrulous, and told
them what to do for their rheumatism or cramp, and how to treat the
ailments of their children. I must say she was very kind-hearted; her
good nature and her love of flowers were her redeeming qualities.

She professed to admire the Vicar's preaching, and she often found
cause to visit the Vicarage. She paid both the Vicar and his friend
the Colonel more attention than they could appreciate. And the worst
of it was that she was slower to take a hint than any one I had ever
known. How Aunt Patty bore with her irritating ways I cannot tell.
Miss Cottrell certainly put a severe strain upon the politeness and
forbearance of her hostess. She was not a bad sort of woman, but
only insufferably vulgar, tactless and ill-bred.

Paulina made fun of her, yet neither she nor her father seemed to
object to Miss Cottrell's cross-questioning, or to shun her society; but
Colonel Hyde and Professor Faulkner would make their escape from
the drawing-room whenever it was possible, if that lady entered it.
Aunt confessed to me that she longed to dismiss this unwelcome
guest, but had no sufficient excuse.

She had not been with us very long when Josiah Dicks had an attack
of illness. Miss Cottrell, having wrung from me the statement that I
believed him to be a millionaire, evinced the utmost interest in the
American. She annoyed me very much by saying that she could see
that Professor Faulkner was looking after his money by courting
Paulina. Nothing could be farther from the truth. It was, of course,
possible that Alan Faulkner might be attracted by Paulina, but he
was not the man to woo her for the sake of her father's wealth. But it
was absurd of me to mind what such a one as Miss Cottrell said.

Though he was very far from well, Mr. Dicks would not stay in his
room, but hung about the house looking the colour of one of the
sovereigns he spent so lavishly. Miss Cottrell was full of sympathy
for him. She suggested various remedies, which he tried one after
another, while he rejected Aunt Patty's sensible advice that he
should send for a medical man from Chelmsford.

Miss Cottrell's solicitude contrasted oddly with Paulina's apparent

indifference. When she came downstairs the next morning she was
wearing a hat, and carried a coat over her arm, and she said quite
calmly as she took her place at the breakfast-table:

"Poppa says he is worse. He has been in awful pain all night, and
has not slept a wink. He thinks he is dying."

"My dear," ejaculated Aunt Patty, "I am distressed to hear it. And are
you going for the doctor?"

"Oh, no," said Paulina, opening her eyes widely. "He isn't dying, you
know. I am going to London."

"On his account—to get him medicine perhaps?" suggested my aunt

anxiously.

Paulina glanced across the table with amusement in her eyes.

"I am going to London to have a new gown fitted," she said, "and to
do some shopping."

"But, my dear Miss Dicks, what will your father do without you? Is it
well that you should leave him alone all day when he is suffering
so?"

My aunt looked amazed as she put these queries.

"Oh, he says now that he will see a doctor," Paulina replied. "I can
call and tell him to come if he lives near the station. I should do
Poppa no good by staying at home. He has had these attacks
before, and they will take their course. I knew he would be ill when I
saw him eating that salmon."

"But would you not like to see the doctor yourself?" aunt said.
"Cannot you put off going to London for a day or two?"

"That would inconvenience Madame Hortense," Paulina said gravely.

"No, I had better keep my appointment. I know you will look after
Poppa, Mrs. Lucas, and you will help her, will you not, Miss Cottrell?"