“I’m fine,” he said after too long. He pulled himself up by the door handle, unlocked the door, stumbled out. “Keep watching the movie without me.”
The amusement faded from their faces.
Was he responsible? If, with those pills, he could travel back and forth whenever he wanted—if he made Amara heal—maybe she hadn’t been the one to kick him out on Monday. He might’ve simply snapped free on his own. And then, while he was back in his own skin, flirting with Sarah Schneider and finding sites to download films from, Amara had protected Cilla from the curse and almost died.
Because he hadn’t been there.
Nolan didn’t make it past the top step. He turned and sat, gripping the banister. He stared down the curve of the stairs with hollow eyes. If his presence made her heal …
If somehow, all along, he’d pushed himself into her world instead of being pulled …
Amara wasn’t a mage. She never had been. That was why her healing stuttered and paused: because he kept blinking in and out. Without him, she wouldn’t heal at all. She wouldn’t have been plucked from the Bedam palace to help Cilla. She’d still be there and she’d be following the caretaker’s orders and scooping horse manure and cleaning up after the cooks and sneaking around servant passages and it’d be shit, all of it would be shit and unfair and awful, but she wouldn’t be burned and cut and drowned and choked and—
And none of that.
Nolan’s hand dropped from the banister. He clutched his hair. The hair Mom obsessed over. He’d been running around blaming Amara for ruining his life while he—while Mom slicked his hair and Dad cooked and Pat freaked out about her play, and he had this cozy little life, and all this time he’d been the one to—
His hand slid down his face, pressing against his mouth. Cool fingers against hot skin.
“Are you having a seizure?” Mom stood at the bottom of the stairs and put her foot on the first step. “You shouldn’t sit there. It’s dangerous.”
“No seizure. I just—I need to be alone for a minute. Keep watching the movie. It’s good.” He managed a smile, but it wasn’t a Mom-smile or any smile she’d recognize.
Nolan didn’t know if he recognized it, either.
18
I’m not a mage.” Amara stared at her hands as she said that, puzzled. “I’m not a mage.”
“Amara, you need to stop—” Cilla cut herself off as Jorn entered. He must’ve gone to talk to Ruudde again. If Amara died, they’d have to find someone else to protect Cilla. No wonder they’d been worried about the blackouts. They didn’t want Nolan to have control. If he chose to go away, Amara was useless.
Was he here right now? She should scratch open her skin and see. If she healed, he was there, snug behind her eyes. If she bled, she was alone.
Jorn stopped in the doorway and looked Amara over flatly. “You’re healed.”
And you know why! Amara said nothing. She nodded.
She was not a mage.
Of course she wasn’t a mage. Her healing had never been as solid as other mages’. She’d never done a spell. Never detected any magic. She thought she might have a chance to learn more, finally, but—
She was not a mage.
She was just some unlucky girl. The spirits didn’t favor her. Nolan did. He needed her body in one piece—of course he’d heal her. He’d seemed surprised; she could tell from the way he’d stumbled around in her body, from the way her hands hadn’t signed right, but he’d still been the one in control. On some level, he must’ve known.
Jorn had known, too. All these years.
“Good.” Jorn’s voice said as little as his face did. “How are you feeling?”
“Better,” Amara said. “Hungry. Do we have any rootpatties left? Have you all eaten? We should wake Maart.” She signed normally, didn’t she? Would Jorn buy it?
“The spirits must’ve changed their minds.” Cilla’s smile wavered. “Those cuts on her face started to heal suddenly. She woke up a minute later.”
Amara’s hairs pricked upright against her bandages. Jorn never looked at Amara this long, and he never looked at her while Cilla spoke. You gave the princess your undivided attention.
“What do you think happened?” Jorn pushed the door behind him shut and headed to the table across the room, which was empty aside from some unwashed plates and a water bowl.
“I don’t know,” Amara said. She tried not to rub her bandages, but they were tight, and the dried blood itched like mad when she signed. “I apologize. I did what I could to—”
“You’re back,” he stated.
“Yes. I’m back now. It won’t happen again.” As though she could do anything to stop Nolan.
“Come here,” Jorn said. “Both of you.”
“Is something wrong?” Cilla asked. She stayed on her chair—Maart’s chair—by Amara’s bedroll even as Amara climbed to her feet.
“Both of you,” Jorn repeated. She saw muscles moving in his jaw, clenching and unclenching, and she knew that look. She wanted to run back and hide under the blankets and press herself against the wall, as far away as possible. She wanted to escape to every last spirit-abandoned nook of the planet.
She didn’t want to see that look.
She kept walking toward him. Hollow steps. Trembling hands.
Behind her, she heard Cilla getting up from the chair. Cilla walked more slowly. She could get away with it. Jorn would never punish her. Still, Amara wanted to scream at her to Hurry up and He’ll just get angrier and Stop asking questions!
“She saved my life at the market,” Cilla said icily.
“You knew you were having blackouts.” It wasn’t just the muscles in Jorn’s face tensing up now, but the ones in his neck, too, and the tendons in his hands as he crushed them into fists. “It wasn’t safe for you to be alone with Cilla.”
Amara stopped a footlength away. “I’m sorry, I—” she said, but she shouldn’t be talking. Her hands still shook. She hated herself for walking over to him when he told her to. Hated herself for apologizing.
“But this isn’t about that.” Jorn gripped the back of Amara’s head. His fist squeezed together bundles of her hair. She yelped. “This is about that mage attacking Cilla. This is about Cilla being stupid enough to show her tattoo after that.”
“It was an Alinean pub!” Cilla said. “Amara needed—”
Amara didn’t hear the rest. Jorn slammed her facedown into the water bowl. Water splashed out onto her hands as she grabbed the table to steady herself, and then it was up her nose and in her mouth. Her nose slammed into the bottom of the bowl. Something crunched. A mouthful of water went down her lungs. Her fists beat the table.
Her feet kicked at the floor as she tried to yank away, to swing her head free, but Jorn kept her pinned down. His other hand had to be steadying the bowl or she’d be able to move it, and she couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t breathe. The pain in her nose was fading. Nolan was here. She’d survive, but—she couldn’t breathe. She needed to scream or spit or gasp lungfuls of air. She needed to keep her mouth shut. Needed to stop herself from inhaling.
She’d drowned before.
But none of those times had been with Jorn pressing her down and the water only fingerwidths high and she could feel cool air on water-spattered cheeks but couldn’t reach and—
Cilla’s shriek went through everything—through the bowl and Amara’s panic both.
“Keep watching!” Jorn shouted.
Hair tore from Amara’s skull as Jorn yanked her back up. “Breathe,” he told her, and she sputtered and gasped and spat out water. Air—air—she needed— “You’ll be fine. But Cilla needs to learn. We had the perfect excuse to avoid attention thanks to that idiot jeweler’s spell blowing up, and she ruined it.”