“You’re getting better.”
Ebony? Her voice is far away. Muted.
Grunt. I try to roll over in my hammock, but it just swings. I’m mummied in place.
“I knew you had it in you, runt.” Ebony again. But the characteristic insult that normally coats her tone is absent, replaced by . . . pride?
I sit up and my hammock makes the ceiling creak. Tide snores from the hammock to my right. Charley rests soundlessly in the one to my left, red hair spilling over the side of the canvas, making it appear as if it’s caught fire.
I rub my eyes, letting my vision adjust. What time is it?
“That’s it,” Ebony says. “You may still have your Confine, Khloe, but that doesn’t mean you can’t have a little fun with your Calling.”
My ears perk. Khloe?
“You’re a natural. We must be related.”
That does it. I’m out of my hammock and on my feet. After sliding into my shoes and tiptoeing through the crew’s sleeping quarters, I take the stairs to the deck two at a time, the rope-coiled railing scratching my palm. A hazy sky greets me, barely lit, suggesting dawn has only just broken.
A girl who couldn’t be a day over twelve stands at the deck’s center, back turned toward me. Her hair is black frizz, her skin the shade of Mom’s favorite cup of Earl Grey. Ebony is across from her, face alight in a way I’ve never witnessed. Joy adorns her eyes, her customary outfit of arrogance shed for another ensemble altogether.
She’s beautiful.
“We have a visitor.” Ebony leans to one side, peering at me past Khloe. “May I introduce our other sister.” She examines her less-than-pristine nails. “El, Khloe. Khloe, El.”
Khloe twirls. Not turns, twirls. “We’re approaching the Threshold. You might want to change.”
No “Hey, how’s it goin’?” No “Good morning, it’s nice to finally meet you, sis.” She skips right past the formal greetings and jumps into bossiness.
She’s definitely related to Ebony.
When she lists her head it’s with the grace of a prima ballerina. Her face is even younger than I expected, baby fat filling out her chin and cheeks. “Countess Ambrose would take it as a sign of disrespect if you were to enter her court looking like you just climbed out of bed.” Her words are blunt but not rude. Her smile holds a secret, maybe even a joke. She’s only eleven but she sounds years her senior.
I examine my clothes. Yesterday’s sweaty jeans and jacket combo sticks to me in odd places, cinched and twisted and stretched. Ebony pushed me to my limit, making me transform to and from a butterfly at least a dozen times. Each instance stirred a passion inside me, awakening the Verity for the first time since I was crowned.
Crowned. Verity. Could taking on the power that comes with being queen have had something to do with the Verity’s sudden silence? Was the crown what stopped the Verity from creating a calm within?
I smooth my hair. I removed the mirrorglass crown, but the Callings continue to dwindle. Still, something happened at the coronation when I became the ruler of the Second. I need to run this by Ky.
“Does she always stare off into space like that?” Khloe asks. “Are you sure she’s our sister?”
Blink. Huh? My sisters stand with arms crossed and smiles quirked. Both ogle me as one would a crazy person.
“Yeah, pretty much.” Ebony shrugs one shoulder. “You get used to it.”
Even if I could speak, what would I say? I’ve never had siblings before. It was always me and Mom. It took a good few weeks to fall into the tempo of having a best friend in Stormy, and only then because she was persistent. But sisters? That’s a whole other symphony.
“Have you come to practice with us? I’ve been ill for a few days, but I’m totally better now. Big brother always makes me stay in bed when I’m sick, even when I insist I’m fine. Ebony’s been teaching me how to project. With my Confine in place ’til I turn eighteen, my Calling has limits. Still, there are other ways I can flex my Shield muscles. Isn’t that right, Eb?”
Practice? Project? Shield muscles? Eb? This girl talks a mile a minute, launching from one topic to the next without prelude or an opportunity to get a single syllable in.
My older sister stands beside the younger. They may be opposites in appearance, but their personalities sure are in sync. “El’s not strong enough.” Ebony flips her hair. “Projecting is a whole different level of mastery.”
I want to ask what projecting is, to inquire why these two seem so close. Ebony—a.k.a. Bones—mentioned she was the one who transported Khloe to the Fourth upon Jasyn’s orders. Could they have bonded then?
“Oh.” Khloe bounces on her toes. “I’m supposed to tell you my brother wants to see you. He sent me to fetch you, but then I found Ebony and got excited to practice and totally forgot.” She talks with her hands, all flails and flaps.
I nod a silent thanks as I head for the captain’s cabin. I need to speak to Ky as well and am grateful for the chance to do so alone. When I reach the upper deck, however, I pause. Observe my sisters for another moment. They laugh and chat, Ebony leaning in to tell Khloe something or other and Khloe nodding. Unprecedented jealousy lances my chest.
When Ky first told me of Khloe, a surge of hope swelled. Could Khloe and I become friends—sisters? Watching her with Ebony now, I have to wonder if the sister ship has sailed. They’re so easy with each other. Might I have a chance with baby Evan, if I ever get to meet him? Will anything in my life ever be normal?
Once I reach the captain’s cabin, I touch the doorknob and give it a quarter turn. Wait. What am I doing? My hand lifts and knock, knock, knocks.
“Come in,” Ky calls.
Okay. Breathe. We haven’t been alone since my first night here. But I can do this, I can—
I freeze in my tracks. Ky stands across the room, shirtless. His jeans hang low over his hips, belt undone. Morning’s cool light filters through the curved window, softens his winter-worn features. I almost don’t notice he has more than just the one new scar on his face.
Except my eyes adjust and I do notice. I see the burned flesh, pink and potholed and shiny, on his right pec—the place where his Guardian tattoo used to be. Inward gasp. The tip of the sword is still visible, the slightest curve of the crown. But the arrow is gone, as is the Guardian oath. It appears as if someone scorched the image clean off his skin. And then there are the yellowed bruises. The raised lines of healing scars.
The first day of the year screeches back to me like tires on black ice. Joshua about to propose—again. Me, falling to my knees in dire agony. Joshua following suit. It was Ky’s pain we felt.
Who did this to you? I squeeze my eyes shut. The hurt—nauseating and suffocating—is too much. My throat constricts.
“C’mon, Em,” he says, brushing away my serious thoughts. His belt jangles. “You’ve seen me shirtless before.” His voice is muffled, probably from the shirt he’s lifting over his head, thank the Verity. “I don’t mind if you look.”
Why does he avoid my question? I know he heard me. I can’t help but believe this is somehow my fault as well. That Ky was tortured . . .
Because. Of. Me.
No one is safe. Everyone I get close to ends up hurt—or dead. Will nothing ever change?
Footsteps across the cabin. Shuffle, creak.
I will myself to hear his thoughts. To search his mind for the secrets he keeps.
Nada.
I peek beneath my eyelids.