Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59565 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 298(@200wpm)___ 238(@250wpm)___ 199(@300wpm)
He takes it and frowns at the clear surface. “Why did you come tonight?”
“Drink and sleep first. I’ll ask for your help later.”
“Help?” He straightens, struggling to keep his gaze sharp, focused . . . His brow pinches with worry. “What’s the matter? What do you need?”
He is good. He is kind.
“Tell me,” he insists with a small hiccup.
I perch on the arm of his chair and, rubbing my temples, murmur, “We need your guest invitations to the drakopagon. Need you to play and distract the commander while Quin and I search the outpost.”
“Constantinos again.”
“He’ll have proved your innocence by tomorrow.”
“That’s not what I want most from him.” His words, though laden with alcohol, are weighted and his gaze bores into my profile.
“Let me get you into bed.”
“If only you meant that.” He turns my chin and makes me look at him. “You’re wavering. You were already wavering on that island. Isn’t that why you put distance between us?”
I swallow. Then, I’d been trying to protect them both.
No words pass my lips.
He lets me go and twists his violet oak armband, his eyes fixed on it. “You called him a lemon. Sour. He irritates you, makes you mad, makes you laugh, makes you afraid. And he makes you cry.” His gaze drops to my clasp. “I’m kind. Steady. But he makes you feel.”
His words drop through me, quick and sharp, and I’m left trembling in their wake. I lurch off the chair, move to his bed, and fight shaky hands as I peel open the blankets.
Nicostratus glares into the middle distance. “He makes me feel lots of things too.”
“Let’s talk when you’re not drunk.”
“I’d rather”—he stands and sways, and I lunge to catch him around the waist and steady him—“be drunk for this conversation.” He drops his head against mine. “Will you ever come back for me?”
His breathing shifts. I stir him and his head rolls forward. “Nicostratus? Nicostratus?”
He snores lightly. I steer him to the bed and buckle as I bend him into it. His shoes, I remove, but the rest . . . It’s too much. Too intimate.
I pull the covers to his chin and his arm dangles out the side. I take it and set it on the mattress. My fingers linger over his knuckles and I stare down at his beautiful face. My whisper comes out choked. “I’m sorry.”
I’m turning to leave when his fingers hook around one of mine. I stare across the room.
“Please don’t . . .”
I won’t go. I’ll stay and make sure he’s alright. Remind him, when he wakes, how he can help . . .
He lets go of my finger. “Please don’t come between me and my brother.”
I slump onto the armchair and watch him sleep. He was drunk; maybe most of this conversation will be forgotten when he wakes. I drop my head back and stare at the flickering candlelight against the ceiling.
I’m asleep when the candles burn out, and when I stir, it’s to a blueish dawn stretching through gridded windows. I rub my eyes, and the night before rushes back to me. I lurch to my feet. Nicostratus is sitting on the edge of his bed, hands clasped between his knees.
He looks over at me, and I look back.
“Nicostratus—”
“I remember everything,” he murmurs. “I meant everything.”
Please don’t come between me and my brother.
“I can’t go yet. There are so many poisoned, I—”
“I’ll help tomorrow at the drakopagon. I beg you, say your goodbyes. Go.”
His expression is heartbroken, pleading.
“This . . . envy. It’ll be the ruin of us. Please. I’ll take care of him. I’ll see he finds happiness.” His throat juts on a swallow. “It doesn’t have to be you.”
My stomach sinks, and my eyes sting. It takes all my effort to hold my head up. “Will you also find happiness?”
“If I promise to, will you go?”
I briefly shut my eyes. “I have to help the refugees.”
“It’s not as if you have magic anymore—”
I cry out, “I can help!”
He moves forward, reaching out a consoling hand, and drops it again. “When the poisoned are healthy, then . . .”
My throat is swollen. It hurts.
I take the golden feather from my belt and place it on the table beside us. Nicostratus stares at it, and I startle him by wrapping my arms around his waist and pressing my forehead against his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Nicostratus.”
He stiffens.
I sigh into his garments. “Let me take away our good memories?”
A watery drop lands on the top of my head. When I step back, he hurriedly turns his face to the wall.
I make my way to the door slowly, wishing he’d stop me, tell me with time, it’ll all be alright.
He says nothing.
I traipse back through the city, hood shadowing my face, stomach roiling. Procrastinating, I take a detour through narrow, near-empty lanes, only to bang into Petros tucking a package of herbs under his arm.