Page 17 of Steel Heart Iron Claws

I grab the letter. “Whatever this is? Yeah, I don’t care. I don’t think about whoever this woman is. I don’t dream about her. I don’t miss my lost memories. So good luck finding your little book in Old Coros. I’ll be right where I belong. At Rian’s side.”

I make a big show of crumpling the letter and tossing it into the cold hearth.

I tie my knapsack with jerky movements, then sling it over my shoulder. I’m twice Suri’s size, and in a few steps, I’ve herded her to the door.

Her eyes spit fire at me, furious that I would so easily turn my back on the woman I supposedly loved. And damn, if I’m not a little jealous of a friend like Suri. When everyone else has turned away from my mystery woman, Suri has stayed true.

I lean in the doorframe, letting my height intimidate her, as I bark, “Now scamper off before the rain ruins your gown.”

Suri’s cheeks bleed red with disappointment. She tips her chin up, looking me in the eyes like she can see right through my forced bravado, and murmurs, “I knew Rian didn’t deserve her. I thought, maybe, you did. But you and the High Lord? You only deserve one another.”

She slams the door behind her.

I let out a long exhale, running a hand over my face. I listen for her departing footsteps outside.

As soon as she’s gone?

“Fuck it.” I scramble to the hearth and unfold the crumpled letter, reading greedily.

Dear Papa,

My thirteenth birthday was last week, and I think you would be astonished by how much I’ve grown. I can now reach the highest shelves in the chapel. Matron White says I shall soon tower over Sisters Rose and Scarlet, which will be useful when it comes time for spring cleaning. You will be pleased to hear I am diligent in my studies and have not missed a prey session all year, even when I was ill with the wintertide fever.

I am happy to report that Myst is in good health, though the confinement of the convent does not soot her free spirit. I’ve spent my time on useful pursuits, such as tending to the goats, brewing cider for the Sisters, and honoring Immortal Iyre by polishing her temple’s floors. I am not always perfect in my obedience, according to Matron White, but I promise you that I shall not stop striving to correct my failings until I make you proud of me.

I was sorry that you were unable to visit on my birthday yet again, though of course, I understand you are needed at the Bremcote estate. I miss you and the servants deerly and would like to come see you. It would hearten me greatly to pay my respects to Mama’s grave. I know you have said no in years past, but this year, would you grant me permission to return for a visit?

Your daughter,

Sabine

The letter shows the hallmarks of an uncertain young girl trying her hardest to paint a happy veneer over misery. The handwriting is careful to the point of shaky perfection, as though she rewrote the letter a dozen times to get it right. The girl behind these words is so transparently desperate for even table scraps of her father’s attention. The few misspellings—prey for pray, soot for suit, deerly for dearly—cause my brick-hard heart to soften.

She was so young when writing this. So damn alone.

A child.

And her bastard of a father probably didn’t even respond.

A surge of anger at Charlin Darrow—at everyone who failed her—screams at me to crumple the letter, but I force myself to resist the urge. Because what Suri said was true—this is a piece of my mystery woman.

She lives in more than memories.

I sink onto my bed beside the knapsack, smoothing out the letter to re-read it. With every pass, I feel like I know this girl a little bit more. The way her “t’s” are crossed with an upward tilt betray a hopeful spirit even in the midst of her imprisonment. Her naive devotion to a man who couldn’t give a damn about her shows her unfaltering kindness.

I’ll tell you what Idon’tsee—the slightest glimmer that this girl has a traitorous bone in her body.

It fills me with a cascade of questions that tumble over me until I’m drowning. Now that Sabine is grown, is her spirit still as unbroken as the girl who wrote this letter? Does she feel rage toward the Sisters who neglected and abused her? Does her drive to find the good in the world persist?

I trace my finger along the name at the bottom of the letter.

LOVE, SABINE.

As long as I have this letter, I’ll have her name. But letters can burn. Be destroyed or lost. And if someone found thisletter on me? I might as well fuck Rian’s fiancée in front of him all over again.

As the rain drives against the tin ceiling, I spare a brief moment to take a breath. My fingers knit, wanting to hold onto the name like a gods-damn jewel.

That brief breath is all I can spare.

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