Page 67 of Born for Lace

Goodbye, Bite.

Two little deaths.

On the surface again, it feels as though I am emerging from a dream. From years underground. Yet, it has been less than a month. So much has changed; I have changed.

Mere weeks ago, my world was huge and safe. At least, that was the veil The Trade fitted me with. I had a Collective of friends, a nice, warm flat, and Meaningful Purpose. Now… my world is tiny and unstable. A blotch of dye on the vast canvas of The Cradle.

I’m excitedandscared.

Redwind pummels the large, red truck, rocking it as the road disappears between the two front tyres.

A Redwind-mask hangs in the crook of my neck, and Spero snuggles on my lap instead of in my hide jacket. The restless assassin wriggles around, and the jerking movement of the truck is too much pressure for my broken rib.

Belongings and supplies are stacked in the back, placing the three of us together in the front seats. Somewhat close.

I sit between them, all too aware of Lagos’ thick leg touching my outer thigh. The desert is ominous, a vast, never-ending vortex of nothing and everything.

Tomar and Lagos discuss the route and possible dangers, but the conversation falls silent when we bump over a hole in the road, and I outwardly wince at the pain shooting through my side.

“Are you alright?” Tomar asks, flicking his eyes between me and the road above the steering wheel he holds steadily.

“I’m fine,” I assure—lie. It hurts so much, but I remember my Ward once telling me that things hurt the most while they heal. I hold that as true, as a tether to my resilience.

“Flower.” There is a warning in Lagos’ tone, challenging me not to lie to them.

I grit my teeth, not wanting to be this fragile and vulnerable. I was born a Lace Girl. Common and small. All things I cannot control. I decided to leave the Half-tower, to help Tide, and to revel in new experiences.

To have control over… some things in my life. What I can control now is how I respond to this pain—this healing pain. I can be tough. “I’m fine,” I repeat.

We head toward the horizon, a sliver belt that divides two hues of hazy red.

The truck jerks, and I’m unable to swallow my whimper. My body tenses involuntarily, ready to react and to protect myself from the next violent movement.

Lagos stiffens beside me.

“You’re in pain,” he basically snarls the words a heartbeat before he scoops me up. But his touch… It is firm yet gentle.

Careful.

He braces me on his lap and becomes cement columns around me, unmoving and steady.

My breath stutters. Physically, we are close. My body is cradled by his, his warm skin humming like electricity, but his emotional reluctance is like a tangible wall that separates us.

I peer up for a split second, but it’s enough. His eyes are on me, roaming and soft, and… he looks away. The silent interaction is crowded with longing and uncertainty.

Does he have affection for me, too? Why do I feel this way?

I stare out the window. Large objects lurk in the dusty-crimson haze.

Suddenly, they are upon us. A towering pillar, and then another, and another. I gasp.Wind turbines.I can only make them out when they are imminent—it feels like the turbines are literally jumping out, lunging and alive.

It takes my breath away.

“Remarkable,” I say, awe playing along each syllable.

“Yes,” Tomar agrees. “The Redwind gives energy and takes it away. The windmills cover nearly half of The Cradle and power most civilised towers.”

Lagos grunts. “They are just big fucking fans.”

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