Page 123 of The Last One
“I’m not scared ofnothin’.” He smiles. “Gimme that soap.” He takes the bar and stations himself behind me. “Your hair.”
“Ah.” I washed my hair, and now it’s flat and long down my back. I move it aside so that he can see.
“Suds.” He blows at my shoulder. “Okay.” His breath warms my skin, and every hair on my body straightens.
“I’m not an artist,” he says, “so don’t laugh.” He selects the bubble-free space on the left side of the tub and draws a filled-in circle and then a twisting line that connects to another filled circle, and then another twisting line fromthatcircle to a third circle.
I peer at the drawing. “That’s it?”
“Yep. But the lines are like vines. There are leaves, not a lot, but they’re there.” He adds leaves to the vines. “And then there’s the one…” He waggles his finger at his chest. “The last vine is trailing from your shoulder to the top of your left rib. Under your front part.”
I snort. “My front part?”
“You haven’t noticed it before?”
My eyes flick from the soap drawing to his eyes. “I’ve taken my bandeau off once, when Veril started treating my injuries, and we weren’t in front of a mirror. I tried looking the other day but I could glimpse only a square.” I rise to my knees.
Jadon says, “What are you…?”
“Draw what you see.” I pull my eyes from the drawing to his face.
“Are you sure about that?” The muscle in his jaw flexes.
“I’m sure. Hurry up. I’m getting cold.” I swipe at the lather covering my skin, revealing the markings. “You see it? Or do you need me to clear more foam.”
He smiles, ruminating on my offer. “Yeah. A little more.”
I lock my eyes on his, and I swipe more foam from beneath my left breast. “Better?”
It takes him a moment to drag his gaze from mine to see what I know he wants to see. “Yeah, that’s better.” His tongue pokes the side of his cheek before he leans in for a closer look.
His breath tickles the sensitive, exposed skin.
“Letters,” he says softly. “Or maybe they’re symbols.” He holds the soap to the iron tub, looks back at my skin, then back at the tub. Then he begins to draw:
Finished, Jadon lets out a breath and sits back on the stool.
I roll onto my stomach to see him better. I sip from my cup, then point to his nose. “You have bubbles.”
He swipes his nose. “Didn’t realize I was that close.”
I say, “Hmm.”
He forces himself to look away from me and back to the drawing on the tub. “Do you know what it means?”
“No,” I say.
We both stare at the markings in silence.
My skin prickles as I realize: someone got closer to me than Jadon did just now to carefully ink these intricate designs right beneath my breast, but I have no memory of the inking or the inker. Worse, I don’t remember what this design nor the ones on my back mean. This marking, though, atop my left rib. There must be some significance to this location. Why not a longer canvas that’s more visible, like my arm or thigh?
“Maybe Veril knows,” he says, then sips wine.
“It’s in a book somewhere in his piles,” I say, flicking my hand. “We’ll find it. In the meantime… Have you washed up?”
A slow smile spreads across his face. “Of course I’ve washed up. You’re not the only one around here who enjoys soap.”
“I ask because you still have some dirt here.” I point to the dip between my collarbones.
