Page 6 of A Chill in the Flame
Dwyn complied. “I have a few gifts, but they’re best served in the sea. Both my abilities, and my needs.”
The last word stuck in the back of Ophir’s head like a thorn. Needs were often a harbinger of one of the darker gifts. Light gifts fueled a user. Dark gifts drained their fae until they found a way to replenish. What could she have been doing in the sea to replenish, unless…?
“Are you a siren?”
Dwyn shrugged and began to scrub at her scalp among the bubbles. “Sure.” She smiled at the term. “You could call me that. What people say of me doesn’t matter. I’ve never found any title particularly useful.”
Ophir pressed, “But you can breathe underwater, right? That’s what sirens do? Is that why you were out in the ocean? Sailors don’t realize they can’t breathe until it’s too late…”
Dwyn offered an exaggerated roll of her eyes at the fateful tale told to the seafaring. “Sailors are just as likely tobe violent criminals as they are to be good, kind men. The world doesn’t need all of them.”
“So you’ve killed,” Ophir replied. She kept her tone level as she watched the fae for a reaction.
“I’ve survived,” Dwyn countered. “Does it matter how that happens? Though I suppose not everyone has my desire to stay alive.”
Ophir deflated. It was true. Her will to live was thin at best.
Two days ago, she’d loved her life. Forty-eight hours prior, she would have agreed with Dwyn that life was for living. Of course, she’d defined living a little differently. Life was for drinking and sex and experiences. Life was for breaking the rules, for sneaking out of the castle, for going to late-night parties in the homes of strangers. Life was for dragging your sister to debaucherous masquerades even when she pleaded with Ophir to turn around and bring them back home.
Gentle, virtuous Caris was always the responsible one.
Life was for Caris, the selfless humanitarian destined to bring peace to the kingdoms, the sister who deserved to live. Ophir’s heart cracked, hot tears lining her lids as she sat with the knowledge that her sister should have been the one who made it out alive. Instead, Ophir was left with a shattered heart and hands that would never feel clean enough to wash away the spilled blood.
No, life was not for surviving.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Ophir leaned two wet arms on the edge of the tub, resting her chin where they folded. “No,” she said. “Not in the slightest.”
Dwyn began to wring the water from her hair, twisting it as she stood. She left destructive puddles in her wake as she rifled for a towel. “Can I tell you what I think?”
“I assume you will anyway.” Ophir closed her eyes. Visions of gore and men and bodies filled the black space behind her lids. Ophir forced her eyes open and watched Dwyn twist the towel around her hair. “You can take a second towel. There’sno need to stay naked.”
“With a body like this?” She leaned against the edge of the bath, allowing the lip of the tub to cut into the curve of her thigh as she looked at the princess. She unwrapped her hair as if to emphasize that she required no towel at all. “But here’s what I think: tragedy happens to everyone, and we have three paths offered to us in the midst of horror.”
“You know whatIthink? You’re nude and I don’t know you.”
“You’re focusing on the wrong thing here, Princess.” She put her hands on the edge of the tub and leaned forward, breasts pressed together by her inner arms as she leaned in conspiratorially with her secret. Inky tendrils of hair dangled about her shoulders, stray pieces sticking to her neck, her chin, her chest.
Ophir spoke on instinct rather than curiosity. “And what are those paths?”
“The first one is the most obvious, and the most boring. The first is to heal, to forgive, to move on.” She shrugged.
Ophir would have laughed if only to keep from crying. This was what Caris—the princess of goodness and quiet resilience and light—would have wanted. Her older sister would have prayed to the goddess for comfort. She would have turned her grief into triumph through the beauty of a life well lived. She would show her fortification through her unwavering spirit.
But Ophir was not Caris. She would not be healing. There would be no forgiveness.
“The second is what you very nearly accomplished tonight, Firi.” The princess winced at the use of the nickname. She may have told the stranger to use it, but it was just another wound in her already raw heart. “There are many escapes. People escape through drink, drug, sex, travel, addiction, gambling, harm, and…well…the escape that travels in only one direction. Though choosing the ocean—”
She didn’t want to talk about the second option any further. “And the third?”
Dwyn smiled, softening her voice. She touched the princess lightly on the nose. “The third, dear heart, is vengeance.”
Three
That Night
“One drink, then we leave.” Caris pulled her hood over her head, which was perhaps the single most conspicuous thing she could have done. It was already a masquerade. The princess’s additional secrecy was overkill.
