The Singer

The whole room had fallen silent, and Ava fought the urge to crawl under the table or run screaming from all the eyes on her. She trained her eyes on the scarred grain of the wood table, trying to block out the room.

“How is this possible?” Sari’s voice soft and searching. “Sister… how did you survive?”

The sudden softness in Sari’s voice startled her. “I just did. I knew I was different. Always different. Obviously, the scribes were looking—”

“But how?” Sari lifted a hand to her cheek. “Who shielded you? Who taught you to silence the voices?” She turned her hands to weave Ava’s fingers with hers, her grip strong. When she did, Ava felt safe, like a blanket of protection covered her, and she understood why all the others followed the woman. In that moment, Ava knew that Sari would fight to the death to protect her, no matter where she had come from. Because she was Irina.

She was like them.

“No one taught me anything,” Ava said. “I’ve heard voices my whole life. I just thought I was crazy.”

The collective gasp from the women around the room made Ava want to run. She would have, if Sari’s hands hadn’t held her in place. She chanced a look up.

The color had drained from Astrid’s face, and she held her hand to her throat.

“Oh, Ava…,” she murmured.

Sari looked murderous.

“I’m not hungry.” Ava tried to push back from the table, but Sari locked her foot around the leg of Ava’s chair. “Let me go. I want to leave now.”

Sari looked around for a moment, then she barked out something in another language and the women around the table bustled back to their tasks. When she spoke again, her voice was chillingly calm. “So the humans thought you were mentally ill?”

Ava shrugged. “What were they supposed to think when a little girl told them she heard voices no one else heard?”

That was a question none of them seemed to be able to answer. After a few moments, a rich bowl of steaming soup was placed in front of her along with a basket of sliced bread. As the food was set down, Sari removed her foot from Ava’s chair.

“Eat, sister.”

Ava had the urge to leave again, just because the woman’s commanding tone rubbed her the wrong way. But the scent of the soup was enticing, and Astrid’s hopeful eyes met hers.

“Please, Ava. Stay and eat with us.”

“Fine.” She picked up a piece of the bread and dipped it in the soup.

Astrid and Sari both murmured something under their breath, then they began to eat.

“I’m glad Damien brought you here,” Sari said after a few minutes of silent eating. “It is not good that you were in the world for so long on your own. You could have easily hurt someone, including yourself. Not to mention, I’m amazed you’re not locked up somewhere, rocking in a corner.”

“I’m rich enough to avoid padded rooms,” Ava said. “So that helps.”

“I imagine it does.” She paused and looked out the window toward the cottage. “And then you had to go and stumble into my mate’s scribe house.”

“He wasn’t very happy to have me.”

Sari rolled her eyes. “He’s a suspicious old man. The Creator has plans he doesn’t always share with his scribes, no matter what they’d like to think. The folly of men is pride.”

Astrid said, “And the folly of women is resentment, sister.”

“I didn’t ask you, Astrid.”

“I think Malachi said something similar once,” Ava added after a minute of quiet staring between the two. “About Damien being a stubborn old man.”

At that statement, Sari and Astrid exchanged a look that Ava couldn’t decipher. Then Astrid said, “It’s good that he brought you to us. We can begin your training immediately.”

“And what kind of training will that be?”

Ava looked up when they didn’t answer. Astrid looked amused, and Sari’s eyes were glinting.

“A very thorough training,” she said. “My grandmother will enjoy meeting such a mysterious Irina.”

The knot of dread settled in Ava’s belly. “Oh. Goody.”

Chapter Five

“Tell me what this says.”

Rhys pushed a clay tablet across the table, then leaned back into his chair. Malachi tore his eyes away from his knuckles, which were inexplicably scratched. He didn’t remember hurting himself, but his hands looked like he’d fought his way through thorns. He took a deep breath and looked down at the library table, frowning when he saw the smooth clay in front of him.

“This says nothing.”

“Look again.”

“Rhys, there’s nothing…” He felt, rather than saw, a tremor from the corner of his eye. “Wait. There is something—”

“Don’t look at it.”

He looked, growling in the back of his throat when the shadow disappeared.

“I told you not to look,” Rhys said. “Take a minute to close your eyes, then look again. This time, don’t try. Let your mind absorb it without conscious thought.”

Malachi closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and looked again, staring at the center of the tablet as ghostly figures teased the edges of his vision. He didn’t focus on them. The letters seemed to take on a life of their own, crawling tentatively from the edges of the tablet until they formed beneath his gaze. When the letters seemed more solid, he let out the breath he’d been holding and allowed his eyes to finally focus on the top of the tablet, looking first right, then left. Instinct guided him as the characters turned into syllables in his mind. The syllables turned into words he translated instantly.