The Sweet Far Thing

Asha gestures to me. “Might I have a word, Lady Hope?”

I sit beside her on the mat, but I can scarcely keep still. I’m far too agitated by my conversation with Circe, and angrier with myself for having trusted her.

“I have considered your offer,” Asha says. “I believe it best the Hajin not join your alliance.”

“Not join? But why?”

Asha’s fingers work diligently at separating the pea from its useless husk. “We do not wish to become involved in such a struggle. It is not our way.”

“But, Asha, with a share of the magic, your people could become a power in the realms. You could change your lot. You could cure—”

I bite the words off, afraid I will offend her. The Hajin cast a curious glance at me. Asha nods to them, and bowing, they take their leave.

“Back in the dark time, we were persecuted. Treated as slaves. Murdered for sport,” Asha explains. “And then the Order came and made us safe. Since the talk of an alliance, that safety has been in question. Our people have been taunted in the fields and beyond. A Hajin was whipped at the river by centaurs. And just last night, a crop of poppies was stolen—only a small basket, but it is enough.”

I ball my hands into fists. “That will not stand! I shall speak to Philon at once!”

Asha shakes her head. “No. We shall withdraw. Here, away from all, we are safe.”

I look about at the rugged caves where they have lived in exile for centuries. “But you are forced to live in these caves. How is that safety?”

Asha smooths her sari over her blistered legs. “It is best not to question.”

“Would you make that decision for the rest of your people?”

She drops the peas into a bowl with a hard clatter. “They should not know everything. It will only bring discontent.”

“For whom?” I ask.

“It is for the best,” she says as if it’s a mantra.

One of the Hajin approaches. Her face is limned with worry. “It is not a good harvest, Asha,” she says in apology. “We have lost many flowers to frost and blight.”

Asha frowns. “Frost?”

The Untouchable opens her blistered hand to reveal a poppy withered and blue with cold. “They do not survive.”

“Here,” I say. I put my hand to it and new poppies spring out, fat and red. “That is what you could do if you wanted.”

The girl looks hopefully to Asha, who shakes her head.

“That way does not last,” Asha answers. She plucks the first blossom from the Hajin girl’s hand and throws it into the rubbish pile.

I take the path through the willows again. The majestic branches fan out over my head, and I walk through the cocoon of them, lost in thought. What plan does the Order have for me? Could they have killed Wilhelmina Wyatt to silence her, and if so, what secret did she hold that was worth murdering for? How can I help govern the realms when the very people who would form my alliance do not trust one another?

Even the promise of seeing Pip and the others in the Borderlands doesn’t soothe me just now. They will not want to hear of my troubles. They’ll want to dance. To play merry games. To make ball gowns from thin air and capes from threadbare tapestries. And when Felicity and Pippa are together, it is as if the rest of us do not exist. Their friendship is exclusive. I am envious of their closeness, and I hate myself for it. I cannot decide which is worse—the envy or the small, petty way it makes me feel inside.

A little dust storm kicks up along the road. It is followed by a galloping sound. My heart quickens. It’s gaining fast and I cannot possibly outrun it this time. I try to squeeze between the willows but there is not enough room. Magic. But what? Cloak myself. What, what, what? Can’t think. Illusion. An illusion. But what? Look about, Gemma. What is here? Road. Sky. Dust. Willow. A willow tree!

He’s getting closer.

Let go of the fear. Let go. Let go. I feel the magic working within me, and I can only hope it has obeyed. When I look at my hands, they appear as branches. I’ve done it. I’ve masked myself.

The rider slows to a trot and then stops altogether. I can scarcely breathe for my fear. It’s Amar. He wears a cape of animal skins—the animals’ eyes still move within it—and a helmet made of human skulls. His eyes are black holes, and I bite back a scream. Don’t lose your purpose, Gemma. Calm, calm…

The horse is an unearthly thing with eyes like Pip’s have been at times. It snorts and bares its teeth while Amar searches the path.

“I know you are here,” he calls. “I smell your power. Your innocence.”