Lore clenched her teeth. Stupid of her to think Dani hadn’t noticed that.
“Simply put,” Dani said, “I know more than you. I know how to get off this island.” She smiled, tight and spare. “So you can either keep floundering around and doing nothing, unless you finally decide to die like everyone wants you to, or you can trust me.”
If the piece was on the Second Isle, surely Nyxara would feel it. If it was on any island with a mine, though, chances were it had already been found and either taken back to Apollius or smashed apart by a prisoner’s pickax.
If Dani could truly keep Martin off her back, a break from the mines might be nice.
“Why do you care?” Lore asked, rubbing at the skin of her arm where Dani’s nails had gouged. “You don’t think the world is worth saving.”
“It’s not. But I also don’t want to see Apollius in charge of it.” Dani shrugged. “He’s the reason I’m here, really. And I’m petty.”
Not the best answer, but probably the only one she was going to get.
So Lore gave her one firm nod. “Fine. Let’s go.”
“Excellent.” Dani turned and started down the sand. “I hope you’re a good hand with a mop.”
They arrived at the lighthouse at the same time as a handful of other convicts, all of them young, pretty, and femme. The others cast curious looks at Lore, but none of them would even make eye contact with Dani, slithering aside when the other woman strode up to the door and pounded on it with her fist.
“Open up, Martin, don’t make us wait!”
The door opened, Martin standing in the darkness on the other side. He said nothing, though his eyes widened when he saw Lore, then narrowed in hateful wariness. A moment, then he looked to Dani, jerking his head toward the staircase before wordlessly heading up to the higher reaches of the lighthouse.
The other prisoners filtered inside, but Dani hung back until Lore caught up with her. “I have business to take care of, but in half an hour, meet me in the shipping office.”
The shipping office was back at shore, at least half a mile away. “How exactly am I supposed to get that far without being shot? The guards here are lax, but none of them are just going to let me wander down the beach.”
“They will if you’re carrying a mop and have a suitably hangdogexpression.” Dani stepped into the lighthouse, gesturing for Lore to follow. “They’ll be thrilled that Martin finally broke you.”
That felt uncomfortably close to the truth. “Until Martin disabuses them of that notion.”
“I have that handled, remember?” Dani squared her shoulders. “If he wants to keep the good thing he has going, he won’t tell them shit. Now, speaking of, I have to go. Get a mop, get there in thirty minutes.”
She disappeared up the dark stairs after Martin.
The others had all dispersed, too, each of them headed to their usual jobs. Lore didn’t miss the relieved looks that followed Dani up the stairs, the way shoulders softened and fists unclenched. It made Lore indignant; they were fine with Dani taking the brunt of Martin’s perversity as long as it meant they weren’t bothered.
But wasn’t Lore doing the same thing? Life here was survival, and survival didn’t leave much room for taking high roads.
Still, she thought Dani deserved better. Some gratitude, or at least not to be vilified.
One of the prisoners looked more relieved than the others, her arm bent across her chest, delicately holding her wrist. Another girl bumped into her, and she hissed, her face paling as she pulled her arm in closer.
Cautiously, Lore stepped toward her. The girl didn’t move away—the bottom floor of the lighthouse didn’t have much room to do so, even if she wanted to—but her expression was full of apprehension.
“Are you all right?” Lore asked.
“It’s nothing.” The girl adjusted her hold on her arm. “Just sore from… from last time.”
Either she was lying, or she had an incredible pain tolerance. This close, Lore could see that her wrist was slightly bent out of shape, hanging limply. Probably broken.
And here, at least, was something she could fix. “Let me see.”
At first, it seemed the woman would refuse. But either because of some latent respect for her former station, or just because she’d grown used to following orders, she tentatively held out her arm.
Lore held it gently, slipping into channeling-space. Healing was easy. It simply involved seeing what was wrong—where those golden lines of life went crooked—and straightening them. She channeled the girl’s life through her fingers, imbuing it with her will. Strength. Stability.
A soft gasp. The girl jerked her arm away, but not before her wrist had straightened.
