One of those I refuse to stop doing.
He groans to the ceiling. “Pushing me away. How do you expect—”
I throw my hand up. “Wait—you’re upset because I won’t open up to you?”
He nods and fresh anger pools into the myriad of emotions in my stomach.
“I don’t open up to you? I’vetried, Theron. I told you how I feel about the magic chasm; I told you how I feel about your father. But you push away all the bad and ignore everything but your own hope. You do not get to be angry with me. I have to hold myself together because no one else is capable of handling the truth.”
“You have to open up to someone,” Theron continues. “I understand why you can’t in front of your people, but you needsomeone. And I thought . . .” His words trail off as his tenseness eases, hesitates, waiting on the words that will follow. “I thought you would . . .”
Something changes in his eyes. Like an idea occurred to him, a shocking, ghastly idea that causes him to pitch up straight, snarling.
“Mather,” he growls. “It’s him, isn’t it?”
“Mather?” I stagger, his name a gust of wind that lashes chill across my body.
“All this time,” Theron snarls, “I knew you loved him, but I thought you’d moved on—”
“I do love—I mean, Ididlove him once, but I—”
“—and I thought things would be better now. Everything is better now! We have the magic chasm and your kingdom is free and we can beus—”
“I can’t do this anymore!”
I stop. Theron stops. We both gape at each other in the agonizing silence.
Theron exhales. “Do what anymore?” But he doesn’t let me answer. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you—you don’t have to keep holding back. I’m here for you, and I—”
He talks so fast, and despite the comfort his words try to form, his shoulders droop and everything about his posture says he’s talking merely to keep me from countering him.
“No, Theron,” I whisper, and his jaw bobbles open, his words falling flat. “I can’t . . . be with you. Not like this. I think I could, someday, if Noam requires our marriage; if it’s in Winter’s best interest. But I can’t be with younow. Not when we’re divided by so much.” I dig the heels of myhands into my eyes as a warm wave of tears puddles against my lids. “I think I’ve known for a while, but you were hurting, and I couldn’t add to that. I’ve caused you enough pain. But now I’ve only caused you more.”
I lower my hands, sight blurred so I only see the hazy outline of a boy before me. “But I don’t know how to fix you. I don’t even know how to fixmyself. You may think everything’s better, but it’s not, Theron. I can’t go along with what you want. I don’t want the magic chasm opened—and I will do everything I can to keep it shut. We aren’t united on this journey.” My heart scratches at my throat, choking me, but not the ache of regret—the choking of words that needed to be said long ago. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have lied to you, but I didn’t want . . .”
I scrub my fingers over my eyes until he comes into focus, and when he does, a part of me shrinks. He watches me, his face hurt and distant and hard, and the combination drives nails into my gut.
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I finish.
“That’s the only reason you’d love me?” Theron spits. “If my father ordered you to?”
“That’sall you took from what I said?” I wheeze, but as soon as I do, his face collapses. The wrong thing to say, and he angles forward, body coiled.
“I took that you wereusingme. I thought you of all people understood what it’s like to be used so violently thatyou wonder if there are any pieces of you left. But you’re just like my father.” He gasps. “You’re just like—”
“I am nothing like Noam,” I snap. “Because I’m sorry, Theron. I’m sorry I lied to you. I’m sorry for everything, but I don’t knowanythinganymore, and everything I do is my instinctual reaction to what I think will keep Winter safe. Has your father ever once apologized for the things he’s done? No. So don’t you dare compare me to him. I amnotNoam.”
Piece by piece, Theron’s anger breaks, revealing the boy beneath. The trembling shadows we all harbor within our all-too fragile shells, terrified someone will one day see.
After another long second of neither of us knowing what to do or say that could make anything better, he slides back a step.
“The treaty,” he whispers. “If Giselle agrees to sign it, will you? Itiswhat’s best for your kingdom.”
“Yes,” I say before he can go on. The treaty doesn’t matter, honestly—if that will appease him, I’ll sign it. But I hold, waiting for him to ask how I’ll proceed on the next issue, the biggest one, the goal that makes him touch his pocket absently.
He still has the key I found in Summer. He doesn’t know I found the one here yet.
I fight to keep from touching my own pocket, but I can feel the heavy weight of the key on my thigh. What willhappen when he searches on his own and doesn’t find it? Will we still press on for Ventralli?
