I sigh. I also should have expected Enya wouldn’t like the hairpin trick, during Azul’s demonstration. Then again, if the target had been anyone but me, she’d have loved it.
Zed shrugs. “No, actually I did like when her throwing star almost killed the entire island and the thousands of people that live here.”
Calder sits back, chair groaning with his weight, as if he knows already that this is going to be both a long and unpleasant conversation.
I run a hand down my face. I want to go to bed and not talk about the Wildling with my friends ever, but that’s the worst thing about having friends. They don’t leave you alone, even when you want them to.
And that’s also the best thing about having friends.
“You don’t trust her, do you?” Enya says.
“Of course I don’t,” I say, meaning it. She might have been telling the truth about not divulging to Grim what I shared, but that doesn’t mean she doesn’t have her own plans against me.
“Good,” Enya says. “She’s most likely working withhim, and—”
“She isn’t,” I interrupt, cutting her off.
My friends all turn to me.
“She isn’t working with Grim,” I repeat, more evenly this time.
“How do you know?” Calder asks, sitting straighter.
“I asked her about him.”
Zed looks impressed. “Really?”
Of course it’s a surprise. My friends know me better than anyone. As useful as my flair is, I don’t like using it on purpose often, by asking specific questions. I haven’t done it in centuries. It isn’t fair, I know, when no one else beyond this room knows about my ability.
I meet Enya’s eyes, as if reminding her of our conversation from before. It might not be fair, but measures must be taken for the good of the realms. I know that.
Calder chews his lip. “If she isn’t working with Grim, then why is he so interested in her? He’s never interested in anyone.”
It’s true. Isla is, of course, beautiful ... but Grimshaw, demon that he is, isn’t stupid. He wouldn’t spend a moment on her, unless he wanted something. We all seem to come to this same conclusion at once.
Zed frowns. “What could he want from the Wildling?”
I can think of a few things. For myself, anyway.
Some are wants that I have late at night, in dreams that have become more and more frequent—and that never satisfy this unexpected, burning desire. That end in me waking up aching and coated in sweat, gasping for air and cursing at the ceiling.
Some are simple.
Like just wanting the Wildling to be fucking reasonable.
We begin searching for the plants she indicated in the oasis—the ones that could be tied to the heart.
And it isn’t going well.
She likes to do things like threaten to stop working unless I answer her endless questions.
And I respond by doing something stupid, like flickinghercrown (which she insists on wearing), leaving a dent that gives me a strange sense of satisfaction.
Which leads to her threatening me and calling me awretch.
So pleasant. So charming, even after I had pants specially made for her, after noticing that the other ones she wore weren’t suitable for kneeling on the ground, or for the night chill. Even after I had shirts made, after she tore her other one toribbons, in some strange solution to marking the rows of plants she had searched.
That’s what I am to her. Awretch.
