he'd said to her that night in the shop, like babies. And she had. Dream of that love.
"Saf?" she said.
"Yes?"
"I think I know what your Grace is."
IT WAS THE thing about dreams. They were so odd by nature, and they left one with such a feeling of the unreal, that how was one ever to notice when they themselves behaved strangely?
The Grace of giving dreams was a beautiful Grace for someone contrary and dear to have. She told him so as she strapped on her knives and he tried to convince her to stay a bit longer.
"We need to experiment," he said. "We need to test whether it's true. What if I can give you a dream by just wishing it and not saying a word? What if I can give you a highly detailed dream, like Teddy in pink stockings holding a duck? I have food here, you know. You must be starving. Stay and eat something."
"I'm not taking the food you need," Bitterblue said, stepping into her gown, "and people will be worried about me, Saf."
"Do you suppose I could give you bad dreams?"
"I haven't the slightest doubt. You'll stay in this room, won't you, now that it's daylight?"
"My sister is sick."
"I know," she said. "I'm told she'll be all right. I've sent her Madlen. I'll send someone to you with news as soon as we have it, I promise. You understand you've got to stay here, don't you? You won't risk being seen?"
"I'm going to go out of my skull with boredom in this room, aren't I," said Saf, sighing, then pushing his blankets aside, reaching for his clothing.
"Wait," Bitterblue said.
"What?" he said, glaring at her. "What—"
Bitterblue had never seen a man naked, and she was curious. She decided the universe owed her a few minutes, just a few, to satisfy her curiosity. So she went to him and knelt, which shut him up.
"I'll give you a dream," he whispered to her. "A wonderful dream. I won't tell you."
"An experiment?" said Bitterblue with the tiniest smile.
"An experiment, Sparks."
SHE KNEW THAT the bridge would be more or less horrible. She pushed herself quickly to the middle, as far from the edge as possible. The wind had died down at some point in the night and snow had accumulated, which was welcome. Pushing through it distracted her from focusing on where she was.
It also helped to know that Saf was watching from the drawbridge tower and would come out into broad daylight to help her if she stopped, or visibly panicked, or fell. She would hide her panic from him and push on; yes, as long as she was panicking, she may as well push on.
A lifetime later, she was even with the staircase, and here, she ceased to care what Saf saw. On her hands and knees, she approached the steps, then appraised them. The snow had drifted across them unevenly. A person stood at the bottom, his face and hair hidden behind a hood. He pushed the hood back. Po.
Bitterblue sat down on the highest step and began to cry.
He climbed up to her, sat on the outer edge beside her, and put his arm around her. Such a relief not to have to talk or explain. Such a relief for her to remember, and him to know.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart."
Don't, Po. Just—don't.
"All right," he said. "I'm sorry."
What he did do was pull off her hat, wind up her loose hair, and stick the hat back on so that her hair wasn't visible. Then pulled her collar up and tugged the hat even lower. And then he stood at the outer edge as they climbed down, keeping his arm around her, and led her through empty alleys to a narrow door in a wall.
Through the door was a very long, very dark and dank tunnel.
When they finally reached the tunnel's end and light seeped through the crack at the bottom of another door, he said, "Hang on a minute. There are too many people just now."
"Are we about to step into the east corridor?" Bitterblue asked.
"Yes, and cross over to the secret passage that leads up to your father's rooms."
"Why are we sneaking?"
"So that everyone believes that you came back to the castle yesterday, told us about Thiel, and have been in your rooms ever since," said Po.
"So that no one will remember the existence of the drawbridge tower," she said.