Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,107

That was cruel.”

The boy inclined his head slightly. The tiniest of shrugs.

“If you ever want to talk about it…”

Hush flashed her a humorless smirk.

“I mean…” Mia flailed slightly. “Write about it. If you wish it. I’m here.”

The boy stared into Mia’s eyes. And stepping back with a flick of his bruised wrist, he slammed the door right in her face. Mia flinched away, narrowly avoiding another broken nose. Hooked her thumbs into her belt and shrugged.

“… well, that went swimmingly…”

“Can’t blame a girl for trying,” she said, shuffling down the corridor.

“… is this some stratagem…?”

“What, it’s so outrageous I give a damn?”

“… not outrageous. simply pointless…”

“Look, just because I don’t stand to gain from it, doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care. They tortured him, Mister Kindly. Even though he doesn’t have a scar from it, doesn’t mean it didn’t leave a mark. And it’s like Naev said. I should look after the things that are important here.”

“… important? that boy is nothing to you…”

“I know I’m supposed to think of him as competition. I know there aren’t enough places for all of us among the Blades. But this Church is designed to turn me cold. So holding on to the part of me that can feel pity becomes more important every turn.”

“… pity is a weakness to be used against you. scaeva, duomo and remus will not share it…”

“One more reason to hold on to it then, aye?”

“… hmph…”

“Pfft.”

“… grrrr…”

“Shut up.”

“… grow up…”

Laughter rang out and the shadows smiled.

“Never.”

The girl and the not-cat faded into the dark.

1. He muttered to his knife a little less while his jaw was on the mend—Mia was tempted to seek out his torturers and thank them.

CHAPTER 19

MASQUERADE

Weeks flickered by in the darkness, untracked save for the tolling of bells and the serving of meals and hours upon hours of lore.1 Mia and Tric trained every turn after lessons, in either the Hall of Songs or the Hall of Truths. Every session in Songs saw Mia paired up with Jessamine or Diamo, and her blood painting the floor. And though in truth she found herself enjoying Tric’s company more and more, she began to wonder if he was the mentor she needed …

Winter was deepening and Great Tithe approaching, snows beginning to dress Godsgrave in gowns of muddy white. Nevernight after nevernight, pretty shadows Blood Walked from Adonai’s chambers and flitted out into the city in search of secrets, returning to lay them at Aalea’s feet. The Shahiid of Masks gave no indication who might be winning her contest.

The weaver continued her work, altering faces one by one. She wove Jessamine’s feral beauty into full bloom, honed Osrik’s natural good looks to a finer edge; even Petrus had got his missing ear back. The newly woven acolytes began making use of Aalea’s many weapons—minor games of flirt and touch breaking out during lessons or after. At mealtimes, Mia could feel a new current in the air. Furtive glances and secret smiles. For all the sweat and blood the acolytes were putting in, Mia figured they deserved it. Lessons were getting more grueling; almost half their number were already dead. She supposed a little harmless fun never hurt anyone.

And then came the masquerade.

The acolytes were summoned after evemeal, one and all, down into Adonai’s chambers. Without preamble they were ushered through the Blood Walk, one by one. Mia felt hungry eyes on her body as she stripped down to her slip, her eyes on others in turn. Emerging from the blood-red warmth beneath the Porkery, the acolytes were told to bathe thoroughly, dress quickly. The seventeen were then punted—by covered gondola, no less—to Godsgrave’s marrowborn quarter. Mia shipped out with Carlotta, Ashlinn and Osrik, peering out through the canopy as the well-to-do estates of Godsgrave’s richest and most powerful cruised by. The Hands punting them were dressed in servants’ finery—gold-trimmed frock coats and silken hose. Saan’s bloody red glow was reduced to a sullen pout behind a heavy veil of roiling gray, but Mia still found herself squinting, pinching a pair of azurite spectacles to the bridge of the nose.

She looked Carlotta over from behind the tinted glass, admiring the poem Marielle had made of the girl’s face. The weaving had been done only a few turns prior, and it was hard not to notice the difference, or the way the other novices stared now it was done. Carlotta’s lips were fuller, her body more shapely. And where once an arkemical slavemark had marred the girl’s cheek,