Nevernight (The Nevernight Chronicle #1) - Jay Kristoff Page 0,183

down.”

The pair stared out over the wastes. The endless black above, a billion points of light. The face of the goddess they’d been raised to worship, and were now betraying.

“For da,” Ashlinn said.

“For da,” Osrik replied.

The girl kissed her brother on the cheek, and stalked off into the dark.

CHAPTER 32

BLOOD

They’d washed off the gore in the Porkery baths, but Mia could still smell it on her skin.

She’d trudged through Godsgrave’s streets, Mercurio limping beside her, neither speaking. She took some solace that the old man had come to fetch her, that he’d spoken to Drusilla on her behalf. A few turns away from the Church would clear her head, he’d said. Do her good. Let her think about the choice before her.

Life as a Hand. The life of a servant.

She caught herself in the thought, scowling dark. There was no shame in it. Naev was a Hand and she held her head high. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. Trekking the Whisperwastes, down through southern Ashkah. Finding beauty in parts of the world she’d never seen.1

But what about Scaeva? Duomo? Remus?

Could she live her whole life knowing her familia would go unavenged?

Clawing winds roared in off the bay, chill and screaming. Winter had come to the ’Grave in force, storms ever brewing on the horizon, shrouding Saan’s light and smothering Saai’s blue glow as it rose back up from the edge of the world. But still … it was so bright out here. Near blinding after months of almost constant dark. The choir’s song had been replaced by the churn and bustle of city streets, the calls of criers, the crash of cathedral bells. This didn’t feel right.

This doesn’t feel like home anymore.

The girl and the old man returned to the curio store, bell chiming above the door. Mia was reminded of the first time she’d come here. The turn after her father had died swinging. Mercurio taking her under his wing. The last apprentice he’d ever train, most like. Six years he’d given her. And what had she given in return?

Failure.

The old man was limping toward the kitchen, cane clacking on the boards.

“I’m sorry, Mercurio.”

He turned toward her. Saw the tears brimming in her eyes.

“I let you down,” she said. “I let us both down. I’m so sorry.”

The old man shook his head. But he didn’t tell her she was wrong.

“You want some tea?” he finally offered. “I’ll bring it up to your room.”

“No. My thanks.”

He sloughed off his greatcoat. Lit a smoke and wandered into the kitchen.

Upstairs in her room, she could still hear him thumping about. His anger ringing in the tune of crashing pots, rattling pans. She tossed her oilskin pack at her old bed, thumped down atop it. She’d never really noticed before, but it was a touch too small for her now. Like this room.

Like this life.

“… what do we do now…?”

She looked to the slip of darkness, perched atop a crooked pile of histories.

If I could see his eyes, would I see disappointment in them too?

“Sleep,” she sighed. “Sleep for a hundred years.”

She loosened the ties on the oilskin bag, dragging out her old beaten copy of Theories of the Maw. Running a loving hand over the cover of Arkemical Truths. Then she slumped down with Lotti’s notebook. Thinking of Hush, wondering how he was faring. Ash. Tric. They’d be getting ready for the initiation ceremony, she’d supposed. Evemeal at the Sky Altar, then down to the Hall of Eulogies, there to be anointed with Cassius’s blood and inducted into the ranks of the Blades.

That was one reason to join the Hands, she supposed. At least inside the Mountain, she’d have access to the athenaeum. Maybe even to Cassius himself on occasion. She still had no real answers about darkin, or any real idea what she was …

Mia flipped through the pages of Lotti’s work. Smiling at the thought of her friend’s dry wit and deadpan stare. But her smile faded when she reached the pages Carlotta been working on as she was murdered. There was a spray of dried blood across the notes, soaking through to those beyond.

Blood.

Soaking through …

“Explain what, Revered Mother?”

“This.”

Drusilla gathered up the sheet, held it in front of Mia’s face. There, soaked through the fabric’s weave, Mia saw a tiny smudge of dried scarlet.

Mia blinked at the bloodstain on the page.

“You cannot account for your whereabouts yestereve, and the victim’s blood is found on your sheets—a fact which you yourself cannot explain. Has Carlotta ever visited your room?”

“No,