all my strength leaching away and my desire to help my famille eating at my nerves.
The scaffolding at the edge of the quarry pit creaks, and my limbs tingle with warmth. Bastien is back.
He steps off the scaffolding and into the room with a satchel slung over his shoulder and something tucked beneath his arm. The lantern light catches the angles of his strong jawline and the fresh gleam of his hair. He had time to shave his stubble and bathe while he was above. A sign that the search for Jules and Marcel was uneventful. Again.
“Any luck?” I ask, still clinging to vain hope. Maybe my grace bones and the bone flute are in Bastien’s satchel, and he cleaned up to celebrate.
“Jules wasn’t in the attic over the brewery,” he says, and my shoulders fall. He’s already checked all the places he and his friends ever took refuge in, and now he’s combing through random spots in Dovré. It’s all starting to feel pointless. “Don’t worry, I’ll find her.”
I study the forced grin on Bastien’s face and the lines beneath his tired eyes. He’ll never give up searching—he’s just as stubborn as I am once he sets his mind to something—but that doesn’t mean his hope isn’t failing, too.
“And the dead?” I ask. “What’s happening with them?”
He sighs and walks closer to me. “More of the same. Rumors of people hearing bodiless voices. Some of them plead or apologize. Some threaten. But none of them are as violent as they were around you and the other Bone Criers.” He lowers his satchel on the ground, as well as a cloth-wrapped bundle. “Seems like the dead are more cunning around ordinary people.”
“But not any less dangerous.”
He nods, sitting down to remove one of his boots. “I overheard a couple men in the tavern mention friends who have fallen sick.” He shakes out the dust and pebbles. “But those friends don’t have fevers or rashes or any obvious symptoms.”
“The dead are drawing out their Light.” My skin prickles as I think back on what my mother taught me before I attempted my rite of passage. If the Chained aren’t ferried, they’ll seek vitality from the living. And if they steal enough Light from a person, they’ll kill them, body and soul. “I wish I could be out there with you, helping you find the flute.”
“You need your grace bones first,” Bastien replies in a soothing voice. “I can manage to avoid the dead, but you . . .” He rubs the back of his neck.
I nod listlessly and look into the black space where the quarry is. It isn’t fair that I’m able to hide to protect myself when innocent people can’t do the same. “What did you bring this time?” I ask, struggling to lighten my tone. I’m tired of talking in circles about an impossible situation.
He shifts into a cross-legged position and pushes his satchel toward me. I pull away from the relief of Château Creux, flushing from the effort that even that small movement takes me, and peek inside. I can’t refrain from smiling as I withdraw another lantern and several candles. I look up at Bastien and find he’s watching me carefully. “It’s not the Night Heavens,” he says, “but two lanterns are better than one.”
Warmth streams inside my chest. He’s doing everything he can to make this place welcoming. “Thank you.”
He holds my gaze a long moment, and my warmth spreads, radiating to my fingertips and the ends of my toes. “There’s some food in there, too.” He points at the satchel.
Food, I expected. I’m more curious about the cloth-wrapped bundle. “What about that?”
His brows rise when he sees where I’m looking. “Oh . . . that’s, um . . . well . . .” He clears his throat. Scratches his arm. Pops a knuckle. “Really, how much longer can you go around wearing that ragged thing”—he waves a hand at the general direction of my body—“before it falls off you completely?” He winces. “Before it tears to shreds, I mean.” Is he blushing? I can’t be sure in the light of our one glowing lantern.
“You got me a dress?” My own cheeks warm.
He swallows and nods.
We’re both quiet for a moment. “Can I see it?”
“Um, sure.” He slowly passes over the bundle.
A whirlwind of butterflies dance inside me as I unwrap the cloth and see the fabric of the dress within, fine and woolen and fern green. My fingers run over its smooth weave, and