She was too busy ripping apart a steamed bun to respond. She didn’t know if the food on deck was ridiculously good, or if she was just so famished that it tasted like the best thing she’d ever eaten.
“It’s a pretty day,” he said while she swallowed.
She made a muffled noise in agreement. The first few days she hadn’t been able to bear standing outside in the direct sunlight. Now that her eyes no longer burned, she could look out over the bright water without wincing.
“Kitay’s still sulking?” she asked.
“He’ll come around,” Nezha said. “He’s always been stubborn.”
“That’s putting it lightly.”
“Have a little sympathy. Kitay never wanted to be a soldier. He spent half his time wishing he’d gone to Yuelu Mountain, not Sinegard. He’s an academic at heart, not a fighter.”
Rin remembered. All Kitay had ever wanted to do was be a scholar, go to the academy at Yuelu Mountain, and study science, or astronomy, or whatever struck his fancy at the moment. But he was the only son of the defense minister to the Empress, so his fate had been carved out before he was even born.
“That’s sad,” she murmured. “You shouldn’t have to be a soldier unless you want to.”
Nezha rested his chin on his hand. “Did you want to?”
She hesitated.
Yes. No. She hadn’t thought there was anything else for her. She hadn’t thought it mattered if she wanted to.
“I used to be scared of war,” she finally said. “Then I realized I was very good at it. And I’m not sure I’d be good at anything else.”
Nezha nodded silently, gazing out at the river, pulling mindlessly at his steamed bun without eating it.
“How’s your . . . uh . . .” Nezha gestured toward his temples.
“Good. I’m good.”
For the first time she felt as if she had a handle on her anger. She could think. She could breathe. The Phoenix was still there, looming in the back of her mind, ready to burst into flame if she called it—but only if she called it.
She looked down to discover the steamed bun was gone. Her fingers were clutching nothing. Her stomach reacted to this by growling.
“Here,” Nezha said. He handed her his somewhat mangled bun. “Have mine.”
“You’re not hungry?”
“I don’t have much of an appetite right now. And you look emaciated.”
“I’m not taking your food.”
“Eat,” he insisted.
She took a bite. It slid thickly down her throat and settled in her stomach with a wonderful heaviness. She hadn’t been so full for such a long time.
“How’s your face?” Nezha asked.
She touched her cheek. Sharp twinges of pain lanced through her lower face whenever she spoke. The bruise had blossomed while the opium seeped out of her system, as if one had to trade off with the other.
“It feels like it’s just getting worse,” she said.
“Nah. You’ll be fine. Father doesn’t hit hard enough to injure.”
They sat awhile in silence. Rin watched fish jumping out of the water, leaping and flailing as if begging to be caught.
“And your face?” she asked. “Does it still hurt?”
In certain lights Nezha’s scars looked like angry red lines someone had carved all over his face. In other lights they looked like a delicately painted crosshatch of brush ink.
“It hurt for a long time. Now I just can’t feel anything.”
“What if I touched you?” She was struck by the urge to run her thumb over his scars. To caress them.
“I wouldn’t feel that, either.” Nezha’s fingers drifted to his cheek. “I suppose it scares people, though. Father makes me wear the mask whenever I’m around civilians.”
“I thought you were just being vain.”
Nezha smiled but didn’t laugh. “That too.”
Rin ripped large chunks from the steamed bun and barely chewed before swallowing.
Nezha reached out and touched her hair. “That’s a good look on you. Nice to see your eyes again.”
She’d shorn her hair close to her head. Not until she’d seen her discarded locks on the floor had she realized how disgusting it had become; the scraggly tendrils had grown out greasy and tangled, a nesting site for lice. Her hair was shorter than Nezha’s now, close-cropped and clean. It made her feel like a student again.
“Has Kitay eaten anything?” she asked.
Nezha shifted uncomfortably. “No. Still hiding in his room. We don’t keep it locked, but he won’t come out.”
She frowned. “If he’s that furious, then why don’t you let him go?”
“Because we’d rather have him on our side.”
“Then why not just use him as leverage against his father? Trade