Pa had drilled Celka relentlessly. “I sang the Song of Calming in my head. When that wasn’t enough, I made mischief from sousednia to ignore the hunger.”
Gerrit’s superiority leaked away. “I don’t know anyone who can avoid ringing a hunger bell after a fast.” A smile curved his lip, though it had an edge. “When I was younger, some of the older cadets used to hide the Academy’s bells in awkward places on fast days. They made it glaringly obvious which instructors snuck food from the kitchens.”
His smile tingled warmth through Celka, sousednia’s scents of pine and snow wrapping him like a fine cloak. For a moment, she forgot his uniform, seeing just a boy, tall and whipcord strong—not like the tumblers who supported the base of a pyramid, but like the acrobats who leapt into impossible flips off the springboard.
She wanted, for a moment, to draw out another reminiscence and bask in his smile, but she forced herself to concentrate. She needed to learn how to conceal herself from the enemy—the enemy like him. And she wasn’t making the leap from fasting for the Feeding Miracles to being locked in a cell. “Why would beating you make you pull on concealment?”
His smile vanished. “You have to be desperate to disappear. It’s not like you can get that from a fast.”
Celka bit her lip. It made no sense. “Pa never beat me.”
Gerrit straightened.
Panic subsumed her as she realized what she’d said. Think. She couldn’t let Gerrit realize the truth. “And... my teacher didn’t either. No one beat me.” She glared at Gerrit, embracing her hatred for the regime. “No one except your beloved Vrana.” She spat the Storm Guard officer’s name.
While the Tayemstvoy brutalized Pa, Vrana had dragged Celka to the side where they could hear and see every sick thud of boots and truncheon. Vrana had demanded whether Pa was Celka’s father. Celka had denied it, even when Vrana’s fist burst stars through her vision and the viper’s hobnailed boot doubled Celka over in pain.
“Your father,” Gerrit said, quiet and even, “was your teacher.”
“No, you sleet-licker. My uncle was. Pa still performs with us.”
Gerrit sat on a crate, gaze never leaving her face. “It makes sense. You’re so strong, you must have storm blood from one of your parents.”
“You know nothing.”
“I know what it’s like to lose a parent.”
Her hatred choked, sputtered.
Before she could bluster past, he said, “My mother was Storm Guard. She was murdered. She wasn’t my instructor, but... She was the one person who believed in me. My family name, Skala—it’s her name.”
Celka clutched the edge of her crate, throat too tight. In sousednia, every word smelled true. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen.” Icy wind whipped around him beneath Celka’s big top, carrying blood and diesel smoke, but also a crying emptiness. “She died in my arms.”
Tears welled in Celka’s eyes and, not thinking, she took Gerrit’s hand.
An electric shock burst up her arm, dragging her into sousednia. Celka gasped and snatched her hand back. Scrambling to her feet, she asked, “What did you do?”
Gerrit’s sousedni-shape stayed vivid, overlapping his true-form for a long minute before its edges wavered into translucence and he returned to true-life. “Nothing.” He frowned up at her from his crate. “It felt like storm energy.”
“There’s no storm.”
“It happened before,” he said, “when you sold me that postcard.”
Mute, Celka nodded.
Gerrit held his hand out. “I don’t think it’s dangerous.”
Says the tiger. But curiosity overwhelmed her caution. When their palms touched, the shock jolted up her arm again. Instead of pulling away, she clasped his hand. Sousednia exploded, vivid—yet true-life filtered through just as strongly. Normally she had to strain to understand both realities at once but, gripping Gerrit’s hand, she heard the mice scrabbling in their cages as easily as she heard her illusory big top’s band.
Gerrit stood from the crate, still gripping her hand, looking about in wonder. “I’ve never felt so in control.”
Celka stepped towards him without quite realizing it. He smiled a genuine, gentle smile, and her stomach flip-flopped.
Dropping his hand, she retreated. The snake trailer grew drab, sun-bleached paint flaking off the crates. Gerrit grimaced, steadying himself on the wall. It took him several long seconds to focus on her in true-life.
She eyed him warily. “Does that happen when you touch other imbuement mages?” She didn’t remember it with Pa.
“No,” he said once his sousedni-shape had faded.
Celka edged toward the door. Realizing she was retreating, she crossed her arms. “You still haven’t taught me to use concealment.”