Page 120 of The Ragpicker King
She thought again of those blurred moments in the tower. The King shouting in Malgasi. The stone flaring up with brilliant light when his blood touched it, so hot that the metal pained her. She still had a pale-pink scar from the burn.
Old legends claimed that a king or queen was inherently magical. That they could perform miracles, could heal with a laying on of hands. But Lin had a practical physician’s mind. She did not believe in miracles—or at least did not believe they had existed sincethe Sundering. Nor did she believe there was something physically different about royal blood that made it in any way different from the stuff that ran in ordinary men’s veins.
She could hear Aron in the back of her head:It looks to me like an easy choice, Lin. Withdraw your claim, take the small punishment, and that will be the end of it.
A knock on the door roused her from her misery. Mariam, perhaps, or Chana, who had been brewing up horrible teas that were supposed to help Lin study.
A second knock. “All right, all right, I’m coming,” Lin muttered, hurrying to the door. She threw it open and all thoughts of medicine flew from her mind. It was not Chana standing on her stoop, tea in hand.
It was Conor.
Her heart contracted painfully inside her chest. He looked awful. He was dressed plainly, in a black linen cloak with a hood, no doubt to hide his face. But she could see enough to note that his light-brown skin was ashy, his eyes circled in blue-black. He wore no crown, and his black hair was tangled. The muscles in his jaw were tight, his mouth set.
“If you are wondering how I got through the gates,” he said, his voice flat, “the guards are surprisingly sentimental. I told them I was a Gold Roads trader with a lady-love I wished to importune. That, and I tipped them each three crowns. Where sentiment fails, good old-fashioned bribery cannot but win the day.”
There was a faint humming sound in Lin’s ears. Mechanically, she said, “The Watchers are not meant to take bribes.”
“Then you will have to speak with them about it.” He regarded her tensely. “Is there someone else at home with you? Or do you simply not want me to come in?”
I don’t want you to come in.She was terrified of what it would mean to allow him inside, to be alone with him. She did not trust her self-control. After last night, she knew it crumbled like wet sand in his presence.
But. It would be much safer not to be seen speaking with him. Even if he was disguised, tongues wagged in the Sault, and anyone could see them on the doorstep together.
She stood aside. “Come in.”
He shouldered past her, smelling of the city: warm stone, river, and seawater. She closed the door behind him, smoothing her fingers quickly through her hair. She was suddenly aware of how she must look. Her white dress was crumpled, an ink stain on one of her sleeves. She was barefoot, her hair out of its braids and tumbling in uncombed curls down her back.
“I know I sent you a message earlier.” He was drawing off his gloves, black kidskin. He seemed to loom strangely large inside her small house, as if his head might brush the rafters. “But I decided that this could not wait.”
She almost closed her eyes. The memory of the rain, the folly, his hands on her hips, was too strong. It threatened to draw her back down and under into currents of feeling so bottomless, she feared the depth and force of them. “In the folly— It was a mistake,” she whispered. “You knew it immediately. So did I. What else is there to say?”
He had pulled the gloves off and was twisting them between his hands. His head was lowered; she could not see his face. “And that’s all?” he said. “A mistake?”
“Are you worried that I will tell someone what happened?” She stared at him. “Mayesh, or—” She swallowed. “I will not tell anyone. I have no more reason than you to want this known.”
Twist,went the gloves. “I had not thought you would.”
“Then, if there’s nothing else...”
“Of course that isn’t all,” he snapped. “Lin. I am not a fool. What we did— That was your first time, wasn’t it? If I had guessed, I would never—”
“Stop,” she hissed, and he looked up at that, surprised at the force in her voice. “It was my choice. I wanted to. I said as much.”
“But”—he sounded bewildered—“you said it was a mistake.”
“Of course it was!” she cried out, and how could he not understand? “Story-Spinner tales of princes and peasants are just that, Conor.Tales.And I am Ashkar. If anyone were to discover what we had done—”
“Iknowthat, Lin. It is a crime for us to touch each other. I know the Laws, my familymadethe Laws—”
“Then why are you here?” she demanded. “To apologize to me, to tell me it was a mistake? You could have sent a letter. Something on royal stationery, with a seal.” Her voice shook, and the backs of her eyes ached as if something were pressing hard against them. “Why compound the risk by coming to the Sault?”
“Because.” His gray eyes were slits of silver. “I had to see you. Ihadto.”
“Why?” And to her horror, her voice caught on a sob. The heat pressing against the back of her eyes became tears, spilling hot down her face. She could not stop them. Shocked, she covered her mouth with her hand, hiding the trembling of her lips.
Everything about him changed. His eyes widened. He dropped the gloves he’d been holding as his hard, stiff, defensive posture seemed to melt away; suddenly he was frantic to get across the room to her. He pulled her against him, his hand in her hair, his voice soft. “Lin, Lin. Don’t, sweetheart. Please.”
She had never heard him sound like that. Never imagined he could. He kissed her cheeks, her salt-damp eyes; he curled his arms around her, burying his face in her hair. His heart beat under her cheek, fast as hummingbird wings.
