Page 11 of Fire to the Stars
The mare’s lead in one hand and my gelding’s reins in the other, I peek at Abel over my shoulder. Lucy sniffs his ear from her perch. I snicker when he hides behind his map. Could he be easier to read? He’s obviously burying his humiliation in checking directions.
“Shouldn’t noble boys know how to ride?” I tease.
“Slayers aren’t nobles.”
“You’re high society. And you’re dodging the question, monsieur.”
He fake coughs. “Slayers are partial to carriages. Our training consumes too much time to learn beyond the basics.”
I hum my skepticism. Plenty of slayers are excellent equestrians. My guess? Those carriages were kinder to his delicate, rich-boy rear. Too bad the family coffers dried up.
“So.” He gives me a scrutinizing look. “If you’re to assist with my work, I should know more about you. What’s your story?”
A breeze caresses my cheeks, and I turn my face toward it. “I was born on a horse’s back, running with four legs before walking on two, eating dust before my first spoonful of solid food.”
“You’re a poet?” he deadpans.
“You think farm girls can’t be literate?”
“Far from it. You claim to speak the Old Tongue.”
“Key word:speak. Do tell me, monsieur. Whatisa book?”
“I get it. You read. Did you have a previous occupation?”
“Horse trainer, same as Papa.” I tilt my head. “Though perhaps I neglected to teach them literacy.”
Abel sighs. “Forget it.”
I laugh. “You’re the one who questioned a known liar. Let’s maintain aprofessionaldistance, shall we?”
Everything I leave unsaid strains my smile, so I look ahead and scratch my horse’s neck. He flicks an ear back in recognition, which eases the tension in my chest. Animals offer the most honest, unconditional affection there is.
I’ll admit it—after I became cursed, Ididquestion whether I deserved to live.
When wealthy horse buyers came to our farm, I admired their silk frocks, ribbons, and chiffon petticoats.Myclothes were patched and repurposed, my accessories nonexistent. Just strips of twine to tie my hair back, and hands filthy from barn chores. Our means must’ve looked humble, considering how often they inspired noble boys to court me with expensive gifts. Days after buying a gray mare, one particularly eager boy helped me finish shoveling manure just so he could gift me the latest style of wide-brim feathered hat before the suns set.
That night, Papa caught me wearing it—and my late maman’s nicest day dress—in front of the mirror. A pained and distantemotion cut into his smile. The only time I’d seen that expression on him was when I was old enough to learn that sometimes mamans die during childbirth.
“That boy is sweet on you,” he teased. It sounded forced.
“Stop, Papa,” I said, but I removed the hat. “You say that about every boy who talks to me.”
“His parents have arranged him a suitress, ma petitoune.”
“He doesn’t want her,” I protested, then conceded, “He’s only here for the summer anyway.”
Papa lost his smile. “Just don’t get too greedy, or Diu will turn you into a dragon.”
I enjoyed the boy’s gifts, certainly, but I didn’t need a wardrobe stuffed with feathers and furs fit for the queen. At the end of the day, there were far greedier people than me.
Anyone can succumb to the Ignition—one in one hundred thousand people turns every month. Yet out of all the people who deserved the curse tenfold, Diu thoughtmymoral compass pointed back to the violent Dark Days.
Abel isn’t wrong to question me, but I’m more than a con artist. I’m a survivor in a land that wants me dead. So why would I show restraint now? I’ve already been punished.
He can keep his judgments about who I am to himself.
A week after I lost Papa, Anne-Sophie saved me from myself.
