Page 100 of Fire to the Stars

“I’m all right.” I lean into Abel’s chest and embrace him. I could fall asleep right here, enveloped in his warmth. “I was just admiring the stars.”

Effective immediately, church bells shall be responsible for signaling Ignition Day orders to the city. Two-beat tolls will prompt evacuation to fire cellars. Four-beat tolls will signal safety to emerge.

—Royal decree by His Majesty King Adrien II, 1181 AA

Chapter Thirty-Three

Abel

Back at the inn, we’re not allowed to sleep.

Outside our window, gendarmes direct civilians to fire cellars on the streets below. The full moon washes the rooftops in silver. Every bell in the city is tolling a warning to prepare for the Ignition, the echo constant, pressing in on my skull as Claire and I hurry to change out of our court attire and pack our belongings.

“Only small items are allowed on our person,” I remind her, kneeling to pick out my best dagger. “Refill the waterskins. We might be underground for a while.”

She doesn’t answer.

I glance over my shoulder. She stands at the window, still as stone, watching the silhouettes of owls as they flit from rooftop to rooftop, with their duplicate form looming in the stars. Moonlight drowns her irises in silver.

“So many owls,” she whispers, hugging herself, like she’s finally convinced that they bring bad luck.

“No time for stargazing,” I say gently, then guide her away from the window.

The housekeeping staff bangs on the door until I let them inside. They confiscate the bulk of our luggage, linens, towels, curtains, and even our few logs of firewood. Another wave of staff removes the mattresses.

“Just a few more minutes,” I tell them.

“Come to the fire cellar before the end of the hour,” the last one replies. “That’s when we bolt it shut.”

They exit as quickly as they came.

I lock the door.

Lucy paces without a blanket to burrow under. By the light of the moon, Claire spills the contents of her satchel—her sleep powder and my journal—onto the floor. Focus returns to her eyes, as if the owls never stole it.

I flip to the back page and point to the chart. “Here. The dosage must escalate depending on how much you took last. The more you consume of a drug—”

“The faster a resistance develops,” she finishes, too calm for my liking. “Not to worry. I won’t measure wrong.”

The jar pops open in her steady hands. I offer the measuring spoon, but she pours the remainder into the cup of water.

“Not that much—” I reach for the cup, but she leans away to gulp the mixture down. “Gods, Claire! Now you’ll need even more next time!”

“It’s all right. I don’t need a next time.”

She closes the journal with a thump.

Worried murmurs fill the fire cellar. It’s packed from wall to wall with inventory, luggage, and the guests. Everyone huddles in groups, anxious breaths like fog under the light of a single lamp by the door.

Claire—her arm slung over my shoulders—goes weak at the knees just as I find us a space in a dusty back corner. It’s a true feat that I manage to maneuver us until we’re seated with our backs against the cold brick wall. Her head lolls against my still-sore shoulder. The evenness of her breath tells me she’s out cold. Lucy snuffles Claire’s limp hand until she’s wiggled her head under the shelter of her palm.

Outside, the bells fall silent.

The innkeeper blows out the lantern. We plunge into darkness.

Soft sobs break the silence. Prayers, too:Spare us, Diu. Keep your dragons far away.

Fifth rule of dragon hunting: Do not endanger civilians.