Page 36 of Star Bringer
It was the last thing I wanted to do, but it wasn’t like I had a choice. I never do.
Merrick and I worked in (semi) companionable silence for a few minutes. But when he walked behind a giant pile of boxes nearly as high as the doorway, I seized the opportunity and slipped out of the room and back into the corridor.
So now here I am, following the hallway to the next door, which takes me into what I assume is the kitchen—or galley, as we’re on a ship. This room is wider than the previous one; there’s a table in the middle with ten seats around it and some sort of sink-type thing on the side, but when I turn the tap, nothing comes out. I guess Gage was right and there really is no water on the ship. There are also some tall cabinet structures. I open one, and it’s cold inside but there’s no food. There’s nothing in any of the other cabinets, either, and my stomach rumbles. I’ve never actually been hungry before—it’s a new experience, one I try to accept for what it is. A chance provided to me by the universe and the Light to feel more connected with so many of the less-privileged citizens of Senestris.
I know it’s not the same—I’ll be hungry for a few days while many of them have been hungry for their entire lives—but it’s a start. And something I won’t forget, even when I’m safely back at the monastery.
Footsteps sound behind me. Merrick, of course. He probably panicked when he realized I was gone and came looking for me. “There’s nothing to eat here,” I say without turning around. “Looks like no supper for us tonight.”
“Fuck. I’m starving.”
I whirl around at the voice, because it definitely doesn’t belong to Merrick. It turns out it’s the woman. Beckett.
I smile.
She doesn’t smile back.
But that doesn’t deter me. Honestly, I’m not sure anything could. I’ve never met anyone like Beckett before, and she fascinates me.
There’s an edge of danger to her, but Ian has it as well, and so does Merrick, when he lets it show. But I’m not fascinated by them. Maybe it’s because I’ve never seen it in a woman before—the sisters at the monastery aren’t exactly the dangerous sort—but, honestly, I think it’s more than that.
I just don’t know what.
She’s a good fifteen to twenty centimeters taller than I am. Her curly black hair is cut off at her chin, like someone hacked away at it with a pair of kitchen shears, and her full mouth is drawn tight like she’s in pain.
Instinctively, I move closer—if there’s anything I can do to ease her pain, I would like to—and her eyes follow my every move. They’re huge and the same yellow as the early-morning sun over Serati, with the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. She’s probably from Permuna—lashes like that are apparently good for keeping sand out of your eyes. But they’re also really pretty, especially when they frame those striking eyes of hers.
As I get closer, I notice that she’s got a little bit of blood crusted under her nose—it stands out in stark definition against her olive skin—and there’s a lot more on the front of her gray jumpsuit.
“You’re hurt,” I tell her, waving a hand toward her face.
She frowns, then reaches up and wipes a finger under her nose before looking at it. “It’s nothing.”
“Was it in the explosion?”
Her face goes blank for a moment, like she’s having trouble remembering. Then she blinks and shakes her head. “Nah.”
As she does, I can’t help but notice the jagged scar on her neck. It’s healed, but badly, and it makes me sad when I think about what might have caused it.
Then again, a lot of things make me sad when I look at her.
I want to ask what caused the blood, but then she winces, pain flashing in her topaz-colored eyes. Then she raises her hand and rubs the back of her neck, just like she did earlier.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
“Shit, no,” she answers with a sardonic little laugh.
“Let me have a look.” Without waiting for a reply, I move around behind her. She goes very still but doesn’t say anything as I hop up on a counter and run my hands through her tangled curls.
Some of the stiffness goes out of her, and her shoulders sag. I raise her hair and stare at the ugly scar that runs the length of the back of her skull and down her neck to her spine.
It’s an angry red line—not new, but, like the one under her ear, not something she got today. “There’s a scar here,” I tell her.
“Yeah.”
I wait for her to say something else, but when she doesn’t, I prompt, “What happened?”
“They did…something. I just don’t know what.”
