Elskerinde Jannik was the worse of them. She would call me to the sitting room to wait on her, whether I was in the middle of training or other duties. Her torture was caused by her biting tongue and the quick slap across my mouth if I ever displeased her. And after surviving the masters, I would return to the slaves’ quarters, to the burning gazes of my people. The boys my age would give me their angry stares. In our training for the guard, they would do what they could to beat me into the ground. I wouldn’t fight back. If I did, they would use it as proof against me, that I hated my own people. There was nothing I could do to show the love I had for us. We had survived the massacre and attacks of the Fjern. We still lived with love and passion as full humans, despite the Fjern’s attempts to make us feel that we were nothing but animals. I love that we hold power in our veins. Even without kraft, there is a silent resolve and determination in us all, sustained by our ancestors who still watch over us.
It’d hurt me then. It hurt that the others would see I was treated as they were, but that they would still refuse to claim me as one of their own. It’s ironic. In this way, I understand Sigourney Rose. I understand what it feels like to not be accepted.
Marieke and I cross through the mangrove trees that weave through the dirt and turn to the bay. On this side of the island, the wall of mangroves that fan out into the shallows are a natural fort against the sea. The waves are ripples against the white sand. Marieke has a favor to ask of me, but she’s hesitant to say the words. Instead, she says, “No one wants to follow the rations. And can I blame them? Now, we feel the freedom of eating like kings, not waiting on scraps from our masters.”
“The problem is that we’re not free,” I tell Marieke. “Free from the work and chains and whips, yes—we’re free from that. But until we’ve won this rebellion, and the Fjern concede and leave these islands, we don’t have our freedom.”
We’ll still have the pain that racks our memories. The scars that carve our backs. The mourning that fills us as we think of those we’ve lost. The pain is so deep that I can feel it burrow its way through my skin and flesh and bone and into my spirit. I often think of the time I will no longer be a part of this world. It sometimes feels like I’ve already left this life and that only my spirit remains.
“I wanted to thank you,” Marieke says, more quietly. “The others—they don’t understand. They don’t try to understand. They see her as the enemy, but it was her circumstance. Is it so wrong to love her? I cared for her like she was my own. I’d made a promise to her mother, to keep her children safe if any harm had befallen her. I’d agreed to Sigourney’s death, initially, because I didn’t think there was any choice but for her to die. I agreed to sacrifice her, for the sake of the rebellion. If it was between her and the lives of thousands… But there are other ways. I see that now. Elskerinde Rose doesn’t have to die.”
“There’s a chance we won’t be able to save her,” I say. She nods. “And there’s so much else we have to be concerned about.”
“I’d half hoped that Malthe would just agree to let her live as the list of tasks grew.”
“He thinks that the others need to see her die. A symbol of the uprising.” And Malthe has to prove to both himself and me that he holds the true control.
“Have you been to see her?”
I’ve seen Sigourney two times. The first, when I’d gone with a knife with orders to complete the job Malthe had given me. The second was the night before in the courtyard as the guards planned to cut her neck. I don’t want to tell Marieke about the men who had tried to kill Sigourney. It would only worry her, and Marieke has enough to worry about.
“I have,” I say without elaborating.
“It’s too painful for me to see her that way.” This is what Marieke tells me, but I feel a glimmer of satisfaction in her. She shouldn’t want to see Sigourney Rose in chains, and yet she can’t help but think that this is what the woman deserves after keeping islanders as slaves of her own. Though Marieke tells herself that she loves Sigourney Rose, she sees that this is a painful lesson that the former kongelig must learn.
“Do you want me to visit her?”
“It would ease my mind,” Marieke admits. “I bring her food, water, fresh clothes—but if I ever stay longer than a few moments, or if I ever speak to her, I can sense the judgment from others. If you go, you can speak to her—see that she has everything that she needs. The others—they won’t mind if it’s you.”
She’s wrong about this, and I don’t think she believes it herself. I realize that the other islanders will judge me just as they’ve judged her. They already have. But I can see the hope shine in Marieke’s eye. I feel guilty. When I go to Sigourney Rose, I’ll only be looking for reasons to see her die.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sigourney is silent when I open the door to her room. She sits on the edge of her cot, her back facing me. She pretends that she wasn’t expecting me, but she could feel me coming several corridors away and could hear my footsteps echoing on the stairs. She also sees what had happened in the hall as I was leaving the meeting room earlier today. Sigourney is aware that, for one blinding moment, I was connected to her here in this room. I feel the curiosity in her. This is the second time this has happened: that suddenly I could see through her eyes like I had become her, and she could see through my eyes like she’d become me. The fact that we have the same kraft becomes a hall of mirrors, with us reflected in each other infinitely, creating a connection between us like nothing she’s ever experienced before.
She doesn’t look any better than she did last night. Her hair is still tangled. Her dress is still torn and stained. A faint smell of salt and dirt and sweat emanates from her. This is what humiliates her most of all. She can attempt to control her appearance. She can force her expression into one of serenity. But she can’t control something this base. It’s a symbol of all the power and freedom she’s lost. She doesn’t swallow this humiliation well. Sigourney’s been humiliated many times in her life. People have found joy in watching her suffer. It makes me ashamed for a moment that I enjoy the same. There have been too many people who’ve delighted in her pain. The Fjern, the islanders. She has no allies. Is it so wrong that I would feel sympathy for her?
With the sympathy is another emotion. I’m hesitant. Cautious. Sigourney doesn’t immediately speak on the kraft that seems to connect us. This is what I want to speak to her about, so she purposefully ignores the topic.
“Did you come to laugh at me?” she asks.
It isn’t a question worth answering. She already knows that I haven’t. She only hopes for my pity. She wants me to console her.
She tries again. “I thought you’d be too busy to visit me. You have an entire insurgency to run, an island to rule.”
She’s baiting me, but I still answer. “I’m not ruling Hans Lollik Helle.”
“Oh?” She turns to look at me over her shoulder. She’s become thinner, her cheekbones hollow. “Who is, then? Is it Malthe? Maybe it’s Marieke. Someone must be ruling the island.”
“No one is ruling the island.” She can see this truth inside of me easily. “We have leaders for the war, but when we’ve won, the people will rule themselves.”