Bram’s eyes go wide, as if he’s just as shocked by the touch as I am. He snatches his hand away. “Do you …” He pulls on the back of his neck. “Do you miss him?”
At first, I’m confused by the question. And then I realize he’s talking about Declan. Of course Bram would think that’s where I got the love tattoo; Declan and I were matched at the kenning. But still, the thought makes my stomach clench.
“No,” I say, “not even a little.” Declan’s betrayal feels like a fresh burn that can’t withstand even the lightest contact without stinging. “I just miss my mother.” What I don’t say: I also miss the future you and I never had. A thousand images of Bram jostle in my mind—they’re almost, but not quite, memories; almost, but not quite, mine. Some are blurry and indistinct, and others are vivid and alive with color. But together they’re a storm of confusion that rages in my chest.
I can’t afford to fall for him. The love tattoo is a remnant from my other path, so given time, it should fade. Things that aren’t nurtured eventually wither. Latham is far less likely to kill me if it disappears.
Bram gives me another odd look, as if I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out. He turns the knife over in his hand, examining the blade.
“This isn’t bone-made,” he says. “And it’s also too dull. You’ll be here all night.”
I shrug. “It’s all I had.”
He slides the leather satchel from around his neck and digs through it, producing a small bone-handled folding knife. He opens the blade and inclines his head toward the tree. “May I?”
I nod and step aside. Bram holds the knife perpendicular to the ground and carves my mother’s name in deft, confident strokes. My gaze wanders to the muscles in his arm, flexing as he works.
When he finishes, he turns toward me. “How is that?”
He’s engraved my mother’s name—DELLA HOLTE—in neat block letters, along with her death date.
Warmth spreads through my chest. “Perfect,” I say, my voice catching a little. “Thank you.”
My fingers twitch—longing to reach for him—but I shove them into my pockets. We’re about to spend weeks together on a ship to Ivory Hall. And after seeing a glimpse of what we could have been together, it will be so hard not to rely on Bram for comfort. Not to feel his hand fold around mine like a promise to double my joy and divide my pain. But I have to try.
My life depends on it.
Ami and I wander arm in arm through the streets of Midwood. The sun sits low on the horizon and the sky is awash in shades of pink and gold. We’ve been trying to say goodbye for hours, but neither of us can seem to find the words. So we keep walking, keep chatting about mundane things, as if we’ll be together forever. As if I won’t sail away tomorrow and Ami will stay here and for the first time in our lives we won’t see each other every day.
As much as I want to pretend things are normal, I can’t.
Everywhere I turn, I see the ghosts of my family—my mother coming out of the Marrow, a stone basin tucked beneath her arm like it weighs no more than a feather; Gran heading into the Sweet Tooth to buy the lemon-flavored candies she favored; my father fishing on the banks of the Shard, a contented smile on his face. The memories fill me with bittersweet longing.
But other images crowd in too—Declan threading his fingers through mine, making promises he had no intention of keeping; standing beside my mother in the bone house, gazing into the empty box where Papa’s remains should have been; walking into my own home, what had always been a cocoon of safety and love, to see Latham with a blade at my mother’s throat.
Midwood won’t ever be the same. I can’t imagine staying. And yet I can’t bear the thought of leaving, either.
We end up on the riverbank, as if our feet carried us there by habit. But it’s too cold to peel off our boots and sink our feet into the water. So we sit in the grass, bundled in our warm cloaks.
Ami nudges my shoulder gently with her own. “What are you thinking?”
Finally an honest question. She must sense the time slipping away too, like water held in cupped hands, seeping through our fingers no matter how desperately we try to hold on.
So I give her an honest answer. “I’m just wishing I weren’t such a coward.”
She turns to me, her eyes wide with surprise. “Why would you say that?”
I run my hands over the grass, letting the blades slide between my fingers. “I’m scared all the time, Ami.”
She’s quiet for a moment. “Of what?”
I sigh. There are so many answers to that question. “What if the Grand Council finds out my mother illegally trained me? Her reputation will be ruined.” I bite my lip. “Or they could punish me.”
“Everything will be fine,” Ami says. “They have no way of knowing unless you tell them.”
I give her a pointed look. “Yes, they do.”
“Saskia!” Ami looks stricken. “I would never betray your trust like that.”
I roll my eyes and tug her dark, glossy braid playfully. “Not you. My mastery tattoo.”
But an uncomfortable realization uncoils in my chest. Ami isn’t the only one who knows I’ve used unbound magic. My fingers clench around a fistful of grass.
“No one is going to examine you for unexpected tattoos,” Ami says, interrupting my thoughts. She’s right. Tattoos are considered deeply personal, and it’s rude to ask about them.
A relieved breath sags out of me. “I worried my trainer might, as a way to gauge my progress.”
A shadow falls over Ami’s face. “Oh.”
“Has Oskar asked about your mastery tattoo?”
Her hand closes around mine. “Not right at first. But yes, eventually.” She squeezes my fingers. “Don’t worry, though. By the time anyone asks, you will have been bound to bone charming long enough that no one will be suspicious. Just make sure to keep it hidden until then.”
I’m suddenly grateful the weather has shifted. It won’t be unusual for me to wear long sleeves until spring, and by then my mastery tattoo will no longer be incriminating.
“Bram knows too,” I say softly.
Her mouth falls open. “About the tattoo?”
“No, but he knows I used unbound magic. I did a bone reading in front of him last spring after my mother died. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
For the first time, Ami’s expression mirrors the tumult raging in my chest.
“Will he say anything?” she asks.
“I don’t know. I’d like to think he won’t, but he’s not the same person in this reality. Latham was mentoring him.”
She bites her thumbnail. “That’s not good. But he didn’t know what Latham was capable of, right?”
“I don’t know what he knew,” I say. “I don’t know who I can trust anymore.”
“Trust yourself,” she says. “Trust your gut.”
“That’s what I did with Declan and look how that turned out.”
Her eyes go soft. “Not everyone is Declan.”
“No one else is you, either.”
Her lower lip trembles and she wraps me in an embrace. I hold her extra tightly, until she finally pulls away and gives me an evaluating look.