I go through her things, snorting when I see a tear in a dress, neatly mended by Annin. How Raven must have laughed inside as she played her charade of selflessness! Oh, I scrimp and save, she said to me once, so that I can put more money aside for you girls. And of course—she leaned in to whisper—for our cause.
Meanwhile, she extracted every coin she could from Half Kith desperate to flee the Ward, even this city. She gave them passports that faked their kith—passports forged by me, the idiot, who believed we helped people for nothing.
I am grateful to the god of thieves. Joy thrills down to my toes, to know that I am no longer who I was. What use was my soft heart? It convinced me to excuse the bad behavior of others, to let myself be used, to forgive Raven when she hurt me. The loss of my heart is no bad thing. It left room for something else.
Freedom.
Anger.
My heart was full of guilt and love and tender forgiveness. Let the god of thieves keep it forever. Now nothing will stop me from doing what I want—for myself and everyone loyal to me.
I riffle through the drawer of Raven’s wobbly bedside table. Next: the desk where she once sat me down and exclaimed over how perfectly I could imitate a signature. My little artist! she said, and I glowed from her praise, not understanding then that there was little art to what I did, only the power of a perfect memory.
She is not here. She left nothing of value behind. She must have squirreled it all away in that house she built for herself in the Middling quarter, lining it with the nicest things the law allowed her. She must be there. Well, I will find her, and we will see who is the fool now. I fling open a roughly carved wooden jewelry box and snarl at the trinkets inside. Tin earrings. A tarnished silver chain I gave her when I was fourteen, having bartered work in a neighbor’s scraggly little garden. How beautiful! she said, adding, I will put it with my treasures.
When I noticed she never wore it, she said, It is too good to wear, my lamb. People will get jealous.
I see it now for what it is: trash. I toss it to the floor.
Where is the crescent moon necklace that once belonged to my mother, which Raven stole? Still around Raven’s weathered neck, most likely. My hands twitch as though I could wring that neck like a rag. Yet I pause, surprised by the force of my longing for a sentimental object, my irrational hope. What did the god of thieves steal from me, if I can still hope, still seek comfort in a symbol that doesn’t even prove its original owner loved me?
A hand lightly slips into mine. Instinctively, I crush it between my fingers. Someone cries out. I turn and see Annin, her blue eyes wide as she begs me to let her go. “You’re hurting me!”
“Nirrim,” comes a new voice, low and calm. Morah stands at the threshold of Raven’s bedroom. “You are not yourself.”
Aren’t I? Aren’t I the most perfect version of myself, who can look at these two young women and care nothing for the opinion of Morah, who used to lord her supposed wisdom over me, and care nothing for Annin, sweet little Annin, so easily biddable? She is a pretty doll with a porcelain head filled with pins. She would rattle if you shook her. She reminds me of me: who I once was. I double my grip. She screams, face contorting. Good. She no longer looks so pretty.
Morah slowly crosses the room toward me. “You will break her fingers. She won’t be able to sew. She loves to sew.”
Morah expects these words to move me and make me loosen my grip, but Annin needs to learn not to be so trusting. She scrabbles at me, like a kitten might twist against a grip at the nape of its neck, and I am momentarily amused. Neither she nor Morah seem to consider I possess a power more formidable than a mere grip. I am so distracted by their ignorance that I don’t notice—until Morah sets the sharp blade against my throat—the kitchen knife she must have held at her thigh, hidden in the folds of her skirt, as she crossed the room to me.
“Let her go,” Morah says.
The threat is ridiculous. Morah does not understand my god-gift. I could force a false memory into her mind. You dropped the knife, I could say, and re-create the past so that it becomes her present and she sends the knife clattering to the floor. I could make her freshly feel her most painful memory. Years ago—how many? Ten?—Raven stole Morah’s baby. Morah never knew what happened to the newborn boy. Yes, that might be a good thing to make her remember.
Don’t, says that quiet, internal voice, the same one that told me to feed the Elysium.
Startled, I loosen my grip. It’s enough for Annin to tug her sweaty fingers free.
My scalp crawls. Earlier, my impulse to feed the Elysium was easily dismissed as a stray thought … and a practical one that suited my goals. Now, however, I pay attention to that eerily familiar voice that seems at once inside me and outside me. The voice is low and steady. Like a candle flame, Sid once told me.
That voice is mine.
Morah presses the knife harder to my throat, so close it bites the skin.
A knot hardens in my belly. Once, I loved Morah and Annin like sisters. They should be my allies and strive to achieve my goals. I dislike having my will checked by some whispery ghost in my head: a shadow of the girl I used to be.
Annin wipes tears from her cheeks, her skin lighter than mine—always ready to blush or pale, quick to show her emotions. Her face might as well be a painted sign announcing her thoughts to the world. She reddens in distress.
Very well, I tell that needling little voice, which I sense waiting for some response. I won’t hurt them. That would look bad to the Half Kith, whose loyalty I need to consolidate. I bat the knife from Morah’s hand. It clatters to the floor. She never would have used it anyway. She is too fond of me.
The old me.
Morah’s expression betrays no fear, even though her weapon lies out of easy reach. Once she was the toughest of us three, as resilient as the sturdy kitchen worktable downstairs. “Nirrim, you can’t simply walk into the agora and proclaim yourself queen of Herrath.”
“I already did. Have you come to try to reason with me? Fair fortune to fools.”
“I am not here for anything. This is my home. Annin’s, too. And yours.”
I glance around Raven’s shabby room, remembering how mysteriously grand it seemed when I was little and knew no better. “I don’t want this home. You may keep it. My people will know me as a generous queen.”
Annin, cradling her hand, casts Morah a skittish look. Annin says, “You claimed you are a god. But there are no gods.”
I wave away her stupid words. “You think I’m mad, I suppose. Well, you shall see.” They clearly have not a drop of god-blood in them, nor much ambition. Having decided not to punish them, and certain they can do little to advance my cause, I return to my task, tearing apart Raven’s room to find whatever secrets she might have hidden. You will never know anything more about your mother, she warned me. How you were born. Who you are! I ran from her, horrified at how she had used me—and wanted to continue using me. You will be nothing to me, she promised—she, who revealed herself as my mother’s sister, and might know from which god I came. The kind of power I possess is no certain clue. The god of thieves’s history book revealed that the gifts of the half-gods were not mere copies of those of their immortal parents. When the gods abandoned Ethin long ago, retreating to their realm, the powers they left in their half-god children diminished and changed through generations. Probably Aden is a descendent of the sun god. Everything about Aden has always been so obvious. His boring, handsome face. The foregone conclusion the entire Ward shared that of course I should love him. His jealousy. His insecurity. No doubt his glowing god-gift could be traced to the most obvious source.