Farin is a flirt.
A murdery flirt.
He’s in love with Blaise. No, he’s obsessed with Blaise, because that’s what murdery people do. They obsess.
He just happens to have a rather flirtatious personality. It’s not as if I haven’t met plenty like him in my many lives—males who have their hearts set on one girl alone, yet mask their desire by flirting with any female in sight.
That’s what’s happening now.
Though I let myself be grateful he at least fancies me.
After all, that’s better than him wanting me dead, isn’t it?
“What world are you most interested in hearing about?” I ask.
He grins. “Whatever you’re most interested in.”
I ignore the way his smile twists my already wounded gut—the gut he wounded—into knots.
Ugh.
But I tell him anyway. I tell him of a realm where the ocean is such a deep indigo, it looks almost purple in the sunlight. A world in which the fae sprouted wings and soared in the heavens, making their homes in islands above the clouds.
I expect several questions about said cloud-islands, which is why I’m taken aback when instead Farin asks, “And what about males?”
“What about them?”
“Do you have one you’re hoping to get back to? A Blaise to your Farin, if you will?”
I don’t allow myself to dwell on how his words cause my stomach to sour.
“I don’t really let myself get close to males,” I say.
Farin frowns. “Why not?”
I sigh. “In each life, I start off an infant, just like everyone else. Then I grow into a child, lost in my head during the day, tortured by nightmares at night. Everyone always calls me a dreamer, says I’ve an imagination too big for my skull. Tutors scold me for never being able to pay attention, but really, it’s like I just have too much to keep up with. And then I get older, and about the time when I would notice boys my age, that’s when it hits me my dreams aren’t dreams at all. They’re memories. And of course, I go years without telling anyone, because obviously whoever I tell is going to think I’m crazy…”
I trail off, and Farin cocks his head to the side. “And then?”
I let out an embarrassed laugh. “And then I tread the course of many adolescent women and entrust my heart to a male, only to find him less than prepared to take care of it. You would think having gone through it several times, I would learn. But they almost always decide I’m mad. Even the ones I’m convinced will believe me.”
“If it makes you feel better, I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“That’s not all that comforting.”
He feigns offense. “And why not?”
“Because you’re crazier than I am?”
He plucks a root from the ground beneath him, twirling it in his hands. “Who knows, Wanderer. Maybe you’ve been looking in the wrong places for affection. Maybe crazy is just what you need.”
He holds my stare for a while, and his cocky grin softens somewhat.
I’m the first to break the stare, unable to help the embarrassment climbing my cheeks.
Bad.
This is definitely bad.
CHAPTER 78
ELLIE
After the attack, I spend the mornings in the infirmaries. We’ve never had many in Othian. Only the one within the castle walls, and the public infirmary close to the town’s square.
Tented field infirmaries popped up all over town after the attack. Peck often mutters that none of them contain proper healers, but he spends his off-time volunteering at them, so I try not to scold him for placing so much judgment on those who are just trying to help.
The infirmaries themselves are dismal. The one Other that attacked the nursery had been the only one to penetrate the castle’s inner defenses. It had been cut off from the rest, and still it killed two dozen guards before it was finally put down.
The city was not so lucky.
Half of the establishments in the commerce quarter are destroyed. Forcier’s bakery is gone, though he made it out alive and spends his days using the kitchens of friends to bake goods for the injured and bereaved.
Madame Lefleur’s is gone, too.
Thankfully, my parents’ house was spared, though the workshop took some damage. Even though Evander is dealing with his new role as king, he still finds time every day to come by the workshop and help my father with the repairs.
Overall, there’s a grief that hangs over the city, one as palpable as the thick air of Charshon.
