The whistle of the wind cutting through the grass, the rattle of flax.
Marcus and Amity were here, though it’s been weeks now. It’s foolish and fruitless, but I search for signs of them, anyway.
I find none, of course.
Blaise pulls her hood over her head as we approach, and though there’s an evening chill, I have a suspicion this is not her reasoning.
The last time Blaise was here, she betrayed her friends, the people who cared the most about her. She betrayed them for a male who left her in the end.
I imagine it can’t be pleasant returning. Like if I’d tried to return to the Coup right after sinking an arrow through Bronger’s chest.
I’m not sure why I do it, but I find Blaise’s hand under her robe sleeves. Her skin is ice cold to the touch, but I give her fingers a gentle squeeze. At first, she goes rigid, and I think perhaps I made a mistake, but when I go to pull away, she links her fingers over my palm and squeezes back. A silent plea not to let go. Not yet.
So I don’t.
Not until we reach the Rip.
It gapes before us, and though I can’t see it, I can feel it. A chasm that rips through the very air, one that I might fall into if I get too close. It’s the feeling of standing at the side of a cliff, staring down into the crashing waves and wondering if you’d survive if the edge went crumbling out from underneath you.
My heart pounds in my chest as the Fabric calls to me, a gentle but sorrowful hum. As if it were apologizing for causing us so much trouble.
There’s a part of me that longs to reach out, to stroke it like one might a wounded pet, but I refrain.
Because then I see them.
The silvery runes glimmer in the darkness, forming a circlet in thin air.
“What are the chances this will actually work?” asks Blaise.
My Gift hums that noncommittal note.
“It’s a toss-up,” I say, and then I raise the flute to my lips and play.
Touching my lips to the flute is like leaning in for a kiss, my Gift melting into the instrument, melding with its wood and the wind and producing the most lovely of songs.
It’s a call, above all else, and as my fingers strum the keys, I lose myself in the gentle sway of the music, the notes that are not words but might as well be.
Come back, my Gift whispers into the wind. Then with a more sorrowful, drawn-out note. You don’t belong here, but I can lead you home.
I’m not sure how long I play, the only indication of time being that my shoulders and back ache from holding the flute upright.
Nothing happens.
Nothing comes.
Eventually, either my Gift reaches the end of the tune or grows disheartened, because the music sputters out.
Blaise swallows next to me, blinking away tears.
I lower the flute, Blaise’s disappointment an external manifestation of the sinking feeling in my stomach.
“I’m sorry,” Blaise says, slinging the tears away with frantic swipes of her hands. “I don’t know what’s going on with me.”
I think I probably do.
“You were hoping to make it up to them, weren’t you?”
Blaise won’t look at me. She just sniffles then lets out a wry laugh. “Stupid, I know. As if anything I could do could fix what I’ve taken away from them.”
I bite my lip, debating whether to comment. On one hand, Blaise at least seems to be trying to make things right. I don’t exactly want to discourage her from that.
On the other…
I think back to conversations I’ve had with Marcus. Times I’ve almost let the guilt of my past pull me under, sinking its nails into my ankles and keeping me from staying afloat. I think of what he always tells me when I consider allowing the past to drown me.
“Shame is useful, you know,” I say, savoring the way Marcus’s words feel on my lips. “But only for a little while. Once it prompts change, there’s no need for it anymore, and if you let it sit, it only festers.”
Blaise snorts. It does nothing to hide her sniffle. “Is that one of Abra’s unsolicited pieces of wisdom she forced on you when you were her captive audience?”
I smile. “No, not Abra.”
“Well,” she says, flitting her hand. “It’s not as if I can just ignore it. Make it go away. I would if I could.”
“What’s the antidote for shame?” I ask, and I’m not even talking to Blaise anymore, but feeling Marcus’s steady arms wrap around me as he waits for my answer. One I’ve memorized in the cadence of his voice.
“Pride,” Blaise responds, so quickly it’s clear she doesn’t have to think about it.
“That’s what I thought at first, too,” I say. “But—”
