I’m not sure it’s possible for Nox’s face to go any paler, but somehow it defies natural order and does. “I can’t say she was thrilled to hear of my mistake,” is all he says.
“You know, you can talk to me abou—”
“I really should get to work on another way to cure you,” he says, skirting past me toward the workbench.
We sit in silence the rest of the morning, Gunter’s labored snores the only sound between us.
A week passes like that before I’ve decided I’ve had enough.
The queen has Gunter on a mission to collect something for her from town, so it’s just me and Nox in the cell today.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that he hasn’t spoken to me since the day he returned to work, or the fact that the letters on the page of the grimoire I’m trying to read keep twisting and turning, but I say, “All right. That’s it. I’m not standing for this any longer.”
Nox is pouring what looks to me like snot from one beaker into the next, but he goes perfectly still.
When he doesn’t respond, I toss the grimoire onto the bench, kicking up a plume of dust, and wrestle the beakers away from Nox’s grip.
I’m acutely aware that there’s no way I’d actually be able to wrestle them away from him if he didn’t allow it, so I take this as a sign that he’s open to my advances, regardless of how his expression betrays nothing.
“Don’t you want to find a cure for your problem? A way out of here?” he asks, and I ignore the way the simple statement that should be overwhelmingly true stings.
“Actually I’d prefer if the parasite just took over my body permanently. Less to deal with.”
Nox stills.
“Kidding,” I say, flicking my wrist. “I want you to snap my neck if that ever happens.”
I watch Nox’s throat bob, and I find a smidge of satisfaction in the way discussing my death makes him so uncomfortable.
“All the more reason to find a solution sooner rather than later,” he says.
“Yes, but we won’t be figuring anything out if our minds are spinning. What we need is a break.”
Nox huffs, but he doesn’t protest. Perhaps he’s used to Gunter making the same argument, as he did the day he wheeled his loom into my cell.
I hope Nox doesn’t notice when I do a quick scan of his face—of the webbed veins that are only just fading underneath his eyes and on the insides of his wrists.
Gunter’s already confirmed my suspicion that Nox is ill, and I worry the dark veins are signs of the illness progressing, but something tells me this isn’t the right moment to ask, so I don’t.
Nox turns his back to the counter and leans against it, and the casualness of his posture reminds me of how he used to be. Before he almost killed me by accident. “What do you suggest we do during this break?”
The image of his mouth on mine, his hands running through my hair, comes to mind, but I figure he won’t consider that an appropriate activity at the moment, so instead I say, “We should play a game.”
“A game?”
“Yes, it’s when one or more people determine a set of rules by which someone wins—”
“I know what a game is.”
“Oh, I wasn’t sure.”
Nox huffs, but his lips twitch all the same.
Lately, I find that I’d swallow fire if it meant getting the jolt of delight that hits my brain when Nox almost smiles.
“Do you have any?” I ask.
Nox shakes his head. “The queen isn’t fond of us shirking our responsibilities.”
I wave my hand dismissively. “No matter. I can make do.”
He watches me quietly as I slide a piece of parchment off a stack on the counter and begin to crease and fold it until it forms a thick triangle. When he pushes himself off the counter and settles in behind me, peering over my shoulder, I relish the closeness of his body. Even if he’s careful not to touch me, this is the nearest he’s let himself get since the incident.
“Here,” I say, holding out my masterpiece over my shoulder. When he reaches for it, his fingers graze mine, and I relish that too.
“Master handiwork,” he says, and my heart snags onto the teasing in his tone, raps onto the thick ice that’s darkening, signaling a thaw. “But what exactly is it?”
“It’s a ball, obviously.”
“It’s a triangle.”
“And why can’t a triangle be a ball?” I ask.
He huffs, but a smile tugs at his lips.
It takes an extraordinary amount of self-control, but I wriggle out from between him and the counter, yank the parchment from his hand, and saunter over to the far side of the dais.
“So you flick the parchment toward the other side of the table?” Nox asks skeptically as he stares down at the parchment that landed a few inches from him during my demonstration. “And that’s all the game is?”
