Gideon shifted in his seat beside my bed. He leaned back, glanced upward, and gestured at the ceiling. “Call for the thunder, Evie.”
“What?”
He grunted, making a harsh noise in his throat. “Call for your thunder. Reach for the lighting.”
“But I don’t—”
Genevieve patted my knee again. “Just do it. Trust me.”
Hesitantly, I closed my eyes and reached out with my senses. As expected, nothing happened. But then....
I felt it.
No, I felt him, and it was the same feeling I’d had whenever my father smiled at me, warm and loving. The hairs along my arms and the back of my neck rose. “Grandfather?” I whispered.
Hello, dear.
“Is it really you?” I had only vague memories of my grandfather. He’d passed into the Shadowlands when I was a young girl, but I remembered his laughter and the smell of his pipe. He was the one from whom I’d inherited my Thunder Cloak.
Indeed.
“How can I believe it? How is it even possible?”
Do you feel it? The lightning? Can you hear the thunder when you listen? I mean really listen?
Concentrating, I reached again. In the distance I felt it, a crackle of electricity, a rumble that sounded much like Sher-sah when he was happy to see me. I gasped, and tears rose in my eyes. It had been so long. Too long.
Now, Evelyn, do you believe?
Instead of responding, I stretched my will farther and drew the thunder closer. High above our camp, a streak of lightning speared the sky. I sobbed and looked at Gideon, expecting him to share in my joy. Instead, his expression was half awe and half something else. Fear?
He offered a weak and unconvincing smile. “It’s all true, then, isn’t it?”
I grabbed his hand and squeezed. “What’s the matter?”
He shook his head and attempted another smile, but he didn’t fool me. Something was bothering him, and I suspected I knew the cause of it.
In the moments before things went so wrong with the Kerch and her men, I’d assumed Gideon would be angry with me for running after the Bianchi children on my own. His worst fears had come true: I’d been shot, and he hadn’t been able to protect me. I’d died, or come close enough to it to count, anyway. If I put myself in his place, I would’ve had a hard time coping. I might’ve been viciously angry, both at the Thaulgant Brigands and the bullheaded young woman who so often acted without thinking things through.
The danger we had faced before crossing the Thaulgant Mountains had always been beyond my control, but this...this situation could have been prevented, possibly, if I’d taken a moment to accept Gideon’s counsel and advice. We were both so desperate to save each other, to protect each other, that we were completely willing to sacrifice ourselves.
Before I’d survived Lord Daeg’s treacherous scheme to steal my birthright, I hadn’t cared much about how my actions affected Gideon. In the months that had passed since the night we escaped Daeg’s estate, my feelings for Gideon had changed—from distrust and loathing to something resembling affection and respect. Possibly love. If he felt something similar for me, my recklessness had undoubtedly hurt him.
No simple apology would make up for that.
Truthfully, though, if I had it to do all over again, I would most likely make the same choices. The children were safe. The Brigands were defeated. I called that a success.
Isn’t that what queens do? I thought. Don’t we make the hard choices?
“We’ll talk later,” I said.
Gideon’s only response was a brief nod before he looked away and pulled his hand free from mine. If the others noticed his chilly demeanor, they refrained from commenting. Carefully, I shifted, readjusting my position. Svieta said something, and Genevieve translated. “Be careful. You don’t want to pull your stitches.”
“I’m not going anywhere. I’m trying to get comfortable while you tell me more about what happened. How bad was the fight? Was anyone else hurt?”
My companions glanced at each other before turning away, setting their gazes anywhere but on me. Dread crept over me like a hot, sickly fever. “Tell me.”
“Stefan,” whispered the princess.
“What about him?”
She swallowed and rubbed her wrist across her eyes. “He took a bullet. We didn’t find him until it was already too late.”
Bitterness and sour acid surged up my throat. I turned aside and sucked several deep breaths, willing my stomach to settle. “Who else?”
She shook her head. “There were a few other wounds. Some other bumps, scrapes and bruises, but the only casualty was Stefan. And, well...you.”
Whether my heart was man-made or not—a situation I was still unwilling to fully accept—I felt Stefan’s death the same way I’d always felt grief, like a fierce cramp in my chest, a cold hollow in my belly, a howling wind in my head. “Did he have family?”
Falak scrubbed his jaw, scraping his palm across the dark bristles sprouting there. “He had a mother he sent money to. I’m not sure if there was anyone else.”
His death wasn’t completely my fault, but I felt guilty, and talking about him pained my already aching heart. I switched to what I hoped was a less troublesome subject. “What about the wagons. Are they ruined?”
The ringmaster shook his head. “Most of the wagons suffered nothing more than cosmetic harm or some damage to their clockworks that Svieta has been able to fix with the supplies from her wagon. They’ll need paint and maybe a few repairs to their frames, replacements to several doors and windows—that sort of thing. Melisandre’s wagon has a bent axel. We’ve been able to tow it, so we can make repairs once we reach Barsava.”
“And the animals?”
“They’re all well enough, but it seems the bandits might have gotten away with the peacock. Either that, or he ran off to escape all the excitement. It wouldn’t be the first time we lost him. He was a contrary bastard anyway. I’m sure he won’t be missed.”