Chapter Thirty-One

The night had gone heathery, the sky softening to the blue-gray of predawn. Two bowls sat, rinsed in river water and tipped against the rocks. Embers smoldered in the pit.

I hadn’t meant to stay out all night, hadn’t meant for us to share stories like we were friends.

We weren’t friends. We couldn’t be friends. This was supposed to be a job.

And yet…

Images of last night twirled through my mind. The brush of his shoulder, the touch of his hand. His laugh, teasing and rich and real .

What’s your favorite smell?

What’s the biggest lesson you never learned?

Which one of your scars has the best story?

Now, Erik had gone to bed, and the night was too far gone to expect a reply to any letter sent through the Lover’s Box. I’d have to send the message and put the box back. One chance, one letter.

I already knew what I’d say.

The river hissed, silk on stone and morning mist knitted like a finely woven shawl. The moisture made my nightgown stick to my stomach and shoulders, and all I wanted to do was fall face-first onto my bedroll. But I could do this.

I yawned and fit my key into Signey’s crude metal chest.

If—no, when —this worked, we’d have the location of the weapon. All we’d need to do was retrieve it.

The lock snicked, and the Lover’s Box tumbled out.

The world tilted. My blood sang.

I pressed the linen against my cheek, felt the buzz, the hum. It vibrated my teeth, and I never wanted to let go, never, never, never —

I dropped the box onto the riverbank with a thud . The lid splayed open like a clamshell, waiting and patient.

I pressed the heels of my hands to my eyes, scrubbed them through my hair. Wake up. Wake up. But the residue of the hum still sang in my skin, my skull.

Hold me , it seemed to say. Love me. Love me, love me, love me.

Leave me alone , I wanted to scream, but I saw myself reaching for it, dusting the sand and dirt and my limbs felt so heavy, and why couldn’t I just sleep? Maybe I needed the box, maybe if I had the box, I could do anything. Maybe the box completed me, made me whole, and—

I dug my fingers into my scalp.

Stop. Stop . The hum, the pull…it wasn’t real. It couldn’t be real—

If I picked it up, touched it, it could be. How could anything beautiful be so bad?

My fingers slid down my head, my hand bumping my ruined ear. White-hot pain. The grip of the Lover’s Box wavered and pain. Pain had done that.

I gritted my teeth.

Whatever trick this was, I couldn’t let myself get caught by Signey and the others. The risk? The stakes?

Cold mud against my feet. Sand and grit, the flutey stems of reed grass brittle in the night. I will carve out your heart and leave your body to rot.

I slid my fingers over my ear, my thumb catching the nubby knots of the stitches.

I’d promised myself I wouldn’t do this again, promised myself I’d stop.

I had stopped, I had. For two years, I’d stopped, but this would be harder tomorrow, and Erik was observant— so, so observant —and I knew pain.

I could handle pain.

I pushed my thumb against the stitches, popped my nail into the wound.

Pain exploded, blinding and hot.

I clenched my fist, pressed a knuckle into my mouth, the prick of pain pushing away the hum of the box, the song until all that was left was the steady thrum of my ear.

I fished the journal from my bag, tore a page from the back.

Our Sanok guide tells us Larland has spies in Karlsborn Castle. She doesn’t know who they are, but we know they’re there. It would be safer to move the weapons everything important onto the ships.

I paused, pen hovering over paper. This was dumb and desperate. The scrawling words looked nothing like Signey’s hand, but nothing else had worked, and I was running out of time. The Sanokes were falling apart, and if I couldn’t find the weapon before Larland was attacked, Hans wouldn’t matter, and this would all be for nothing, and—

Sunlight tipped the ravine, turning everything pink.

I shoved the message into the box, clicked the lid, and waited. My ear throbbed. How was this supposed to work? Was there something to do?

I cracked the lid. The paper was still there, still scrawled in my messy hand, the edges curling like a feather.

Were there magic words? Did it need blood? An offering? Signey said the box took a toll.

“You can have my…ability to taste coffee?” I clicked the latch with my thumb.

A suck, a snick, a tingle in my fingertips that spread to my palms.

My head pounded.

A fire. A flash. Wings. Lots of them.

“No, no, no,” I fiddled with the latch, tried to pry the lid open, but it stuck.

Breath. Sky. A whirl of color, of light. Apricots. Stars. A pair of fangs. Waterfalls. Death. A butterfly burst from its cocoon.

The tingle stopped, but the hum remained, brighter, more resonant. I needed to use it again. I should take the box, hide it. What else could I send? A word? A song? A blank sheet of paper?

I patted the ground around me. Where did I put the journal? In the bag? I must have put it in the bag.

Sunlight drenched the cliffs, and now everything was on fire, and I needed lots of paper because I would never give it back, never, never, never —

I dropped the box onto the riverbank and stared at my hands.

Shaking. They were shaking, and the meaning of what I’d done hit me. I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to laugh or cry.

Assuming Lothgar heeded my warning, he’d move the weapon. Then all I’d need to do was retrieve it.

Love me , the box continued to hum. Use me, use me. Love me, love me.

I stripped off my cardigan and used it to push the Lover’s Box back into the metal chest. Then slowly, carefully, I eased the lid shut.

Fire snapped at kindling, sunlight stealing its edges, making it hollow, dry as sand, bleached as bones.

What were the odds Lothgar sent a reply? It had to be low. The box was toxic, the box took a toll. He wouldn’t waste energy confirming receipt…would he?

“Isabel?”

But what if he did? What if he had questions? What if he realized it wasn’t Signey’s handwriting? Had I made a mistake?

And should I continue on with Erik, or should I go back to the castle? If Lothgar moved the weapon to the ships, I didn’t need to stay. I could go back, help Stefan and the others. But what if Lothgar didn’t move the weapons? What if he sent a reply?

“Isabel?”

If I ran, I’d have to take the Lover’s Box with me, cutting off their line of communication. Erik and Kaspar were wounded, and I could probably beat them back. I could send a few messages on the way to confirm the weapon had actually been moved.

But…what if they did more than pass messages? What if they were the weapon we were looking for? After all, I’d felt something when I used them.

Wings. Fire. Apricots. Stars.

Okay. I’d steal the Lover’s Box and run back to Karlsborn Castle. I could fiddle with them on the way back and see what I learned. If the boxes were the weapon, I’d figure out how to wield them. If they weren’t, well, I could still use them to make sure the actual weapon had been moved.

Not a bad plan.

The sharp burn of bread bit my nose.

Good plan.

“Isabel!”

I startled. Black smoke chugged from the pan.

“Shit.”

I pulled the griddle cake off the skillet and dropped it, smoldering, onto the rocks. It had been Bo’s idea to mix the porridge with less water and fry them. He said it would make a lumpy pancake.

“That’s the third one this morning,” Bo said.

“I know. I’m sorry. I—” I pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes. “I know.”

“Do you want coffee?”

Not if the Lover’s Box had stolen my ability to taste it. “I’m fine.”

Bo cocked his head, his eyes steady. “You…always have coffee in the mornings.”

“I do, but—”

But what? I’d bargained away my ability to taste it because I used the Lover’s Box to tell Lothgar to move the weapon onto the ships? But I couldn’t say that. So fine, I’d drink some. If only to stop myself from raising suspicions.

Water bubbled, beans seeped, dark as fresh-tilled mud. I strained the grounds and braced myself for the taste of nothing.

But…it wasn’t nothing. It was dark and loamy sweet, bitter and earthy, with just a hint of smoke. Same thing I drank every morning.

My hands flew to my chin, my throat.

“Everything okay?” Erik asked, settling next to the flames.

“Fine.” I prodded the soft skin under my jaw. Shit. “I’m fine. Really. Just…give me a second.”

I stumbled to the riverbank and dropped to my knees. The eddies dappled my reflection, ripples catching the tufts of grass and spinning them like watercolors. A fish darted through the shadows.

I cupped my hands and splashed my face, the water minerally and cool. I counted the colors—red, green, blue. Could I hear the birds? Yes. Could I smell wildflowers? I snatched a stem of clover, the petals creamy with notes of honey and grass. Yes.

Because if the Lover’s Box hadn’t taken my ability to taste coffee, then what had it taken?