An Embroidery of Souls, page 25
I wonder if this is what Jade’s episodes feel like. I can’t breathe, can barely think straight, and my blood’s turned to ice in my veins. Denial shrieks inside me. Jade couldn’t—would never—do something like that. But my doubts are doused by another memory, just hours ago now.
When I was a kid, I did something bad, she said. Something that hurt your family.
Of course, in that moment I assumed she was referring to Lina, but what if I was wrong? What if it was this?
I’m going to be sick, but I force myself to prod deeper because I need the truth. “How do you know she killed him?”
And why was he a target in the first place? The question burns beneath my skin, too hot to touch. Emma always thought he was involved in something, but she couldn’t be right; he wouldn’t—what? I don’t even know where to start guessing.
“Because,” the tracker answers simply, “a week later he was dead. I read the obituary in the paper.”
I can’t be here anymore. My brain is fuzzy, and everything feels strangely dimmed, but somehow that thought breaks through. I faintly register my own movement. Wood scraping my hands as I climb the ladder out. The cold metal of the hatch as I slide it closed and pull the bolt through. Twigs snap beneath my feet and cool air brushes my skin as I walk through the moonlit forest, headed where, I’m not sure. Eventually I crumple to the ground, crushed beneath the weight of it all. Wet soaks the knees of my pants, chilling me, but I don’t shiver.
For a while I simply sit. Numb. Trying to process this new information, because it doesn’t make sense. Jade couldn’t do something like this. She’s warm and kind, generous and wonderful. I know this for a fact, it’s stitched onto my fucking chest, and yet—
I can’t brush the tracker’s story aside. He knew too many details he wouldn’t otherwise know, like my last name, or the fact I inherited my father’s pistol as well as his eyes. He could’ve been lying about Jade’s involvement, but Jade herself admitted she’d been keeping something from me. That she’d hurt my family. And when I told her I forgave her, she was shocked.
Now I know why.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but that doesn’t stop the burn of tears, my grief and rage mixing together. Fury toward not only Jade but myself. Because I did this.
I stayed when I should’ve gone back.
Fell in love when I should’ve maintained my resentment.
Bound our souls when I should’ve kept my distance.
All for my father’s killer.
He trusted me to take care of my family, but for Jade I ignored his advice. I chose my own happiness over Emma, Artur, and my mom. Now they’re alone in a city with a soul-eating monster because of my poor choices.
No. Not just poor—selfish. There’s no other way to spin my actions.
I’m not sure how long I sit out there, shrouded in fog and sorrow. All I know is that when I stand, I’ve made a decision.
* * *
Dawn isn’t far off when I slink back inside the barn. Fortunately, Jade’s still fast asleep, but I don’t allow myself more than a passing glance her way. Anything extra would be too painful. I pack my belongings in silence but freeze when I get to the thread portrait Jade made for me. Tears sting my eyes. It’s beautiful, isn’t it? she’d said, and I had agreed. Because it was. Because she made me believe that about myself for the first time.
What a waste.
What a lie.
I toss the portrait to the floor and finish packing my things. When I’m done, I quietly open Jade’s thread kit and remove the seam ripper, swallowing as I lift it to my chest. Right above my heart. Every time Jade bound two souls, she made sure the owners knew how to sever the bond. It’s as easy as snipping the center thread. Just hours ago I thought I’d be bound to Jade forever. Now the blade trembles in my grip, poised to destroy the bond.
But then I remember Jade standing in front of the tracker’s gun for me. Rescuing me from those sailors. Kissing me in the forest. All of it sloshes around my brain, and I just—I can’t. I truly am selfish, because I can’t separate myself from this girl who murdered my father. I think I’m still in love with her, and I hate myself for it, even as I return the seam ripper.
Still, when Jade wakes up, she needs to know that whatever we have—had—is over. Fortunately, there are a few clean sheets of parchment in her kit, along with a pencil, and I scrawl a quick note, my handwriting sharp and angry. I fold it carefully, then force myself to turn and face her.
The blow is swift, like a bullet to the heart. She’s so peaceful, her breath deep, her lashes twin crescents, one on each cheek. And it splits me in two, the burning desire to kiss her forehead, lift the blankets, and slide in next to her. To pretend the past hour never happened and nothing changed.
Selfish. The word thuds inside me, a solemn chant. Selfish, selfish, selfish.
I shouldn’t feel this way after learning what she did. It’s shameful, and my lip curls as I leave the note next to Jade. She frowns as I do, almost as if she can sense this war raging inside me, which I suppose she can. We’re bound now. She murmurs my name in her sleep, and I swear my heart bursts into flames. I have to get out of here.
And I do. My note delivered, I heft my bag over my shoulder, then turn from Jade. I don’t spare a single glance backward. Not as I descend the ladder and leave the barn, or even as I depart Dreiden, the sun just cresting the horizon. It promises a beautiful day, but not for me or for Jade.
Never for us again.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jade
Something’s wrong. I feel it the moment I wake up, like a ball of writhing snakes has lodged itself beneath my rib cage. It takes me a moment to process what I’m feeling, the morning sun streaming through the barn windows contrasting with the mess of emotions inside me.
Lukas, I realize. Something happened to Lukas.
Because what I’m feeling…it’s not mine. It’s anger and betrayal and deep, dark shame. He’s hurting, and I lurch to my feet only to realize he’s not here. Not beside me, not with Johann, not even in Dreiden. I can sense it through the bond—he’s left.
The panic is swift, and I drop to my knees, flooded with it. Its tide has nearly pulled me under when I spot a wrinkled piece of parchment folded in half, my name scrawled across it in Lukas’s script, the letters uneven, their appearance rushed.
I swallow, an attempt to dislodge the sudden lump in my throat as I reach for the paper with trembling hands. Whatever’s inside, it’s going to change my world in the worst way possible—I can feel it.
For a moment I consider dropping the paper and going to Lukas. He’s not that far yet—I’ll find him if I’m quick. But he left this message for a reason, so I force myself to take a breath, then slowly unfold it.
This was a mistake. I wanted to love you, but I’m sorry, I can’t move past what you did to my father. I’m leaving. Don’t try to follow me. I’ll make sure the queen knows about Cora Ramos and the sievech.
A sob rips from my throat, and an episode sweeps me away. I’m not sure how long I lie on those blankets, trembling and racked by shivers, my thoughts a knot of tangled yarn. What changed? Did I say something wrong? I’ve ruined everything—of course I have.
And then, louder than the rest, a familiar sting. I can’t do this. I can’t do this. I can’t do this.
Can’t find Lukas. Can’t face my fears. Can’t let anyone in. No matter what I do, where I go, whom I love, I’m going to get hurt. Nothing and nowhere and no one is safe.
* * *
Johann finds me eventually. By then the light has turned afternoon-bright, but still I shiver. I don’t think I’ll ever be warm again.
“Jade?” Johann says from the ladder, peering at me. “Are you okay?”
I don’t answer. I can’t find my voice, and the wood creaks as Johann climbs the rest of the way up. He glances around, taking in my disheveled state, the note open beside me, and the absence of Lukas’s belongings. Quietly, he sighs. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
* * *
I have everything I ever wanted.
The thought is hollow. Dead. But it’s true.
It’s been five days since Lukas left, and there’s no way I’ll be making the queen’s deadline now—not that I intend to try. I’ve spent all my time at Johann’s, and I’m currently seated in his living room, absently organizing my thread kit. He’s been so kind these past few days, clearing a space for me on his sofa, insisting that he didn’t want me in the hayloft all by myself. He’s even taken over the tracker’s care, and while the tracker’s been asking for me, I haven’t bothered to visit. I don’t have it in me. Any day now, the soldiers from Kreipen will arrive to take him away, and he won’t be my problem any longer. My troubles will be gone.
Not all that long ago this existence was everything I always wanted. A kind, compassionate caregiver. A secluded home. Relief from my thread-speaking duties. Safety.
So then why does it feel rotten?
I try to force the poison thoughts from my mind, but they crescendo as I select another spool, this one a bright viridian. The color of courage. Of Lukas’s eyes.
Damn it. I blink away tears and shove the spool back inside my kit, but something clinks when I do. After a moment of inspection, I pull out a dineda, winking in the afternoon light. I study it for a moment, the magnificent eagle on one side, before I flip it over to the image of the queen.
Even rendered in silver, her image no larger than my thumbnail, she’s striking. High cheekbones, full lips, thick eyebrows. Long, straight hair frames her face, and I wonder absently at the liberties the artist must have taken, because when I met with the queen, she was pretty, but not gorgeous like this. Almost as if—
I gasp and drop the coin, heart pounding. It can’t be. It can’t.
But when I pick up the dineda, it’s there, etched in silver. Either the artist took some dramatic freedoms or—oh my gods.
The coin slips from my fingers and clinks against the floor, but I barely hear it as I rummage through my bags and rip out the tracker’s letters. I knew it—knew something was wrong with his confession, that there was more to his lover than he ever let on—and a knot forms in my throat as my eyes sink to the bottom of her letter. The lover’s signature glares back at me, and finally the answer appears like a hazy vision on a foggy day, gaining clarity the closer I draw. Not just a crescent, but a moon. Not merely curved lines, but a river.
A rudimentary version of a symbol I’ve seen many times, usually stamped in wax, but most recently on a ring.
Oh gods.
I need to speak with the tracker.
* * *
It all comes together in the minutes it takes me to reach the cellar. I doubted what the tracker told us about Cora Ramos, then later waved off my suspicions as paranoia. Now, though, I realize I might’ve been onto something, and my gut churns as I open the hatch and climb downward, praying I’m wrong, because if I’m not…
Lukas is in more danger than he realizes.
The tracker grins when he sees me, all charm despite the patchy beard shading his jaw and the greasy strands of his hair. He’s pale and gaunt in the flickering lantern light, dark rings beneath his eyes.
“Jade,” he says, that single word loaded with sneering condescension. “It’s about time. I’ve been asking for you.”
I should get right to the murders, but somehow that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “Lukas came to visit you, didn’t he?”
My hands tremble, but I ball them into fists and focus on my breathing. I can’t succumb to an episode now.
The tracker’s gaze flits to my hands before rising back to my face. “He did. I would’ve told you as much if you’d deigned to visit.”
Blood thunders in my ears. Ever since Lukas left, I’ve been wondering what could’ve changed his feelings for me in a matter of hours. I’m still not sure, but I keep coming back to the tracker. That he must’ve meddled in some way.
It’s an effort to speak through my clenched teeth. “And what did you say to him?”
The tracker clicks his tongue. “Something you should’ve told him a long time ago. The truth about his father, and how you killed him.”
But that shouldn’t have changed anything. I told Lukas about his father—
Except I didn’t. Not really. I started to discuss it, but Lukas cut me off before I could finish, told me he forgave me. Then, I assumed we were referring to the same thing, but—
Oh.
Oh gods.
Lukas didn’t know about my role in his father’s death. We must’ve been unknowingly discussing different events, so when the tracker told him…
I think I’m going to be sick, and I have to force my next words past a raw throat. “How did you know about that?”
I feel like I’m suffocating. The tracker, however, merely raises an eyebrow and says, “You tell me. I can see you working it out.”
The gears of my brain are grinding, all the possibilities whirring, but there’s one explanation simpler than the rest. “You brought my mom the lock of hair,” I say. She wouldn’t have been able to secure that herself, but the tracker could’ve done so easily.
That said, my mother never would’ve killed anyone, not unless she was ordered to by one particular person. Which, of course, begs another question, and I step closer to the tracker. “You work for the queen. She had you bring Egon’s hair to my mother.”
The tracker blows out a low whistle. “I have to say I’m impressed. Tell me, what else have you worked out, little dove?”
Quite a lot. But I’m still praying I’m wrong when I level my next accusation. “That you’re in love with her. The queen. Those letters I found were from her.”
The tracker’s barely perceptible flinch tells me I’m right. Because as soon as I factored the queen into all this, everything fell into place. The signature on those letters was an earlier version of her crest, minus the feathers and a bit of refinement. If she was in love with someone like the tracker, she’d need a way to keep her signature discreet in case her letters fell into the wrong hands.
“Well done.” The tracker’s tone is his usual bored drawl, but his eyes are tight. “You’re learning all my secrets now. What else have you uncovered? I know you’re not done.”
I’m not. There’s one more—the biggest, worst one. I almost don’t want to say it, as if by whispering it now, I speak it into existence. But if I don’t say anything and I’m right, I’ll never get the chance to fix things, so I meet the tracker’s eyes as I say, “Cora isn’t the killer. The queen is, isn’t she?”
A buzzing fills my ears, and time seems to freeze.
The queen I met didn’t look like her portrait because she wasn’t the queen. Tethering yourself to a sievech rots your soul, and the queen knew if I saw her, I’d discover the truth. So she hired an imposter, but she was there, likely watching from some secret compartment. That’s why I was ill that day, not with fear, but sick with proximity to a rotting soul.
I should’ve figured it out the day I met Johann. His description of her didn’t match mine, but I brushed it aside. Not to mention the queen’s behavior the day I met her—she seemed unsure of herself because she was acting a role. And when the imposter asked if I could track down the killer, that wasn’t because the queen needed my help—quite the opposite. She wanted to be sure I’d never learn the truth.
And gods, those initials, CR, not for Cora Ramos but for Celese Ríos. She must have dropped the María, the way the imposter did when she had me call her Celese, probably under the queen’s instructions, and it doesn’t seem far-fetched that she’d do the same in her personal life as well. Her crest was too recognizable to leave on a letter like that, so she went with her initials, knowing her past lover would understand.
It even explains the tracker’s comment about my upcoming role as the Crown’s official thread speaker. He passed it off as speculation, but really he knew because the queen had told him.
Every avenue, every clue, all leading back to her. But all my evidence is circumstantial, which is why I need the tracker to confirm what I’m barely brave enough to suspect.
The tracker studies me a moment, watching all this cross my face, and chuckles. “Oh, little dove, you are a clever one.”
My stomach shrivels, and my next words rasp. “So I’m right. It really is the queen.”
“Yes.” The tracker’s grinning, enjoying this far too much. “You look distressed. Why is that? I wonder.”
Lukas.
He still believes Cora’s the killer, is going to tell the queen that—
Oh gods.
He’s going to get himself killed. And Mérecal, all those people, unaware of the true beast in their midst. More people will die.
I stumble backward until my spine bumps the wall. I knew when I came here this was a possibility, but to have it confirmed…
I’m so distracted, too blinded by the panic creeping in to notice the tracker stand, which is why I’m not ready when he shakes off his bonds and lunges for me suddenly.
“Ah—”
I can’t even get out a scream before his hand covers my mouth, stifling me. Tears burn my eyes, my heart pounding as my training kicks in and I yank my knee up, but the tracker idly steps aside before I can make contact. In one fluid movement his arm is wrapped around my throat.
No.
An icy cold wave of terror rips through me. I’m no better than a javelina in the jaws of a jaguar, and though I hate myself for it, I whimper.
“Shh,” the tracker croons, “it’s okay. Just breathe.”
