Of Beast and Beauty - Jay Stacey - Страница 13

Before I can assure him there’s no need to thank me, the healers

arrive. Needle pulls me to my feet, guiding me down the hall after Gem and

the healers, fingers busy beneath my palm as she describes the scene. Two

male healers carry Gem back to his room, but it is a woman who runs her

hands lightly over his legs, examining the Monstrous with a gentleness that

Needle approves of.

“How is he?” I ask when the healer is finished.

“There’s no bleeding on the inside, my lady,” she says. “But the

muscles are still healing.”

“But they will heal. He’ll be able to walk again?” I ask, anxious for her

answer.

“I don’t see any reason why not,” the healer says. “He’ll need a brace

on the left leg and crutches for a time, but the muscles should mend. If I’d

been notified he was to work today, I would have had the aids prepared.”

Her tone is nothing but deferential, but I feel chastised all the same.

“I’ll consult with you before we try again,” I say. “How much time do

you think he needs? A week? Two?”

“He should begin exercising as soon as the leg is braced,” she says.

“We don’t have anything in his size ready-made, but the brace makers work

quickly. I can have him fitted this afternoon and able to work tomorrow, my

lady.”

Brace makers. Surely Yuan doesn’t have need of more than one brace

maker to service the thousand-odd souls under the dome? But then, maybe

people turn ankles and break wrists more often than I assume. There’s so

much I don’t know about my city, my people.

“What do you think, Gem?” I ask. “Will you be up for trying again

tomorrow?”

“Does it matter, my lady?” he asks, mimicking the healer’s

subservient tone perfectly.

I get the strong feeling that he’s mocking me, and I scowl, but clench

my jaw against the harsh words on the tip of my tongue. He’s hurting, and

despite the fact that I didn’t intend for him to suffer, that hurt is my fault.

“Yes. It matters,” I say. “Do you think you’ll be ready?”

“Anything to escape these white walls for a few hours,” he says, but

there’s still something … off in his voice.

“We can wait. I’m eager to begin, but I don’t want you to be in pain.”

“That’s kind of you, my lady, but I’m also eager to begin.” There’s a

sneer beneath the words this time, I’m sure of it. The only thing I’m not

sure of is whether he’s wrong to think me contemptible. Yesterday, there

was no doubt in my mind which one of us was the monster, but now …

I’m the one who neglected to ask his name. I’m the one who insisted

he be pulled from his bed without consulting the healers to make sure he

was fit to work. I’m the one who has treated him like an animal when I

know that he has language and at least a certain degree of intelligence.

The thoughts make me feel sour inside. They make me wish I could

have a moment alone with Gem to speak frankly. I want him to know that I

understand what it’s like to be a prisoner. That I know what it’s like to walk

a road I didn’t choose to a destination I fear, and that I will do my best to

make his life in Yuan tolerable.

But the guards and the healers would never knowingly leave me

alone with a Monstrous, and it doesn’t matter anyway. I am Gem’s jailer

and his enemy. Why should he feel anything for me but contempt? He

shouldn’t. And I shouldn’t care one way or another.

“Tomorrow, then,” I say, taking Needle’s arm and allowing her to

lead me from the room. I have enough misery to bear. There’s no need to

take the hatred of a beast to heart.

But as I walk away, I can’t help remembering Gem’s cry in the hall,

how desperate and human he sounded, and how much something inside

me wanted to protect him from the soldiers.

From Yuan. From … me.

GEM

THE healer gives me more bitter water to drink, and the agony in my

legs fades to a distant ache. My eyes grow heavy, but I fight the muddying

of my thoughts. I don’t want to sleep.

I want to lie here and stare at the white wall until my mind is as soft

as windswept sand. Then I will bury all my hate deep beneath it, so deep

that not even an outline can be spied from the surface. The queen may be

blind, but she saw through me. I have to try harder.

She was kind today, open in a way she hasn’t been before. She even

confirmed my suspicion that the roses’ magic gave her the power to see for

that moment in the garden. I should have welcomed her confidence. I

should have shared a story of my own. I should have done something to

begin the long journey to earning her trust.

Instead I mocked her. I mocked her because the worry in her eyes

hurt more than my legs. Because her promises to help made me hate her

more than I did before.

It’s too late for kindness. No amount of kindness can change who she

is or what her people have done to mine. Her moment of compassion only

proved she’s worse than I first assumed. To be cold and incapable of pity is

one thing; to have compassion and use it only when it’s convenient is

nothing less than evil.

I hate her so much my body aches with it, but I hate myself more. I

hate that I felt even a moment of pity for that little girl with her nightgown

on fire, or for the queen whose guards roll their eyes before obeying her

commands. No warrior of my tribe would ever treat his chief with such a

lack of respect, but the soldiers clearly feel no need to conceal their disdain

from the blind queen or her silent attendant.

Or from the monster whimpering on the floor.

They should be more careful. Everything I see and hear is my

weapon. Everything. From their disdain, to the way the silent woman’s

fingers move with words, to the flash of guilt in the queen’s eyes.

“Isra’s eyes,” I correct myself aloud. “Isra.”

I practice saying her name again and again, until it sounds the way it

did when she said it, until I sound like a Smooth Skin, until I fall asleep with

her name on my lips and dream of sand.

Thick, warm sand, rising up my thighs, trapping my chest, spilling into

my nose and mouth. Burying me alive.

SIX

ISRA

“HERE. Use the middle fork,” Bo says, pressing a utensil with a

smooth bone-covered handle into my hand. “The spoon is only for soup.”

“Thank you,” I mumble, cheeks flaming as I run my fingertips over

the heavily glazed duck on my plate, searching for a place to aim my fork.

By the moons, I know which utensil to use. I was simply trying to spare

myself the embarrassment of dirtying yet another napkin.

Whoever planned the menu for my coronation should be cast out of

the royal kitchens in disgrace. They couldn’t have made the meal more

challenging for their queen if they’d tried. I’ve already spilled soup on my

dress, sent half a boiled carrot leaping off my plate when I tried to cut it,

and dirtied four napkins with my sauce-covered fingers. And there is no

doubt that every member of court observed my failure. The banquet hall is

positively buzzing.

Buzz, buzz, buzz— the noise in the great room builds like a swarm of

bees, rattling my nerves, killing my appetite, stinging the skin on my face,

the only skin left completely exposed on this momentous day.

The sleeves of my coronation dress fall to my wrists; my skirt brushes