Corinne Duyvis: Otherbound

The gratitude felt like a betrayal. At least Maart was so busy plucking the used clothes from their bags that he might not see her hands.

Cilla nodded. The heels of her boots brushed past the wood paneling under and beside the bed as she swung her legs left and right, as if she was trying to keep busy. It made her look younger. Cilla didn’t move like that often, but right now, her legs were swinging the same way any normal girl’s might, and that caught Amara’s attention just as much as Cilla’s self-possession did.

It shouldn’t , Amara reminded herself.

Maart sat by the bucket he’d carried in and worked stubbornly on. His breaths still came heavily. He must’ve rushed back to the inn, lugging that heavy bucket with him, worried sick. But with Cilla here, they couldn’t talk. Amara lowered her head and continued her work, dust and dirt tickling her nose. She held in a sneeze. For too long, the only sounds in the room were Maart’s scrubbing, the swishing of Cilla’s legs, Amara’s hands brushing the ground.

Finally, Jorn returned, his hair still wet, a bag of supplies in his arms. He put them away, ignoring Amara and Maart, and went back out. Cilla eagerly followed him to the pub downstairs. Amara waited for the door to shut behind them and sat upright. “That wasn’t smart. You can’t ignore Cilla like that.”

A leg of one of Amara’s winterwears flopped over the edge of the laundry bucket as Maart shoved it away, freeing his hands to sign. “I don’t care. What she did—”

“We don’t know if she told Jorn! And learning to read and write was my choice to make. Our choice. You’re lucky Jorn didn’t recognize your handwriting.”

“You shouldn’t thank her. You shouldn’t even be checking that floor! Let those splinters stab her instead of you. Let her die. Why do you even care about putting her on the throne?”

“I don’t.” Her hands moved snappishly. Any fool knew the Alineans should have the Dunelands throne back—they had never abused magic the way the ministers did—but what did it matter to her and Maart? Servants would stay servants. “I—no. Maart, I don’t want to fight. Let’s play a game,” she signed, but even as she did, she wasn’t sure what kind of game. Jorn had burned her practice papers along with her hands, and the only paper left sat in his bag. He’d notice if they took any. They’d once had a game board and pieces and a set of dice, but they’d abandoned those weeks ago when they’d fled a farm. “No, no game. Stories. Tell me about …”

“It still smells,” Maart said. A dripping wet topscarf rested on his lap. The soap reached to his elbows, and he flicked water and suds around with every word he signed. “The room still smells. Amara, I can’t … I should’ve done something. I should’ve fought.”

“We could hum,” Amara said, thinking back to the day before, when they’d started out with a tune and ended up pitching their hums higher and higher, until Amara could no longer match his and ended up laughing so hard her stomach hurt. They used to do that all the time, and that was the Maart she wanted right now.

He didn’t respond. Didn’t smile, either. His lips stayed in that same, by now too familiar, straight line.

Amara relented. “What could you have done? What’s your great plan? Look at me: I’m fine. You wouldn’t be.”

Maart’s skinny eyebrows sank and knitted together. This seriousness didn’t suit him. His signs slowed down with intention. “We can run.”

“He’d find us.” He’d kill them.

“We can run fast .”

“That’s not a plan.” Amara scoffed. “You’ll get us killed by talking like that, you idiot.”

Last month Maart might’ve grinned at that. Now, he simply drew back, stone-faced.

Amara hadn’t meant … She sighed. Her eyes shut. Maart was the only person in the world on her side. The only person she could talk to—and the only one she could shout at freely. And she needed to shout. Sometimes she didn’t think she could keep it all in. It simmered under her skin, pushing outward until her body no longer felt like her own.

She’d need to keep it there. Maart wasn’t the right person to shout at.

“I’m sorry.” Amara walked over and lowered herself to her haunches. She reached for the side of Maart’s neck. Her fingers ran over the raised skin of his servant tattoo, identical to hers but for the different palace sigil in the center. That was her answer. People would recognize those tattoos anywhere they ran, if they didn’t recognize their signing first. They’d deliver her and Maart to the nearest minister, who would punish or kill them for abandoning their duties—and if anyone realized Amara and Maart had betrayed the new regime by protecting the princess, they’d be just as dead, but their executioners would put a lot more thought into how.

Given Amara’s healing, they’d need to put thought into it.

Jorn had enchanted some of their possessions to act as anchors to let him track them. Even if they ran fast enough to escape the anchors’ reach, they’d have no food and no shelter and no way to get the money needed for either.

“It’s not right.” Maart’s hands moved reluctantly. “Standing there, doing nothing, while Jorn—while you—” He stopped at that, jabbing at Amara’s chest.

“It’s hard to watch. I know.” Amara bet it was harder to feel. She didn’t say that, instead inching closer, balancing on the balls of her feet. “Don’t talk about running.”

“Jorn can’t see.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Even this felt dangerous. They were too open here, too visible, with this entire wide room around them. Jorn would know. Somehow, he’d know. Maart was wide-shouldered and strong, but going up against a mage—even a mage like Jorn, who couldn’t heal—never made for a fair fight. Amara didn’t know what Jorn would do to Maart. Or Jorn might remember that he needed Maart functioning and he’d take out his anger on Amara, instead, and she didn’t—she didn’t want—

She sucked in a breath that stuck in her throat. She didn’t want to anger Jorn. That was all.

“You can’t ignore—” Maart started.

That only made her want to shout again. She chose the better option, rising and leaning in to smother Maart’s words with her torso. His hands stilled, turning into flat palms, still slick from the laundry water, against her ribs. As they slid across her skin, she kissed him. His lips were sticky-sweet from breakfast fruits. The older kind, overripe and dented, because that was all people like them got. They squeezed the fruits, anyway. Juice and pulp went down easier in hollow mouths.

Her teeth nibbled Maart’s lips, Alinean-full like Cilla’s. Bless his grandfather for passing those on. Amara hid a moan as Maart’s fingers crept higher on her chest. This close, the scent of him drowned out all others.

He smiled against her lips, and she smiled back, knotting her fingers into his topscarf. These were all the words she wanted right now.

The good thing was, when you puked often enough, you learned where in the toilet bowl to aim in order to minimize splatter.

The bad thing was, you automatically shut your eyes in the process. In Nolan’s case, that meant switching between feeling his knees on cool tiles and acid in his throat to witnessing Amara and Maart in the alcove bed, leaving him with mental whiplash and voyeur guilt and—in short—terrible aim.

“Nolan?” Pat thumped a fist on the bathroom door. “You, uh, need anything?”

Nolan wiped his mouth with too-thin toilet paper. Then he yanked off some extra sheets, slammed his hand to the roll to keep it from spinning endlessly, and wiped the toilet seat, too. “Did Mom send you up?” He sounded pathetic. If it’d been Mom out there, he’d have cleared his throat and aimed for a laugh, but he didn’t need to with Pat—