Page 11

Only then, in the wake of both my parents’ ire, was I reminded of the horrors I’d seen, and that while I might have power and purpose among the Cruors, I still answered to them.

It was my father who insisted that I needed friends my own age—and strong-willed, so they were less easily molded.

To that point, most of the children who visited the estate were younger. I enjoyed being in charge when we were left alone, but Father convinced Mother that if I was going to learn boundaries, it would be at the hands of peers who could challenge me.

And in the weeks that followed, I met her.

It was early in the Year of the Lion. Spring Solstice was almost immediately followed by the Days of Ember, a ceremonial fasting peppered with rituals and rites, followed by a fast-breaking feast.

In the days leading to it, the guest wings bustled with visitors. My parents even brought in extra servants. I grew weary of greeting strangers, and of old family acquaintances exclaiming over how much I’d grown. So I took to riding Athos out in the morning while the adults were still sleeping off their festivities from the night before, and not returning until it was time to bathe and dress for dinner.

That afternoon, I was late returning from my ride.

She stood in the aisle of the stables, dressed simply so that I thought she must be a new servant. But she was small. Young. Her face fresh and open like a child’s, though her body put me in mind of the maids.

She stood on tiptoe, peering over the door of the stable, smiling at one of the stablehands busy brushing down a broodmare.

Her hair was as flaxen as Athos’s tail. Her cheeks pink, and blue eyes sparkling. She was a wisp of a girl who looked like she’d be blown over by a strong gust of wind. The kind of girl that made me feel strong.

But she smiled at the stablehand the same way I saw Mother smile at Father sometimes, and for some reason it irritated me.

“The servant needs to work,” I snapped. “And that mare’s heavy-footed—you’ll regret letting her near your toes in those boots. Move on. You must have a job to do,” I called down the aisle as I walked Athos into his stable and turned my back to remove his saddle and bridle. I’d run him hard. The sweat had dried on his shoulders and neck, and would still be wet under his girth and saddle-blanket. I needed to wash him down, which risked making me late for my own bath. But the closer we grew, the less inclined Athos was to allow the stablehands to handle him—even the older, stronger grooms.

I usually didn’t mind. It was just further evidence that I was special and deserved the regard of others. But days like this when I was tired, it felt like a burden. I was growing quickly, my height outstripping my weight more each day, so it was no longer a stretch to pull Athos’s saddle from his spine. But, when I turned for the door to walk it out, my way was blocked by a bright-eyed pale-skinned, smile.

“He’s beautiful!” she breathed, and stepped inside.

“Hold!” I barked, but I was too late. She’d already slipped into the stable, her thin-soled boots disappearing into the straw.

Athos’s head tossed, his reins flapping because I still hadn’t removed his bridle. But with both hands full of saddle, there was nothing I could do but watch, agape, as a girl several inches shorter than me, and without the body weight to unbalance a child’s pony, whispered to my stallion, and leaned into his nose, cupping his muzzle, blowing back at him when he inhaled her scent.

And, as if he were the child’s pony I’d conjured in my mind, she grinned and reached up to scratch behind his ears—his favorite spot. He leaned into the affection, tipping his great head so his thick neck tilted and that mane that matched hers fluttered with the movement.

Within days, I was as enthralled by her as my stallion had been.

So enthralled, in fact, that I grew nervous in her presence. Nerves made me angry, so I became snappish and bossy around her—even more so than usual. Because no matter how many times we spoke, I never stopped feeling a flutter behind my ribs.

Her name was Calliope. I called her Cali. And though she was small, I learned she was older than me by months.

Cali’s features didn’t match—wide, bold lips under a small, snub nose. Large eyes winged by thin brows. Freckles that she hated, but I loved.

There was nothing to her. Even in our youth, I could lift and carry her without puffing.

She was an inexplicable mix of childish delight, and womanly wiles. She kept me constantly off-balance and aware of my youth—while she also marveled at my power and knowledge of an adult world she didn’t yet understand.

Over the course of that year, with all the rituals and rites, Cali and her family—an old but low-ranked family—visited often. And each time, I grew more agitated when they left.

She was the first child of a Cruor to hesitantly admit to me that she hated the rituals, just as I did. And yet, she smiled easily. Cali laughed like a boy—from her belly. She was bold, unafraid.

At twelve, she didn’t care if her clothing was dirtied in the stable.

At thirteen, she stood in my defense in a room where I wasn’t present, and bloodied a boy’s nose. Then cried when her parents took her away from our estate for the winter.

At fourteen, she tossed her hair, called me on my shit, and let me touch her breasts in a dark corner of the stable loft while the rest of the estate was getting drunk.

No one could make me laugh harder. And no one could set my blood alight faster.

When she turned fifteen, she snuck into my room in the darkest hours of night. I asked her if she was sure.