Page 120 of Shadows of Perl

He’s right.

The Dragunhead was right. I have a weakness for her. She is all I think about. And not just because of the mission. The flaps to Quell’s tent ripple in the wind. Tucked into my bed, I pull the covers tighter around myself. I have to stay away from her. My brother shuffles in his blankets. I suppose there are worse things in the world than having a brother who’s determined to be a pain and tell me the truth.

“Yags, do you remember the time we found all those dead rats in the country house?”

My brother answers with snores. Tomorrow. We’ll talk about that story tomorrow.

Forty-Four

Quell

I hang on Jordan’s breaths until they slow and his body is still. Then I unzip my tent and step over him onto my shaky limbs. I thought he’d never fall asleep. But my throat is parched. And my dry skin itches all over. The burning sensation that tugged at my bones in that cave still rages inside me. I need to get to the ocean and cool down. I force my knees to lock, engaging every muscle to keep me from collapsing.

My toushana flutters as I stumble down the rocky mountainside. The streets of the town at the base of the hill are barren of people. I hurry past the harbor and don’t stop until my feet hit sand.

Cold water crashes against my toes and a comforting chill shivers up my legs. But my body is still slick with sweat. I rip off my outer layers until I’m down to just underclothes and wade deep into the water, letting the coolness wash over me. With my eyes closed, I let myself sink into that weightlessness the ocean gives me, the feeling I love so much. The motion of the water rocks me back and forth. The gentle cadence soothes me, and I can feel the chilly water chipping away at my body temperature.

Finally, I open my eyes. And the island stares back at me. There’s no one there waiting on the shore. There’s no pink-striped towel with a cooler of snacks.

No little house with little windows. No safe haven.

Momma.

Suddenly the water is too cold and the salt in my eyes stings. The world is heavier. I swim back to the shore and try to exhale.

But the memories shatter me.

I can see a tiny jar that used to hold our money, covered with the swirls of blue fingerpaint. I can see the look on Mom’s face when she handed me her dagger—one that I had to barter to save my life. One she could have used to save herself from the wolves. My knees go out from under me. The roar of the waves crashing around me is too loud. The moon is too bright. And the water is far too cold.

Moisture wells in my eyes but I hold in the tears. I have to be strong or I’ll never peel myself up off this sand. I crawl the rest of the way to the shore, my hands digging in the sand. I can see the castles she and I were supposed to build. The ones made of sand and the real ones we daydreamed of having. How do I do this without you? Droplets fall on the back of my hand. And the longer I cry, the more it hurts. I lie there, hugging my knees, imagining that if I curl up into a ball tightly enough, I could disappear. Maybe this is all some kind of terrible dream. But I squeeze and squeeze and the only thing I feel is more hollow.

The pain hurts, deep inside. In a place I never reached. One I didn’t know existed. A hole so vast and so deeply unreachable, it can never be filled.

I cry out to the waves but they only lap gently in response. I pound the sand until my fist is red. Every part of me hurts—the parts I show the world, and the parts I’ve never seen. I try to remember the last thing she said to me or the last thing I said to her. But it’s all a haze of shadows.

“A house. With tiny windows. On the beach.” I shake with a guttural pain so deep I expect to see the bloodstains on the sand. “You were supposed to be here.”

I dig for anger but only find more tears.

Enough to drown the ocean behind me.

And it’s still not enough.

Forty-Five

Jordan

A jolt slides against my ribs like a sharpened knife. I sit up, blinking. I check the time. I was out for an hour or two—it couldn’t have been more. Yagrin’s sack hasn’t moved. The tent, however, is unzipped, and I don’t have to peer inside to know Quell’s gone.

Then my heart pangs with a deep ache of sadness, with a heaviness like I’ve never felt. The trace knocks in my chest, wedging deeper, then twisting so hard that it urges me to my feet. I inhale, pushing breath to all my heightened senses. But there isn’t a whiff of lilac or jasmine. Quell is nowhere near here. The trace jabs my heart again, and the grief is so strong I can feel the weight pressing on my shoulders.

Only one place would make her feel like this.

I find Quell staring out at the water, hugging around herself. Her skin bathes in the moonlight, and breath sticks in my chest. I shouldn’t be here. Not when my head is this cloudy. Not when I feel her pain so strongly. My hands find their way into my pockets, and every urge to back away from the sand, from the crash of the waves, from her, abandons me.

“Quell.” The word falls out of my mouth.

Her chin slides over her shoulder.