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SHE LAY FAR above rushing water.
Maybe he had pretended. Maybe he'd walked away while her eyes were closed, changed his mind, gone back home.
No. He hadn't pretended. Her eyes had never closed. She had seen.
IT WAS NECESSARY that she no longer be on this bridge. Of that, she was fairly certain. But she couldn't walk, because the bridge was too high in the air for walking on. What if she stayed here? What if she clung to a memory of a cold mountain, of Katsa's body giving her heat, of Katsa's arms holding her safe to the earth?
Crawl, she could crawl. There was no shame in crawling when one couldn't walk. Someone had said that to her once. Someone—
"Hey."
The voice from above was familiar.
"Hey, what are you doing? Are you hurt?"
The person attached to the voice was touching her with his hands, brushing off an accumulation of snow. "Hey, can you get up?"
She shook her head.
"Can you talk? Is it the heights, Sparks?"
Yes. No. She shook her head.
"You're scaring me," he said. "How long have you been out here? I'm picking you up."
"No," she managed, because being picked up was too high.
"Why don't you tell me what four hundred seventy-six times four hundred seventy-seven is, all right?"
Saf gathered her up, gathered her sword too, and carried her to the drawbridge tower while she clung to him, and tried to work that one out.
INSIDE, IT WAS warm. There were braziers. When he lowered her to a chair, she held on to one of his arms and wouldn't let him go.
"Sparks," he said, on his knees before her, taking off her gloves and hat, feeling her hands and face, "this is not cold sickness, and I get the feeling that it's more than your fear of heights. Last time you were afraid of heights, you had a tongue to curse me with."
Bitterblue was holding his arm so hard that she thought her fingers would break. And then he put his other arm around her and pulled her into a hug. She transferred all her clinging pressure to his torso, hugging him back. Shaking. "Tell me what's wrong," he said.
She tried. She really did. She couldn't.
"Whisper it in my ear," he said.
His ear was warm on her nose. The gold stud in his earlobe was hard and comforting on her lip. Three words. It would only take three words and then he would understand. "Thiel," she whispered. "Jumped off."
This was met with stillness, then an exhalation, then a tightening of his arms. Then moving, lifting, resettling, until he was in the chair, holding her in his lap, holding her tight while she shook.
SHE WOKE TO him settling her onto blankets on the floor. "Stay with me," she said. "Don't go."
He lay beside her and wrapped his arms around her. She slept.
* * * * *
SHE WOKE AGAIN to low voices. Gentle hands. People leaning over her in snow-covered coats. "She'll be all right," said Raffin.
Saf 's voice said something about the snow. "Maybe you should stay here," he said.
Po's voice said something about horses, about it being too dangerous to draw attention. Po's voice! Po was holding her, kissing her face. "Keep her safe," he said. "I'll wait for her at the bottom of the bridge when the storm is over."
Then she was alone with Saf again. "Po?" she said, turning in confusion.
"He was here," Saf replied.
"Saf," she said, finding his face in the dimness. "Do you forgive me?"
"Shh," said Saf, stroking her hair, her falling-out braids. "Yes, Lady Queen. I forgave you some time ago."
"Why are you crying?"
"A lot of reasons," he said.
She wiped the tears from Saf's face. She fell asleep.
SHE WOKE FROM a nightmare of falling. Ashen, herself, bones, everyone, everything, falling. She woke crying out and thrashing and was astonished, then devastated, to find Saf there holding her, comforting her, for this time she was truly awake, and with Saf, all the other truths of the waking world rushed back. And so she clung to him to push them away, pressed herself against him. She felt the length of his body against hers; she felt his hands. She heard his whispers, let him fill her ears and her skin. She kissed him. When he responded to her kisses, she kissed him more.
"Are you certain you want this?" he whispered, when it became clear what was happening. "Are you certain that you're certain?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Are you?"
* * * * *
WHAT IT DID was return her to herself. For Saf reminded her of trust, of her capacity for comfort, her willingness to be loved. So that afterwards, when the pain came rushing back again, fresh and relentless, she had the strength to bear it, and a friend to hold her while she sobbed.
She cried for the part of her soul that had been clinging to Thiel and had fallen with him into the water, the part of herself that he'd torn away when he'd jumped. She cried for her failure to save him. Most of all, she cried for what Thiel's life had been.
"No more nightmares," Saf whispered. "Dream of something that will comfort you."
"I want to think he was happy sometimes."
"Sparks, I'm sure he was."
A picture of Thiel's room, stark and comfortless, came to her. "I never saw him happy. I know of nothing he enjoyed."
"Who did he love?"
The question sucked her breath away. "My mother," she whispered, "and me."
"Dream of that love."
She dreamed of her wedding. She couldn't see whom she was marrying, that person never entered the scene, and it didn't matter. What mattered was that there was music, played on all the castle's instruments, and the music made everyone happy, and she danced with her mother and Thiel.
IT WAS EARLY morning when her growling stomach woke her. She opened her eyes to light, and the strange comfort of the dream. Then, memory. Aches, all over, from Thiel fighting her, Thiel pushing her, from crying, loss, from Saf. The snow had stopped and the sky shone blue through three tiny round windows. Saf slept beside her.
It wasn't fair, how innocent he looked when he was sleeping. The fresh bruising around his eye and the purple that showed through the Lienid markings of his arm were also unfair. She hadn't noticed those bruises in the dimness of the day before, and he'd certainly given her no indication of them.
How loyal and gentle Saf had been with her, and without her asking it of him. As quick to love as he was to anger, as quick to warmth as to foolishness, and he had a tenderness she wouldn't have expected from him. She wondered if you could love someone you didn't understand.
His eyes flickered open, soft purples shining on her. When he saw her, he smiled.
Dream something nice, he'd said to her that night in the shop, like babies. And she had. Dream of that love.
"Saf?" she said.
"Yes?"
"I think I know what your Grace is."
IT WAS THE thing about dreams. They were so odd by nature, and they left one with such a feeling of the unreal, that how was one ever to notice when they themselves behaved strangely?
The Grace of giving dreams was a beautiful Grace for someone contrary and dear to have. She told him so as she strapped on her knives and he tried to convince her to stay a bit longer.
"We need to experiment," he said. "We need to test whether it's true. What if I can give you a dream by just wishing it and not saying a word? What if I can give you a highly detailed dream, like Teddy in pink stockings holding a duck? I have food here, you know. You must be starving. Stay and eat something."
"I'm not taking the food you need," Bitterblue said, stepping into her gown, "and people will be worried about me, Saf."
"Do you suppose I could give you bad dreams?"
"I haven't the slightest doubt. You'll stay in this room, won't you, now that it's daylight?"
"My sister is sick."
"I know," she said. "I'm told she'll be all right. I've sent her Madlen. I'll send someone to you with news as soon as we have it, I promise. You understand you've got to stay here, don't you? You won't risk being seen?"
"I'm going to go out of my skull with boredom in this room, aren't I," said Saf, sighing, then pushing his blankets aside, reaching for his clothing.
"Wait," Bitterblue said.
"What?" he said, glaring at her. "What—"
Bitterblue had never seen a man naked, and she was curious. She decided the universe owed her a few minutes, just a few, to satisfy her curiosity. So she went to him and knelt, which shut him up.
"I'll give you a dream," he whispered to her. "A wonderful dream. I won't tell you."
"An experiment?" said Bitterblue with the tiniest smile.
"An experiment, Sparks."
SHE KNEW THAT the bridge would be more or less horrible. She pushed herself quickly to the middle, as far from the edge as possible. The wind had died down at some point in the night and snow had accumulated, which was welcome. Pushing through it distracted her from focusing on where she was.
It also helped to know that Saf was watching from the drawbridge tower and would come out into broad daylight to help her if she stopped, or visibly panicked, or fell. She would hide her panic from him and push on; yes, as long as she was panicking, she may as well push on.
A lifetime later, she was even with the staircase, and here, she ceased to care what Saf saw. On her hands and knees, she approached the steps, then appraised them. The snow had drifted across them unevenly. A person stood at the bottom, his face and hair hidden behind a hood. He pushed the hood back. Po.
Bitterblue sat down on the highest step and began to cry.
He climbed up to her, sat on the outer edge beside her, and put his arm around her. Such a relief not to have to talk or explain. Such a relief for her to remember, and him to know.
"It's not your fault, sweetheart."
Don't, Po. Just—don't.
"All right," he said. "I'm sorry."
What he did do was pull off her hat, wind up her loose hair, and stick the hat back on so that her hair wasn't visible. Then pulled her collar up and tugged the hat even lower. And then he stood at the outer edge as they climbed down, keeping his arm around her, and led her through empty alleys to a narrow door in a wall.
Through the door was a very long, very dark and dank tunnel.
When they finally reached the tunnel's end and light seeped through the crack at the bottom of another door, he said, "Hang on a minute. There are too many people just now."
"Are we about to step into the east corridor?" Bitterblue asked.
"Yes, and cross over to the secret passage that leads up to your father's rooms."
"Why are we sneaking?"
"So that everyone believes that you came back to the castle yesterday, told us about Thiel, and have been in your rooms ever since," said Po.
"So that no one will remember the existence of the drawbridge tower," she said.
"Yes."
"Or wonder how you all knew about Thiel."
"Yes."
"You've already told everyone?"
"Yes."
Oh, thank you. Thank you for taking that job from me.
"All right," said Po. "Let's move quickly."
Brilliant light as they stepped into the corridor. They crossed to a hanging of a green wildcat, behind which they passed through another door and into more darkness. They had no lamp as they climbed the winding passage, so Po warned her of steps in the path.
Finally, they clambered out from behind another heavy hanging, into Leck's rooms. Bitterblue stumbled up the stairs. At the top, Po knocked. A key was heard to turn in the lock. When the door opened, Bitterblue fell into Helda's waiting arms.