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Unduwu, sak kikat vuratavaksa wusnubaga. Pesava mi’ratis zakunva’awugavusa sutvunut metum di’nvusagu.?7

Damn you, get out of my head!I shout.

My mind seems to go very, very still, as though it’s holding its breath. The brief silence draws my attention to the pain in my shoulder, my cheek, my stomach. I feel surprised, curious, andhopeful—so hopeful, though I cannot figure out why I’m feeling anything beyond simple confusion. And there’s another sensation again, like water rushing, surging?—

You can hear me?This time, when the masculine voice speaks, it’s in Latin. Rough-edged, accented Latin but Latin all the same.

My breath catches. Should I respond? It’s probably a bad idea. No, it’sdefinitelya bad idea.

Yes, I say anyway.

At my answer, I feel a wondrous thrill and breathless joy.

At last!he says, though I don’t know if he’s speaking to me or not.

What’s that supposed to mean?I say, unnerved. I want the voice to go away, not for it to be eager to speak with me.

I will tell you more tonight, the voice says,but I cannot talk at the moment. I’m trying not to get killed.

Killed?

It takes a moment for the rest of his words to sink in. Wait, what’s this about tonight? The voice is making plans? Oh, no, no, no.

We’re not going to speak again, I insist.Not tonight or any other time.

We are, the voice says with horrible certainty.

He mentioned just now that he was trying not to get killed. I can’t make sense of that. But I do know this: death is a permanent end. Probably even for wretched voices in my head.

Then I hope you die, so I never have to hear you again.It’s a vile thing to confess, even to an abstract voice.

I don’t regret it.

There’s another pause, and I feel that rush of joy bleed away.

Just because you said that, I’m going to makesureI live, he says.

The voice retreats.

I wait a few moments, but I think he’s gone.

I was wrong. The voice is not gone.

Whatever this entity is, he clearly survived the ordeal he was in the middle of because I hear him talk incessantly throughout the day, through the fitting appointment Livia scheduled with stern-faced Septima—who eyes my outfit and hair with begrudging approval and my swollen cheek with obvious disapproval—and as we meet with the family of a Praetorian Guard to fit them with lighter, brighter fabrics for spring and summer.

His voice is there while Livia lectures me on our way home, and it’s there while Livia reads the notes on her wax tablet and I prepare dinner for her, my own stomach cramping from hunger. The voice has reverted into that other language. It’s coarse and guttural and drags goose bumps from my skin.

And it won’t shut up.

For the love of the gods, will you please stop talking?I beg after I nearly drop the pitcher of wine I’m pouring from.

I’m in a foul mood. My head throbs from the stress of having a second voice in my head, there’s still that phantom pain in my shoulder, and I’ve been struck several more times today by Livia for being absent-minded. And that’s all on top of my gnawing, swelling hunger. The cursed veil I’m supposed to detail remains unfinished, and I don’t dare defy Livia’s orders by eating.

I’m not talking. I’m thinking, the voice snaps back in Latin.

Well, it’s distracting, I say, annoyed.

I’ve had to listen to your voice for years, and you could never hear me when I told you to shut up. I’m sure you can bear it for a day.