Page 62 of Last of Her Name

“You were so terrified of lightning,” he reminds me.

“And you said it couldn’t find us in the Vanishing Tent. That it was old aeyla magic.”

“You believed in it till you were ten or something.”

“Older than that,” I whisper. “I just didn’t tell you.”

“Well, you never got hit by lightning, did you? Who’s to say it didn’t work?”

I laugh, but my breath hitches with longing for the past, for when our problems were so simple that just pulling a sheet over our heads could make them disappear. I recall the nights when storms rocked the vineyard, thunder stampeding over the hills and lightning splitting the sky, glowing in the bellies of the great violet clouds. And Pol and I, and sometimes Clio too, huddled in the house under bedsheets, where the lightning couldn’t find us. We would play Triangulum and tell stories and dare each other to spill our darkest secrets. Always, we ended up falling asleep in a tangle, where our parents would leave us until morning.

“I loved Afka after a storm,” I whisper. “It was like a new world. Everything washed clean, the colors brighter.”

Pol nods, eyes shutting again. He shudders, and I hold my breath, thinking the pain is starting again. But after a moment he relaxes and says, “I remember we picked up the fallen slinke leaves and wove them into hats.”

“You and me and Clio.”

“You and me and Clio.”

I stare into his eyes, seeing my own memories play out in them. But then he shuts them again, his face weary.

“You could be back there now, both of you,” I whisper. “If you hadn’t gotten tangled up with me.”

“Stop.”

“What?”

“Don’t play that game, blaming yourself for everything.”

“Youdo.”

“Yes, well, it’s my job to protect you, not the other way around.”

“Then what do you call this?” I raise his hand, squeezing it.

Now his eyes open, just barely. “It’s starting again.”

“I’m right here,” I whisper, bracing myself as he seizes with pain.

When we emerge from the cabin hours later, I’m more exhausted than I’ve ever been in my life. Pol looks a wreck, and I’m no better. At least he’s cleaned up, after showering and changing into spare tensor robes Riyan found for him. Mara and Riyan are sitting in the main deck, playing Triangulum, but they shut down the game when we stumble in.

“Whoa,” Riyan says. “Nice horns, brother.”

Pol’s horns are now ten inches long, starting just behind his hairline and arcing gracefully behind him, ivory white and ridged. In addition to his horns’ growth, his cheekbones and jaw have sharpened a little, making him look more aeyla than human.

Stars, I’m staring too long. I pull my eyes away, looking instead at Riyan and Mara.

“Did you guys find paint?”

Mara nods and stands up. She brings me a metal tray with several puddles of colored pigment on it. Her eyes are hollow and red from lack of sleep, but she’s at least willing to talk to us now. I’m not sure how she’s coping—I’ve been so preoccupied with Pol—but it seems we’ve struck a fragile truce. Still, she doesn’t quite meet my eyes.

“It’s not like we had a commissary to shop at,” she says, “but we found some flare powder and mixed it with water. Close enough, I hope.”

Pol stares at the tray as I turn to him. “What are you doing, Stace?”

“You only get one Trying. Did you think I’d let you skip the actualgoodpart of it?”

He clears his throat, his voice rough when he replies. “An elder usually conducts the rite.”