Page 6

There’s something mesmerizing about writing.

The neat lines, the straight, sharp edges.

The ability to look at rows and rows of lines arranged just so and draw from them language .

To hear in your mind words that someone else spoke, someone else imagined and felt.

To me, it’s nearly as supernatural as having a literal voice in my head.

I watch as Livia writes instructions onto her wax tablet in the domus of the Juventia family.

Longing grips me. I know what she’s writing is largely mundane and that the task itself can be slow and tedious, but unlike tailoring clothes, I don’t think I would mind the tedium, just as I never minded learning Sarmatian, though it took me nearly two years to really understand the language.

Livia, however, has chosen not to teach me how to write, and I doubt she ever will. Not when she has all the help from me she needs. Besides, educating me would raise my worth in ways that would make her decidedly uncomfortable.

“The tunic will need to have a Tyrian purple edging,” says Quinta, our client, as she appraises her bored-looking son, Gaius. “I also would like a little gold detailing.”

While Livia writes everything down, I take the young nobleman’s measurements. He’s probably only a few years my senior, yet he seems much older. Power has carved into him the way pain has carved into me.

Livia finishes writing out the instructions and tucks away her wax tablet and stylus.

“While you’re here,” Quinta says to Livia, “I was hoping to show you a few of my own garments I’d like embellished.”

Livia glances at me briefly. It’s taken years, but finally I can read Livia’s looks and sense her moods. This time, I know she wants me to finish measuring Quinta’s son, then assist her.

I give her a subtle nod as she follows her client out of the room.

Gaius stares after them as their voices grow distant. Once they’re out of earshot, his attention moves to me.

I take a final measurement from his hips to the tops of his knees, then to his heels, knotting the bit of yarn I’m using to mark the length.

“You look pretty on your knees like that,” Gaius comments.

I pause, not entirely sure the young noble is even speaking to me. Why, after all, would a senator’s son bother to talk to a tailor’s assistant? But when I glance up at Gaius’s face, he’s watching me with sharp eyes and an amused twist of his lips.

Gaius begins lifting the hem of his tunic up his legs, past his knees, and heat floods my cheeks as I finally understand. He is talking to me, and the compliment—if it can even be called that—has claws.

Fear takes root. I’ve heard enough stories of privileged men having their way with whomever they pleased.

I lower the yarn. “I think that’s all I need,” I say quickly, trying to pretend the moment out of existence.

I rise from my knees, only for Gaius’s hand to grasp my shoulder and push me back down.

“We’re not done here,” he says, and his eyes have a determined gleam in them.

Now my fear blooms into full-blown terror.

Roxi? Memnon reaches out to me, his voice full of concern. I have to ignore him just to focus on this moment.

I swallow. “There’s nothing else I need,” I insist. I feel like a fool, pretending his aggression away, but I don’t know what else to do, and I can’t think over my rising panic.

His grip on me relaxes, and I think he might let me go, but as soon as I stand, he steps into my space.

“But there’s something I need,” Gaius says.

The amusement is back in his expression, but everything else about him feels menacing.

He keeps stepping forward, forcing me to back up.

My gaze darts to the doorway, but Gaius has positioned himself between me and it, and I’m not confident I could get past him if I tried.

“Please,” I say, forcing my gaze to return to Gaius, though I don’t want to look at him. “I need to get back to help your mother.”

The nobleman doesn’t seem to care about my plea or my reluctance. His hands move to my torso, roughly pawing at my body.

Roxi, what is going on? Memnon says, his tone growing sharp. I can feel your fear…

I hardly hear Memnon. My mind is racing. I think I’m in shock.

I place my hands on Gaius’s chest, and I try to shove the man back.

“My mother can wait,” he says. “Just relax.” Gaius grabs my wrists and restrains them in one of his hands. “This is going to feel good, I swear it.”

Once my wrists are in his grip, I panic and begin to struggle in earnest, trying to pry my arms free.

“Relax,” Gaius growls out again as he shoves me against the wall. He uses his own body to pin me in place.

The young nobleman begins to feel me up again with his free hand, his fingers moving to my thigh, where he gathers the fabric of my stola.

No, no, no.

A scream is climbing up my throat, and it wants to claw its way out. I grind my teeth together to muffle it. This is a patrician household, the top of society. They can do what they want, when they want, with near immunity. No one will come to my rescue for this.

Gaius presses a clumsy, wet kiss against my cheek, and I squeeze my eyes shut, my jaw beginning to tremble, a tear leaking out.

Memnon—Memnon, Memnon, Memnon. I don’t know why I chant his name. He cannot do anything more than I can.

Roxi, are you okay? Memnon asks, that edge still in his voice. What is going on?

Beneath my breastbone, pressure begins to build. It feels as though my mounting fear is pushing against my rib cage, determined to be set free.

Help , I plead brokenly, even though I know it’s impossible. I can’t get him off me…

Get him off…? Dimly, I sense Memnon’s alarm, followed by his anguish and a rising ruthlessness.

Listen to me , he says, his voice like iron. If you are being attacked, then by the gods, hurt that fucker.

Hurt him? The thought comes like an epiphany, even as pressure continues to build in my chest, squeezing the air from my lungs and pushing its way up into my throat and down to my abdomen.

Memnon continues. The eyes, the nose, the throat, the lower belly, and the groin are all weak points , he says. If you don’t have a blade, use your nails, your knuckles, or your knees. Strike fast and hard.

I go still as I listen, and Gaius mistakes it for compliance, releasing my wrists so that he can better lift his own garment.

Once you’ve landed a blow , Memnon says, don’t hesitate—run or attack again. Don’t give him time to recover from his surprise.

Land a blow , I repeat.

Okay, I—I think I can do that.

Only, the pressure inside me is becoming impossible to ignore. It’s rapidly expanded to every corner of my body—arms, legs, fingers, and toes—heating my blood and pushing at the underside of my skin.

I move my hands back to Gaius’s chest as he continues to fumble with our clothes, my thoughts churning.

Can’t breathe through the pressure—don’t know where to strike—need him to get off me ? —

My fingers dig into Gaius’s chest and panic swallows up my reasoning. Need to get him off me. I latch on to that thought: Need to get him off me.

All of that dispersed pressure and heat moves , gathering once more beneath my rib cage before flowing down my arms and into my palms. Get off me, get off me—GET OFF ME.

The pressure releases all at once.

Beneath my touch, Gaius is blown backward, his body enveloped in a cloud of pale orange smoke. He hits the ground hard, his head cracking against the marble floor.

For several seconds, all I can do is draw in ragged breaths. Gaius lies unconscious on the ground, that pale orange smoke filling the air between us.

Roxi, what just happened? Memnon asks. I felt something through our connection. Are you all right?

I turn my hands over, staring at my palms. I have to bite back a scream as more of that colored smoke seeps out of my flesh . It looks like burning incense. I curl my hands into fists, hoping to smother the smoke. Still, wisps of it slip out between the creases of my skin.

Gaius stirs on the ground, and I press my back into the wall, wishing it could swallow me up. Memnon told me I needed to react quickly at this point—either fight or flee—but I can’t seem to do much more than gape.

The young nobleman sits up and groans, touching his head. His fingers come away red. It seems to take him a moment to see me and remember the situation.

“Did you…push me?” Gaius says softly, glancing around the room and the distance between us. It’s his turn to be the disbelieving one.

I don’t have an answer for him. All I know is that my fear is twisting my stomach in knots.

Are you all right? Memnon repeats.

I don’t know , I say.

Are you hurt? he rephrases.

No. I’m shocked to say it because it feels like I should be, and maybe tomorrow there will be bruises, but… No , I repeat.

What is the state of your attacker?

I study Gaius, noticing the unsteady sway of his upper body and the blood dampening his hair. He’s injured.

I sense Memnon’s relief as well as something that feels like…pride.

Well done, Roxilana.

Of course a warrior like him would be pleased. My gut, however, still churns.

Are you safe? he asks.

Not…yet.

If he tries anything else , Memnon says grimly, hurt him again.

At the thought of doing so, more orange smoke spills from my hands and circles my body.

Across from me, Gaius pushes himself to his feet, his limbs trembling.

He eyes me up and down like he’s unsure what to do.

Finally, he looks young. Young and uncertain and…

weak . Once more, he takes in the distance between us, then backs away from me slowly.

When he reaches the doorway, he spares me one final, wary glance, then dashes out.

I can hear the slap of his leather sandals as he retreats.

As soon as he’s gone, I place a hand over my mouth and slide down the wall, silent tears dripping down my cheeks.

Wisps of that light orange smoke still slip out of the palm pressed to my mouth. I’m breathing it in, and the sensation of it sliding into my lungs causes my flesh to pimple.

Roxilana? Memnon says softly. I am still here with you. He sounds like he’s been there the whole time, sitting in the back of my mind, keeping me company the only way he can.

That makes me cry harder, my entire body shaking from the effort, and I have to use my hand to muffle my sobs. All I really want is to be held right now, even though my skin is still crawling from the last person who touched it.

He-he almost… I can’t finish the thought.

What is his name? Memnon says, his tone so deceptively gentle.

I should be nervous about that gentleness. It doesn’t match the swirling anger coming from him. I press my palms to my eyes. Gaius , I admit. Not that it matters.

Memnon cannot do much with the Roman name but curse it.

Something came out of my hands and pushed him away. It’s still coming out of my hands. I don’t mean to confess this, but I can’t seem to screen my thoughts, not when my panic is building all over again.

What does it look like? Memnon asks, and he doesn’t sound skeptical or unnerved.

I lower my trembling hands and study them, watching the thin wisps rise and curl from my palms. It looks like smoke, but it’s the color of sunset.

There’s a long pause.

You don’t know what it is? Memnon eventually says.

Should I? I respond somewhat hysterically.

Again, there’s that silence. It feels like there’s so much behind it, but if there is, I don’t hear any of it.

Roxi , he says softly, it’s magic. Your magic.

Magic?

My body begins to tremble badly, and I am close to completely losing it. What?

I believe in magic—most Romans do—but only in the same vague way I believe in gods. It all exists in whispers and prayers, in subtle turns of luck, portentous omens, and scribed spells one can buy for a coin.

I never assumed it would be blatant…not like this.

Memnon hesitates, then adds, One of your parents likely had magic, and they passed it down to you. After another pause, Memnon adds, My father has power too. It looks similar—smoky. His is a deep green.

My limbs still tremble, but I’ve gone very still.

You’ve seen this with your own eyes? I ask.

Yes, though few people besides us can see it. Only those who have magic themselves can view it in others.

I try to remember if I’ve ever seen anything like this smoky power before, but it’s useless. My mind is too muddled with fear to think beyond this moment.

Do you…have magic? I can’t believe I’m asking this.

Not yet , he says. Beneath his words, I sense wistfulness and a bit of longing. But I think I will one day—it has to Awaken, like yours must’ve. The fact that we can speak in each other’s minds is proof that we probably both have always had it.

I press the heels of my palms back to my eyes. I would laugh at these assertions, except they make a certain sick sense, given everything that has happened to me up to this point.

I exhale a shaky breath and bow my head.

How do I make it go away?

It’s your magic , Memnon says calmly. It listens to you. Tell it to stop.

I lick my dry lips.

Stop , I demand.

The line of orange smoke thins, then vanishes altogether, the final remnants of it floating up into the air and dissipating away.

It worked , I say, shocked.

Of course it worked. It obeys you , Memnon says. Magic is your birthright, given to you by the gods. You can use it whenever you wish—to help you with tasks, to bring you wealth, to protect you.

To protect me? I echo.

I feel his smile down our connection. You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you ever again, little witch , he says with conviction. You are powerful.