Page 119 of The Last Hope

I’ve never felt more like a chump.

My cheeks burn, and before he speaks, I ask quickly, “What does the tattoo on my shoulder look like now?” I’ve tried to crane my neck behind me, but I can’t see the ink.

“Half of a…” He sucks in a breath. “A squirrel?”

My lips lift. “It’s an ugly fox,” I correct. “Is that all?” I’m about to peer over again, but he answers fast.

“Yeah, your ink next to the fox will be a scar.” A gash must’ve run through the tattoo of Mal’s tree.

I smile wider,thank the gods.

Stork shifts and catches sight of my smile. “Least favorite tattoo?” he wonders.

“Something like that.” I tell him the story about the Fast-Tracker tattooist who wanted our toes, more forthcoming about my life. By the time I finish, he has stood up and then sat back down. Facing me.

Same snow-white hair, no new piercings, Stork just kept his sapphire earring for his Fast-Tracker disguise. It’s odd seeing him out of Earthen clothes, and the Fast-Tracker garb in Montbay is awashed ashore after a shipwrecklook—but he wears frayed shorts with no signs of discomfort.

His legs are parted again, and I fit between them. Not much room, his knees are bent on either side of my build.

My breath hitches, nerves flapping. Especially alone in the night. But I’m more used to his limbs brushing my limbs now since he’d been sharing a bed with me and Zimmer for a month. And I try not to think about the morning I was nestled in his arms. Unintentionally. That was a little more than our limbsbrushing.

I keep my arms wrapped around myself and listen to the smack of sea against stone behind me. Sometimes I envision the water arching over the wall and drowning us, but I’ve already been under.

I know the taste of an ocean, the feeling of water rushing down my lungs. I know what it’s like to be dragged so deep beneath that the world around me darkens.

Knowing what drowning and near-dying feels like should bring me comfort. There’s less unknown in the sea. But I’m unsure if I could survive again.

The waves crash—I flinch.

Stork watches me, no smirk or mocking brow arch. His amusement is in short supply tonight.

“Have you ever been scared?” I ask him. I try to envision something Stork could be afraid of, but I come up blank.

“Once.” He pats at his waist where he’d usually find a flask.His pockets are empty. Ridges of his lean muscles peek through his tattered shirt, his skin clammy. Sweat soaks the armpits, and his face is pallid.

He’s stopped drinking.A girl in my orphanage went through withdrawal, and she had awful sweats like him.

I can’t tell if he’s quit purposefully or not. “Are you looking for your flask?”

“Reflex.” He forces a half-smile. “I didn’t bring it with me.”

Strange. I thought I saw his flask in the bag. We brought the lightest piece of luggage with us, and Stork and Court were in charge of packing necessities. So if it wasn’t Stork, thenCourtmust’ve brought the flask.

I try not to question why he would. He thinks so far ahead. I’m sure he has his reasons. Maybe he knew Stork would grow ill without it.

“Why didn’t you want to pack it?” I ask.

“I don’t need it.”

My brows jump. “You haven’t gone without a sip since I met you.”

He laughs. “That’s true. Terrible, but true.” He sighs out the laugh. “But this mission, it’s more important than my pain.” He flashes a brinier smile.

His pain. So he is numbing something.

“It’s not physical pain, is it?” I ask. He’s been in mourning, but I still don’t fully understand what that feels like or means.

He takes a moment to think as though considering what he should or can tell me. He balances his elbow on his knee, in a position where he could so easily reach out and wrap his arms around my frame.