The storm rages on, until my sister and I have to flatten ourselves against the deck, still gripping the soaked sides of the canopy. I play the memory over again and again. I’d thought that the Daggers killed the Elite that Raffaele talked about, because he was unable to control his powers. And maybe I’m still right. Maybe this boy isn’t who I think he is. But now, as we sail farther from Merroutas and the harbor behind us is lost within the storm, I wonder if Raffaele’s story was about this boy.
The boy who could control the rain.
They tell me that you have been crying in your sleep. Do not grieve our separation, my love, for our reunion will come just as swiftly.
—Letter from unknown prisoner, convicted of treason, to fiancée
Adelina Amouteru
The worst of the storm dies down soon after we reach the open ocean. But the rain continues on, falling and falling until I start to wonder whether the clouds will ever go away. Violetta and I stay belowdecks, in a small but private cabin that the captain offers us, and dry off with clean towels.
Both of us are quiet. The only sounds we hear are the crash of waves outside the porthole, and the distant shouts of the crew overhead. In one corner of the cabin, a mirror sits on a vanity desk, and I can catch a glimpse of my unadorned features, my mask gone, my hair wraps removed and revealing my short silver locks. Right after Enzo’s death, I’d cut off my hair with a knife—Violetta helped me trim the strands as neatly as she could, but my hair will stay short for a long time. I’m still not used to seeing it.
A sharp clap of thunder shakes the ship. From the corner of my eye, I see Violetta jump, then settle down, embarrassed. Her eyes stay uneasily on the stormy seas outside our porthole. She wrings her hands unconsciously in her lap, as if trying to stop the shaking.
She catches me looking. “I’m fine,” she says, but there is a tremor in her voice.
I realize how exhausted we both are. Where are we headed? Are this mercenary and his crew really trying to help us? When Violetta and I were little, I comforted her through thunderstorms by squeezing her shoulders and humming to her. I do that now, sitting beside her, wrapping my arms around her and picking a tune I remember our mother singing to me before Violetta was even born.
Violetta doesn’t say anything. Gradually, her trembling lessens, though it doesn’t go away entirely. She leans into my touch, and we sit together in silence.
“Adelina,” Violetta finally says. Her voice startles me. She turns so that she can see me. “What happened to you out there in the city? When we were on the canal?”
I shake my head. The memory seems fuzzy now. I’ve always been plagued by illusions of our father’s ghost, but what happened today was something new and frightening. I’d seen him so clearly that I believed he was there. I saw Enzo, engulfing the streets in flames.
Violetta’s tone grows firm. “Tell me,” she says. “I know you’ll keep it bottled up if you don’t, and that might be even more dangerous for all of us.”
I take a deep breath. “I think I created an illusion by accident,” I reply. “Something that I couldn’t control. I woke up this morning feeling a strange pressure against my head, and when we reached the canal, I …” I frown. “I don’t know. I can’t even remember creating the illusions. But I thought what I was seeing was real.”
Violetta reaches a tentative hand out to touch mine. “Can you create something right now? Something small?”
I nod. I pull slightly on a thread of energy, and a ribbon of darkness winds its way up from the center of my palm.
Violetta frowns as she studies me. Finally, she releases my hand. I let the ribbon dissipate. “You’re right,” she replies. “There’s something odd about your energy now, but I can’t quite figure out what. Do you think it has anything to do with what happened at the Night King’s estate?”
My temper rises at that. “You think this is my reaction to killing the Night King,” I say, pushing off the bed and standing before her.
Violetta crosses her arms. “Yes, I think it is. Your energy flares out of control when you go to extremes.”
I tighten my jaw, refusing to think back on Dante’s death. On Enzo’s. “It won’t happen again. I mastered my powers when I stayed with the Daggers.”
“You couldn’t have mastered them as much as you think,” Violetta argues. “You nearly got us all killed! How will you tell reality from illusion if you don’t even know you’re using your power? How do you know you won’t feel that strange pressure on your mind again?”
“It won’t happen again.”
Violetta’s expression is anxious. “What if it’s worse next time?”
I run a hand through my short hair. The strands slide between my fingers. What if she’s right? What if the consequence of letting my anger go unchecked, of twisting my illusions so hard that they kill, is that it feeds my energy so strongly it goes beyond what I can control? I let my thoughts wander. After I killed Dante and we walked the city in a haze, I could barely recall what I did. After Enzo’s death, I’d unleashed my anger on the entire Estenzian arena. I fell unconscious afterward. And this time, with the Night King’s death …
I sigh and turn away from her, then distract myself by fixing my hair in the mirror. In the corner of my vision, I think I see a glimpse of my father’s ghost. He seems to smile at me as he walks along the length of the cabin. His eyes are shrouded in shadow, and his chest is torn open, just the way I remember it from the night he died. I glance at the illusion, but it vanishes before I can focus on it.