“I won’t drown!”
“No drowning!”
“I don’t care what you do!” Bitterblue yelled. “I feel great! I’m stronger than you!”
“She feels great!” Giddon yelled. “She’s stronger than you!”
“It’s not true, of course,” she said in a normal voice.
“What isn’t?”
Bitterblue looked at the moon, motionless above her, while the ground moved under her feet. “That I’m stronger than the sea.”
“Okay,” he said. “But you’re stronger than the way the sea makes you feel.”
* * *
—
Awake in her strange prison with moonlight on her face, Bitterblue couldn’t remember for a moment if the conversation with Giddon had been a memory or a dream. Wind pushed against the walls, sounding like the sea. She propped herself on her elbow, feeling pain in her hands and feet, the dryness of her nose, mouth, lips, the ache of hunger that was beginning to frighten her, badly. Had her captors forgotten about her? Did they mean her to starve?
A shadow moved on the other side of the room and Bitterblue gasped. Then realized, as gold eyes flashed, that of course it was just the fox again; then had another fright as more eyes flashed around it. Multiple foxes? Is this a dream too?
Suddenly the foxes swarmed across the room toward her, moving like a wave, then disappearing under the bed. She heard something vaguely metallic. Tiny fox feet, touching metal? Bitterblue didn’t understand what was going on, but she was awake now, and she knew she wasn’t on the ship.
A key turned in the lock and the door swung open. Bitterblue was so surprised that she cried out.
A woman stepped in—a girl?—young-looking, tall, short-haired, brown-skinned, balancing a tray. A lamp on the tray threw yellow light at Bitterblue, blinding her, but still, Bitterblue recognized her. This was the young woman who’d pulled her out of the sea.
When the woman placed her tray on the floor, Bitterblue smelled stew. “Who are you?” said Bitterblue, straining to remember her Keepish, mopping her tearing eyes. “And what do you imagine you’re going to get out of this?”
The woman lifted a small pot from the tray and came to sit at the end of the bed, fishing under the blankets for Bitterblue’s feet. Then, opening the pot, she began to apply a salve to Bitterblue’s aching skin that was so glorious that Bitterblue had to fight the instinct to let out an ecstatic cry.
“I would like to import this excellent salve to Monsea,” she said, “once we’ve concluded my kidnapping. What do you say?”
The woman ignored her.
“Who are you?” Bitterblue said again. “Why are you doing this?”
Silently, the woman began to unwrap Bitterblue’s bandages and apply the salve to her frostbitten toes. The relief from pain was immediate, and consummate. It was also throwing Bitterblue’s hunger into such sharp relief that she was almost nauseated. She was finding it difficult not to lean out of the bed and stare at the bowl of stew on the tray by the door. She hoped it was thick with meat. It smelled thick with meat.
She was trying to decide how much to say. Bitterblue seriously doubted that this woman, who was young, closed-faced, and avoiding her eyes, was in charge. Every time Bitterblue spoke, she looked more unhappy. “I want to know your plans for me,” she said.
“We have one rule,” the woman said.
Bitterblue was so startled to hear her finally speak that it took her a moment to be sure of the translation. “One rule?” she repeated.
“One rule you must follow,” said the woman, her mouth tight with a misery that made her look very young indeed. She hates this, Bitterblue thought. Could I turn her into an ally?
“What’s the rule?” she asked.
“If there’s anything you want,” said the woman, “you will ask for it. I gave you the salve without you requesting it this time, so you would know what it was, but if you want it again, you will ask. Understand?”
“Certainly,” said Bitterblue, who was beginning to feel a quiet, low hum of panic. Her captors weren’t going to give her whatever she asked for. This rule was a trick.
“There’s nothing you want?” said the woman.
Bitterblue wanted so many things. She wanted her heartbroken friends to know she was alive. She wanted to know who was holding her here, and what their plans were. She wanted to know where Giddon, Hava, and her advisers were right now, and if they were safe. She wanted rescue or escape. She wanted to kill whoever was in charge. The pain was returning to her feet, so she wanted more salve, and most of all, she wanted the stew on the tray.
“There’s nothing I want,” she said.
“Very well,” the woman said, standing, striding to the door. Bitterblue watched, aghast, as she returned the pot of salve to the tray, then lifted the tray in one hand. She reached for the doorknob.
“Wait,” said Bitterblue.
The woman turned back. “I forgot to add,” she said, voice flat, “that you should always ask politely.”
Bitterblue took a breath. “Please,” she said, “would you wait?”
The woman nodded. “Go on.”
“Please,” said Bitterblue, “may I have something to eat?”
The woman lifted the bowl from the tray and placed it on the rug beside her feet. Then she stood there, waiting.
“Thank you,” said Bitterblue.
“I’ll stay until you’ve eaten it,” the woman said.
“Please, would you bring it to me?” Bitterblue said. “I’m in a lot of pain.”
The woman flashed her teeth, less of a smile than an expression of frustration. At Bitterblue? Or at whoever was making her play this role?
“Don’t you think you’re getting greedy?” she said.
Bitterblue held her eyes for a moment, knowing that this woman probably guessed she couldn’t walk; understanding that she’d placed the bowl on the floor to mimic feeding a pet.
Humiliation is just a feeling, she said to Giddon. You’ve known humiliation. So has Po, and my mother, and practically everyone who’s ever mattered to me. I can know humiliation too.
Carefully, she got out of bed, doing her best to balance, managing a few steps. Finally falling, trying to land on her knees and elbows to spare her hands. Her breath came out in a small cry.
She crawled to the bowl. There was no spoon. It hurt to lift the bowl, but she managed, drinking messily at the woman’s feet. The stew was full of meat and vegetables; it was delicious. But salty. When she’d finished, the woman bent, took the bowl from her, and left, closing and locking the door.