Page 5 of Thunder's Reckoning
“I understand.”
We went down the broad staircase, the runner thick enough to erase our footsteps. Two men passed us on the way up, talking in low about a shipment and a man named Ortega. We didn’t react or let on we heard.
The chandelier above looked like winter frozen in place, crystal icicles dripping light that never warmed the floor.
The garden might have been beautiful if it belonged to anyone else. Every hedge trimmed, every bed measured, a fountain in the center singing too sweet. Guards stood at the open doors like bookends. Beyond the path, the outer wall was smooth, pale, and too high to see past.
Zara ran until Rhea cleared her throat, then slowed to a fake walk that made me want to laugh and cry at the same time.
She tugged me toward a patch of lavender. I crouched while she chose her flower, fingers hovering before settling on the smallest bloom, like she already knew how to keep secrets.
“For your hair,” she said, offering it to me like treasure.
I tucked it behind her ear instead. “For yours.”
The fountain’s song shifted, and I knew without looking that Gabrial was near. He crossed the lawn with one of his men, their voices carrying across the quiet garden. I caught a word or two as they walked close, numbers, names, something about La Frontera.
We made the loop. “Eight-fifty-eight,” Rhea said. “Time to return.”
Zara looked toward the far gate, where ivy failed to hide the wall. “Can we go that way?”
“Not today,” Rhea said, kind enough to make the no worse.
Inside, the air changed, green and sun replaced by beeswax, iron, and the memory of smoke. Zara went to her lessons.
“You may have the library,” Rhea said, “until Gabrial calls for you.”
“What time?” I asked.
“He will ring,” she said.
The library wasn’t free, but it was quiet. Books had their own weather. I walked the stacks without touching, scanning titles I didn’t care about, handpicked by Gabrial. Somewhere above, a door closed sharply, and a man’s laugh followed. Then, the sound of a lighter and the faint smell of cigar smoke drifted through the vent, his cartel side seeping into this side of the house.
By noon, I could feel the call coming. The house tightened. The air thinned. Cameras lingered on my face a heartbeat too long.
“Mother Sable,” the intercom said, “Prophet Gabrial invites you to the solarium.”
Invites. Another silk word.
The solarium was warm, damp, and heavy with light trapped by glass. Gabrial stood near the far wall, back to me, hands clasped like a man at prayer. A vase of white lilies waited on the table, their throats open.
“Come,” he said without turning.
I crossed the room, counting steps like always.
“Have you been doubting who you are?” he asked, eyes on my loose hair.
“No.”
“What are you?”
“A flame.”
He smiled, pleased. “Good. Then burn hot for me.”
I knelt at his feet, the way I’d been trained, praying this would be quick as his fingers fisted my hair.
When he dismissed me, I walked alone down the corridor and stopped at the first window where the bars hid in plain sight. A sparrow landed on the sill outside, head cocked. It pecked at the glass, then hopped away, small and free in a way I wasn’t.
