Page 51 of Immortal Longings
“Perhaps it is. But that doesn’t change the fact that we can’t jump without light.”
The overhead bulb flickers, as if it wants to weigh in on the subject. It is only the electric lines being overexerted, but Anton glances up in concern, the line of his jaw tightening. Calla doesn’t pay the lights any heed. She starts to braid the flax lily into a bracelet, wondering if she needs to get a new plantfrom the markets. The stalls that sell these don’t last long, but there are always new ones popping up. Smaller vendors buy from big companies, and big companies have the permission to funnel them through the wall in bulk from the farmers outside. The plant threads will stiffen in mere days and become impossible to wear without rubbing her wrist raw, but it’s soothing to build them, to create something even if it is all to be thrown away in the end. Her body itself has memory: it remembers each flax lily bracelet that has dug in and left a little notch behind. Most others in San-Er refuse to think of their body as their own. They let their selves and their bodies stand separate, so that their mind is the only thing that follows them around as wholly theirs. Calla refuses to do the same. Each scar on her arm is hers. Every inch of puckered skin speaks to the knives she took during palace training, to the sparring matches where she defeated her tutors and rose above them in skill. What are memories if not stories told repeatedly to oneself? Her whole body is the very narrative of her existence.
“I tried jumping without light, when I was invading this one,” Anton says, interrupting Calla’s thoughts. When she looks up at him, he flicks the inside of his elbow, indicating the body he’s wearing. “After you mentioned the idea earlier, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to try.”
Calla wants to roll her eyes. Of course he thinks that an impossible thing is merely a matter of trying. That rules can be overwriten by belief alone.
“And you failed.”
“I failed,” Anton confirms. “But it felt like I was a fraction of a second away. If only I could cross that last hurdle more quickly, it would be manageable.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Calla says plainly. “It’s not a matter of speed.”
But Anton doesn’t seem to hear her. The idea has grown wings in his head and flown right toward the skies. He props his palms on the table, looking contemplative.
“It’s always bothered me, you know. There’s not a body that I can’t intrudeon, so long as it’s not already hosting another intruder. I could probably occupy the king himself if I got close enough. Prince August too.”
Calla says nothing in response, focused on braiding her bracelet.
“But it’s just not possible to be discreet about it,” he continues. “I can’t move fast enough for the light not to flash.”
Calla finally completes the bracelet. She holds out her hand, and Anton blinks. A few seconds later, he offers his wrist to her hesitantly. Calla hauls his entire arm closer, ignoring his startled, suspicious wince.
“I jumped for the first time when I was eight.”
She doesn’t look up when she speaks. She doesn’t know why she is speaking at all, except maybe to test whether Anton Makusa will see what no one else does.
“Everyone always describes it like wading through something solid,” she goes on. Her concentration is fixed on the miniature knot, maneuvering its ends carefully so they do not slip from her fingers and ruin the whole bracelet. Anton is equally careful in his stillness, though he has no knot to make. If anything, he is watching one unravel before him.
“But I was yanked in. I couldn’t control how I was moving, I justwas, and it felt terrifying. One second I was in my body, and the next I was in another. When I opened my eyes, I could still feel my qi settling. I thought I was dying. I never wanted to move so fast again.”
“You were only eight years old,” Anton counters, his voice low. Maybe this body of his really was plucked straight from a cabaret stage: one of its singers, crooning into the microphone. “It would be different if you jumped today.”
Calla shakes her head. She is finished securing the bracelet and finished with this conversation. Her fingers graze Anton’s wrist before she draws back, and his hand twitches, like he’s about to reach out and stop her.
“It’s not the speed. You’ll have to trust me on this one.”
He watches her stand, stride across the living room.
“Fifty-Seven.”
Calla stops. If he is smart, he will have caught it. If he is smart, he will say—
“When you jump once…” Anton pauses, like he is doubting whether he should even ask. A beat passes, then he continues, and Calla almost laughs, because she shouldn’t be shocked at all that Anton Makusa was really listening. “… you still have to jump back out. Wasn’t the second time better?”
She’s smiling when she looks over her shoulder. But there is nothing nice about the expression. It is bitter and jagged and everything she is.
“You can show yourself out, I’m sure,” she says, before walking into her bedroom and shutting the door behind her.
CHAPTER15
The palace has begun preparations for a celebratory banquet, readying for the moment the Juedou is called and the final two of the games are summoned to the coliseum. King Kasa oversees these matters personally each year, taking pride in his selection of curtain colors and matching tablecloths. He has more passion for directing where the chopstick holders should be placed than understanding food shortages in San-Er, and August watches with disgust. Each second spent here is oil pumped into his stomach, turning him utterly nauseated. But until King Kasa is gone, he will not throw up. The kingdom of Talin must likewise be patient.
Number Eighty-Eight was found dead last night, hands placed in the Sican salute. It feels like an ill omen.
“Your thoughts, August?”
King Kasa turns around, showing August the two trays in his hands.
