Page 76 of A Grave Not Made For Mourning
“You two were friends,” I say, talking about Lilac. The girl gowned in gore. “Weren’t you?”
I know the truth perfectly well.
Calista’s version of it.
Aralia’s stomach pumps up and down until the tears win the fight, then she chokes on her cries the way I think I might if I was in a similar position.
“Yes,” she sobs.
I sigh over what I have to do, then I walk to her despite my reluctance. I put my arm around her torso and get her to her feet while she sobs. We have to get within the barrier. I don’t know what hurt Lilac, but I can’t risk it hurting Aralia.
I can’t risk not being able to save another person.
I’ve known Aralia since I was ten. When we became teenagers, she left for two years—to the all Folk academy, Acansa—then came back to the suite like nothing happened. We never talked much. I wonder if we should have.
My hands run along Aralia’s dark, untamed hair, smoothing down the wisps. “She’s going to be all right,” I say.
People find comfort in lies, even when they know how untruthful they are.
Even when they are aware how little the other person knows.
I do not have a clue what will happen to Lilac.
Aralia knows that.
She sucks in strange, gargled breaths as I pull us beyond the barrier. I head to the academy, but Aralia stops me, asking, “Can we sit?”
I nod, setting her on the ground. We sit for a long while, and I try to get a clear read on her emotions.
I can’t—she’s a jumbled mess.
Sitting in the silence is worse than awkward; it’s debilitating. With every breath, I feel the pain in her lungs, the grief in her ribs.
But I know the Eunoia; I know how we are trained. The healers here will do everything to save Lilac. She’s the princess of Ilyria, and they don’t have a choice.
After a bit, Aralia’s lips wobble as she asks, “Can you say something?”
I look up, meeting her gaze with shock. “Like what?”
“Something surprising.”
I stare at her. I don’t have many surprising facts in my arsenal, nor do I have an abundance of social skills. I say the one thing I can think of: “I’m a virgin.”
Aralia laughs for half a second. Then she cries. Her tears are followed with: “I said surprising.”
I narrow my eyes at her. I’m not sure why I feel offended. “Why is that not surprising?”
“You don’t talk,” she says, “let alone get laid.” Moments pass us by before she asks, “What’s it like on Eunaris?”
My home world. The world where Ma was killed.
But that isn’t what Aralia is asking. She’s only searching for a distraction—and somehow, it’s working for her. She’s able to center herself when she’s focusing on something other than herself.
“Are you worth more pence if you’re a virgin?” Aralia says, cracking it like a joke—though unease edges her words.
Or… is it mine?
“That’s not how Folkara works,” I say, though it comes out like a question.
