Sammerin was right about one thing: when Max did something, he did it.
We launched into training with a zeal that could only be described as ferocity, and every second of it delighted me. I found a certain euphoria in the exhaustion that came with relentless pursuit of my goal. And I knew that Max enjoyed it, too. He didn’t show it — at least not as openly as I did — but a life in servitude had taught me how to see between the cracks. Max’s were few and far between. But the energy that seeped from them fed my own.
We rose every morning at dawn to begin work. Max insisted that I relearn everything that I already knew, despite my protests. “You can’t give those bastards any opportunity,” he pointed out, constantly, “so your basics need to be flawless.”
And though I had been skeptical at first, I soon had to begrudgingly admit that he was right. After a lifetime of self-teaching, I had learned to cut corners that I didn’t know existed.
So, I sculpted flower after flower, shaving minutes off at a time. I ended every day with a throbbing head, trembling fingers, and usually, some clipped, sparse words of praise from Max.
But, though I relished the fact that he approached our training sessions with enthusiasm that matched mine, our partnership was still far from perfect. Outside of our lessons, we did not talk much — mostly because I never wanted to be outside of our lessons. I pushed him constantly — another hour, and another, and another. One more set of lessons. One more round of practice.
Sometimes, he indulged me. Other days, he would roll his eyes, loosen some vaguely insulting quip, pour a glass of wine, and disappear into his room. No matter. I would practice on my own until I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer.
When they finally shuttered, I would be greeted with the same images, every night. Esmaris’s face. Serel’s eyes. The crack of the whip. The smear of blood on my fingers. I always knew, somehow, that it didn’t all belong to me.
I tried to avoid sleeping whenever possible. It was, I told myself, a waste of time anyway. And for all Max scolded me about the necessity of rest, I knew he hardly slept, either. Too often, when I crept from my bed in the middle of the night, I saw the soft glow of flickering light beneath his bedroom door. Sometimes I would see his silhouette out in the garden, pruning dead blossoms in the middle of the night.
Surely, he must have seen me, too. But I was relieved that he never approached me. There were certain things I was not ready to let him see. And he seemed equally uninterested in indulging my curiosities.
Only one time, in those weeks, did he acknowledge me. It was a particularly brutal night for me, and I was plagued with nightmares so vivid that they curdled the blood in my veins. I couldn’t practice, I couldn’t study. Instead, I escaped out into the garden, pacing wide circles around the cottage, desperate to slow my racing heart.
Eventually, I grew so agonized and frustrated that I let me knees buckle beneath me, near tears.
You forgot what you are.
The words looped, over and over again. And all I wanted was for my mind to be quiet, for just one minute, one second.
I sat there, kneeling in the damp soil, head bowed, for what felt like hours. And when I finally, finally lifted my head, I caught a glimpse of a pair of blue eyes peering at me through the curtain.
My cheeks burned. Embarrassed, I dragged myself up, dusted myself off, and went back inside. I resumed my studies until, finally — mercifully — sleep took me over my books.
 |
“Let’s try something different today.”
Max sipped his tea, his back to me as he stared out the window.
It had taken me a few minutes to scrape up the courage to even look at him the next morning, embarrassed that I had unwittingly let him see me in such a state. But once I did, I was careful to be a perfect picture of my typical everyday self.
I paused, my fork halfway to my mouth. “Different?” I echoed.
“I have some errands to run in the city. You’ve never been there, have you?”
“The city?”
“The Capital.”
I shook my head, even though his back still faced me. “No.” I had seen it from a distance, during my brief stay in the Tower of Midnight. But that hardly counted. I had read about Ara’s capital city, and my books had made it sound so alive, so grand. A small part of me — fine, a large part of
me — was eager to find out whether it was everything I pictured it would be.
But…
“When will we do today’s training?”
Finally, Max turned. He took another sip of tea, giving me a long look that I returned with equal steadiness. “I think,” he said at last, “that you’ve been doing plenty of training.”
Self-consciousness prickled at the back of my neck.
“I only have five months,” I said. “I cannot waste time.”
He let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Fine. We will go to the Capital for a few hours this morning. And then we will continue with a lesson this afternoon. Does that satisfy your compulsive productivity standards?”
I paused.
Just one morning. One morning to think about something other than my upcoming evaluations. One morning to see the city — and not just any city, but the Capital of Ara. A place I only dreamed I’d witness with my own eyes.
A few hours will be alright. Just this once.
A smile yanked at the corners of my mouth, without my permission. “I think maybe that will be fine.”
Max gave me a little, reluctant smirk, raising his teacup. “And thus, our Threllian princess has spoken.”
