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Alina’s room at the Little Palace is furnished like a dreamscape. When she arrived here a few weeks ago, she spent several hours tracing the gold inlays on the walls with awe caught in her throat. It’s beautiful, and it’s everything she never thought she deserved, everything she and Mal could never have imagined. Some days, she’s afraid she’ll wake up and this new life that’s been so casually thrust upon her will melt away like liquid mercury.
It’s not perfect, of course. The bed is too soft for meaningful sleep, and the portraits on the walls have eyes that follow her around. Still, it’s a thousand times more than enough.
Alina reads over her latest letter to Mal, sounding out the words she’s yet to send. There’s been no reply from his end, but she’s not certain if she even wants to hear back. Everyone here is larger than life, more shining and animated than anyone back home at the orphanage. Mal is like none of them. Strangely, the thought of Genya crosses her mind. With her red hair and delicate hands, there’s no one else in the palace who matches Genya's vibrance.
Heaving a sigh, Alina folds the unsent letter and slides it back into the drawer. She’ll work out what to do with it tomorrow. For now, she needs to sleep away today’s long and painful training. Letting down her hair, she wanders over to the window and gazes out into the night sky. The Little Palace’s courtyard is pitch-black and nebulous under the cover of darkness, but the light from her window spills out onto the grass. Is this truly where she’s meant to be?
A knock on her door interrupts her agonising thoughts. Glancing up at the clock, Alina wonders who it could be. Pensively, she calls, “Who is it?” She unlocks the door. Immediately, she’s caught off guard. Genya stands before her, hands shaking and hair in a mess. “Genya? It’s late. What the hell are you doing here?”
“Can I come in?”
Alina opens the door further, letting Genya inside. She’s wearing a nightgown, as though she’s recently been roused from sleep. Haltingly, she asks, “Are you okay?”
A fraught nod. “I’m fine.” Her hands are still trembling.
Alina touches her arm. “What happened? You seem shaken.”
“Nothing. Just nightmares.” Guilt flashes across her face. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”
“No, don’t worry. I haven’t slept yet. What were you dreaming about?”
Genya’s fists are white-knuckled, as though she’s searching for something to hold onto. “I don’t know. The future.”
“Not the past?”
She shakes her head. “I keep overthinking. I was speaking to Aleksander earlier…” She trails off.
Alina realises that her mind is completely scattered, an oil spill of unfinished thoughts. Taking her arm, she guides her to the bed. “Sit down.” Genya does as she asked, smoothing out the silk sheets below her. Alina sits down beside her, chewing on her ragged lip. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“You’re the one person I can’t talk to about it.”
Feeling hurt, Alina recoils. “Well, you must’ve come here for a reason,” she snaps.
“I did. I did, but—“ Genya laughs bitterly. There’s a tinge of guilt in her tone. “I’ve got no idea why. Saints, I’m an idiot.”
Unable to stop wondering about what might’ve been keeping Genya up, Alina searches her expression. Without her tailored makeup and white kefta, she seems entirely unintimidating; only her blue eyes retain her usual sense of timelessness. Stifling her curiosity, Alina reaches out and brushes a fingertip over Genya’s crimson hair. It’s knotted, as though she was tossing and turning in her sleep. “Your hair’s a mess. Want me to brush it?” As soon as the question’s out there, she feels stupid. Genya could fix it with the Small Science in a second flat.
Still, Genya doesn’t rebuke her. “Go on,” she murmurs.
“If I do, will you talk about your dream?”
Haltingly, she nods. “I’m sorry for this.”
“Don’t be sorry. You’re clearly shaken up.” Alina stands up and rummages through her drawer for a hairbrush. The unsent letter catches her attention, but she shakes off the thought. Kneeling behind Genya on the bed, she starts to gently run the brush though her hair, teasing out the impossible knots.
“I haven’t brushed my hair physically in years,” she muses. Alina can’t see her expression, but worry flickers through her as she slowly detangles Genya’s hair. There’s something unbearable about the way she’s acting. Something terrifyingly vacant. “Alina.”
“What is it?”
Genya seems hesitant to continue. Alina detangles the last knot in her hair and puts down the brush. “My dream…This isn’t a good place.”
“Because of the King?” she asks. She isn’t stupid; she sees the fear that lights up Genya’s face when she’s in his company, notices the way his sticky eyes follow her around. Genya may be the Queen’s servant, but it’s clear that that the King has his hooks in her.
If Alina had any bravery, she’d slice off his hands rather than let him touch Genya again.
“Not the King, though I suppose he does frequent my usual nightmares,” she admits. Somewhere in the palace, a clock chimes once, then twice. She leans her head on Alina’s shoulder, caught up in some desolate moment of vulnerability. Alina’s breath catches. “I’m scared.”
“Of what?”
“Of what’s going to happen.”
Brow furrowing, Alina searches for an explanation but comes up empty-handed. “What do you mean?”
Genya’s hands aren’t shaking anymore. She lifts her head from Alina’s shoulder. “I should go,” she mutters. She stands up, smoothing out the folds of her nightgown.
“Wait.” Alina grabs her hand, looking up at her pleadingly from her position on the bed. “Tell me. Why did you come here? What were you dreaming about?”
“I can’t tell you,” Genya fires back, wrenching her hand from Alina’s grip. “That’s the whole goddamn point.” Scrubbing the heels of her hands over her face, she exhales sharply. “I need to go.”
Scrambling off the bed, Alina takes her shoulder. This time, she doesn’t pull away. “Nothing bad will happen if you tell me, I swear. Please, Genya.” There’s something unnerving about someone she thought was untouchable looking so rattled. What could there be to fear in a place as beautiful as this? She’s briefly wrenched back in time. Beware of powerful men. “What aren’t you telling me?” she asks urgently. “There’s something, isn’t there?”
“Alina,” Genya insists. “Leave it.”
Expression softening, she lets go of her shoulder. Seconds stretch out between them like light years. “Fine. Will you stay, anyway?”
Genya opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again. “Why would you want that?”
“You don’t seem like you want to be alone.” Fidgeting with her sleeve, she tilts her head back. “Want to read together for an hour or so?”
“No. I might fall asleep.” Alina hears the unspoken words: I don’t want to fall asleep. Whatever blood-drenched future Genya saw in her nightmares was enough to deter her from passing out for the night.
“Okay.” She looks around for something to keep them both occupied for a few hours. “Feel like a game of chess?” she offers, but Genya’s already turned away. She wanders over to Alina’s vanity, head bowed, and comes up with a palette of eye pigments in hand. “I liked it when you brushed my hair,” she says softly. “I know it’s stupid, but—“
“It’s not stupid.” Slightly awe-struck, Alina takes the palette from Genya and picks up a brush. “I’ve never made up anyone’s face before,” she warns her.
Genya laughs, a little deranged. “It’s fine. I can tailor it away in a heartbeat. Just—please?” She sits down on the stool, pulling another chair closer for Alina.
Swallowing her fear, she sits down. “What colours should I use?”
“Want me to guide you?” she asks. When Alina nods in response, she points at a dusky-rose pigment in the corner of the palette. “That one first. Buff it out across my eyelid.”
Heart in her throat, Alina does as she suggested and starts to blend the colour across Genya’s closed eyelid. When she opens her eyes again, Alina can’t hold back a smile; the deep, dusty pink compliments her eyes. She repeats on the other side, then leans back to admire her handiwork.
“I like it when you smile like that,” Genya comments. “An ego looks good on you.”
Alina doesn’t respond, only taps the rest of the colour off her brush. “Okay. What next?”
Genya remains in her seat for the next hour, laughing as she lets Alina experiment with various colours. When something doesn’t turn out quite right, a deft wave from Genya removes the offending pigment from her face. Their conversation is more light-hearted than earlier, and Alina can’t help but find herself smiling as she speaks.
Alina’s almost unable to tear her eyes away from Genya’s face. She drinks in her happiness, finding it easier than anything. As she swipes black liquid over Genya’s lashes, she nods in satisfaction. “I think I’m done. Like it?”
Genya turns to face the mirror, pressing her lips together a few times to even out the fiery lipstick Alina applied. “It's lovely. Far better than anything I could do myself.”
“Well, that’s a flat-out lie,” she laughs.
Genya’s eyes are heavy on her face, a smile tugging at her red-painted lips. There’s some strange emotion in her eyes, though: a kind of absent, lingering guilt. “You should sleep now,” she advises her. “You’ve got training first thing in the morning.”
“Training me for physical combat makes no sense,” she sighs, glancing down at her palms. “It’s like there’s power bubbling under my skin, looking for an output.”
“You’ll get an output,” she murmurs. “Soon.”
Alina scours her face, frustration biting at her throat. “Why?” she demands. “You know, I didn’t think you were the type to keep things from me.”
“Well, I guess I am,” Genya retorts. “You shouldn’t trust me, okay?”
“Why not?” she shouts, frustration giving way to anger. “I want to trust you.”
“You can’t.”
Shooting to her feet, she groans, “Saints, I hate you.” She turns away, unable to tamp down the rage boiling in her gut. She doesn’t even know who she’s angry at anymore.
“I don’t think that’s true,” Genya calls.
She’s right, as much as Alina hates to admit it. Whatever she feels for Genya seems to have the same level of passion as hate. Still, it’s something entirely different. “No, I don’t hate you,” she admits. “But I’m pissed off. I thought we were—“ She cuts herself off, suddenly uncertain. Friends? Something more than friends?
At that, Genya stands up. She walks over to the window and pushes it open, letting cool air rush into the room. She stands there for a moment, back turned as she stares out across the courtyard. She spins back to face Alina. “I don’t want to lie to you.”
“Then don’t,” Alina insists.
She opens her mouth as if to speak, then closes it again.“He’ll kill me.”
Alina steps forward, taking her hand. “Who?” she asks urgently. Those fatal words—beware of powerful men—ring once again in her ears.
“You’re being used,” Genya whispers, fingers curling around her palm. “But you can’t leave. He’ll know.”
Alina feels shaken to the core. “Used?”
“Don’t be scared, okay? You’re stronger than him. You can turn this around.”
Helplessness pools in her stomach. “Turn what around? Genya, please—”
Tearing her hand away, she steps back and cradles it against her chest. “I can’t. I’m risking enough as it is.”
Alina wants to press further, but the look of terror on Genya’s made-up face deters her from it. “Not tonight, then. But…you’ll help me?” She wants to believe that Genya would risk her neck for her, wants to believe that this isn't all for nothing.
Touch feather-light, Genya trails her fingertips over Alina’s cheek. After a moment of hesitation, she bites out, “Yes. I'll help you." She mutters, "Saints, I’m going to get myself killed.”
“No one’s getting killed," Alina breathes. "I’m the Sun Summoner, remember?”
“A Sun Summoner who can’t control her powers.”
“I’m learning to control them. And, like you said, I’m stronger than him. Right?”
“Stronger,” she echoes—like a reassurance. Like a prayer. Her thumbs trace soft circles on the back of Alina’s hand. “Be careful, won’t you?”
A heartbeat passes, brimming with whisperings of the future. “I’ll try.”