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With her head tipped back, face upturned to the moon, Alina whispers it like she doesn't want to be heard: "I don't want to be a saint."
Inej's hand is tentative on her shoulder in a way that Alina doesn't want; reverence mingled with tenderness, something she will never get used to. "I would trust nobody else with this," Inej says.
In the sudden sharp movement of Alina's eyes from moon to girl, she understands, suddenly, how fractured the mirrors are between them, and her chest aches. Inej is the only one of them that uses the names of saints for anything other than cursing, but Alina should have chosen somebody else if she wanted to be understood.
Inej only sees a stage in the story, the saint doubting herself. The rising action. Nights like these, all Alina can see is the epilogue. You don't achieve sainthood without suffering. Sainthood as curse. Sainthood as the altar lined with thick grooves to catch the blood of the sacrificial lamb. Her collarbone aches, and she wants desperately to be selfish.
How could Inej understand, when the goodness in her shines out brighter than the sunlight beneath Alina's skin? Inej would go to the altar with radiant pride, with a thankfulness that she had that power. Sainthood as blessing, sainthood as privilege, sainthood as a crown fitted closely to her beautiful dark hair.
Suddenly, the end of the story recedes into the distance. There are better things to dwell on. She can feel Inej watching her, Alina's, face, as though Inej is already holding it, as though Inej is already holding her. Such an unguarded sweetness, desert rose. As Alina reaches out to touch Inej's cheek, she realizes that there is one perfect mirror at least, reverence mingled with tenderness in her hand.