with the lathered horse. Arin felt a jagged, sharp sort of feeling. Rusted in parts, menacingly shiny in others. If it had been a real thing lying in the dirt, anyone would have known better than to touch it.
He had gone for a ride. Heâd left his house so there would be no question of visiting or avoiding parts of it that reminded him of her. Heâd pushed Javelin hard. But when he had finally slowed the stallion and paced him under the green canopy of the cityâs horse paths, heâd wiped the sweat from his face and remembered whose horse was beneath him. He saw that he had no choices. He saw that even avoidance was a reminder.
His hands held the reins too short. An emotion claimed him, merciless and familiar. His heart shrank. It felt small and hard and full, like a nut he could crack in his fist.
His face was still wet. Heâd ridden too far. He turned Javelin back home.
When he saw Sarsine waiting in the open, shaded stables on a three-legged stool, he had ignored her and let Javelin drink from the trough in the yard. He had stripped the horse of his saddle. Lifted off the reins. Fetched a bucket of water, which he had slowly poured over the horse, who snorted and lowered his head. Arin scraped water from the coat, then wiped him down with a cloth. He checked the hooves, digging out mud and pebbles with a pick, using his fingers to get gently into the grooves on either side of the hoofâs frog.
Finally Arin saw that his silence wouldnât be enough to make his cousin go away. He brought the horse into the stables. He said he was fine, she said he wasnât. He wiped down Javelinâs tack and hung it up and tried silence again, this time because he was sure that if he spoke heâd say something heâd regret.
She said, âWhy do you think itâs wrong to mourn her?â
âSarsine.â His voice was tight. âIf you love me, youâll leave.â
âAnswer me first.â
The words shot out of him. âBecause she wasnât who I thought she was. You canât mourn someone you didnât know.â
âI saw how you were with each other. Why would you think you didnât know her?â
âBecause sheâs a
liar
. She has her games, her clever tricks. Every one falls into her trap. I did, too . . .â He trailed off, listening to his own words. He began to brush Javelinâs brown coat, leaning in hard. âSheâs not dead.â
âSheâs not?â Sarsine sounded worried.
He watched the horseâs muscles twitch and leap under the brush. âNo.â
âArin, I know how this feels. You know that I do. Like itâs impossible, like some mistake has been made and if you could only correct itââ
âThatâs not it. Iâm saying that the whole story sounds false.â
âI donât understand.â
The brush was moving rapidly. âThe secret marriage, to start with. The Firstsummer wedding was valuable to the emperor. All that goodwill. The excitement to witness the emperorâs dynasty growing. The bride. She was a prize, do you know that? That wedding wasnât about the emperorâs son marrying Kestrel. It was about the emperor marrying the military. The emperor would never forgo that wedding. If they married in secret, then why didnât the emperor force them to marry again for every one to see? It doesnât make sense.â
âYou donât want it to make sense.â
âA
disease
killed her? I never saw her sick the entire time I worked in her villa. She was only bedridden once, and thatâs becauseââ Arin stopped, remembering how sheâd limped. Sheâd been injured in a duel that she had fought for him.
He lowered the brush.
Heâd been here before. He used to do this all the time: invent stories about Kestrel that fit with her bandaged knee, the way sheâd kissed him, the night sheâd unlocked the door that