Free Seven for a Secret by Elizabeth Bear Page B

radiating from under her ribcage as if she had swallowed an ember—or ice—left her curled up and shivering, knees pressed against her mouth. She could not stop shaking. She pressed her thumbs under her chin to hold her teeth together because it was the only way to keep them from chattering. In the hall, she heard soft footsteps, but did not lift her head. Herr Professor had again instructed them to leave their bedroom doors open, and filtered light—from electric lamps turned low in the corridor—gave odd textures to the darkness in Ruth and Adele’s bedroom.
    It wasn’t just Ruth’s stomach that felt burned. Her skin prickled from scalp to toes, sunburn needles over every inch of skin. Across the gap between narrow beds, Ruth heard Adele breathing harshly, the pained whine seeping thinly between her teeth. She wasn’t sleeping either.
    And Ruth needed sleep so badly. If she could just sleep, just let go of the sickness and ache and burning in all her muscles, she thought she would be better. Desire became obsession, the need like a hag-riding, except awake rather than sleeping. Which was the problem, wasn’t it? She should get up, cross the narrow space to Adele’s bunk, and curl up beside her. She should pull Adele into her arms and comfort her.
    But when Ruth pushed her fingers into her mouth she tasted the wolf’s blood, the same blood that had smeared across Adele’s face. She had scrubbed under the nails until the quicks bled too, and her own blood tasted like the wolf’s blood. There was no difference between them.
    It had been a game until now, spy against spy, Ruth playing secret agent and Ruth playing wolf-girl. The scents, the quickness. The way sound carried to her ear, as it had never carried before. The little magics that let her and Adele slip through the city on mischief, magics as real and as superficial as their uniforms. What burned through her now wasn’t a game.
    It was wildfire.
    The dim light in the room dimmed further, in passing, as if somebody had briefly darkened the crack between door and jamb. Ruth waited until the shadow passed and the footsteps retreated down the hall before she lifted her head. She didn’t whisper; whispers carry. Instead, she pitched her voice as low as possible and said, “Adele?”
    Adele raised her face from her pillow and turned, her braid falling across her shoulder with a slide and thump so loud Ruth winced. That wasn’t right. Or rather, it was right, because it made her realize in context that the heavy footsteps in the hall were someone padding softly by in slippered feet, and that the brittle rattle of rain on the shutters was in truth the fading patter of the passing storm. She could smell Adele across the gulf between their beds, the poison herbs in their bedtime liniment, the well-cured hide of the wolfskin belt sewn about her waist, as broad as the span of three fingers.
    “Here,” Adele murmured.
    Ruth made herself untangle the tight knots of her body. She smoothed herself under the covers, rolled onto her back, and composed herself, hands across her breast. It was an artificial relaxation, but she could make herself stop shivering if she concentrated all her will on releasing the muscles,
making them slack.
    “I didn’t think he could really do it,” Ruth said.
    “He?”
    „Herr Professor.”
    „Make us like wolves.” Adele’s voice was firm, not rising. A confirmation rather than a question. „Do you think this is it? Will we go to Prussia now?”
    She sounded half-excited, half-concerned. Ruth’s heart ached. „Do you think they’ll separate us?”
    „Would they?” That chafing sound was Adele’s calluses against skin as she rubbed her arms, not in chill but in self-comfort. „They wouldn’t. They’ll want us together. We’re sworn to protect the Chancellor. What do you think they’ll do with us?”
    Ruth considered. She considered also the caustic river that scalded her limbs, the restlessness it bore with it.
Moving