Well, that is... interesting, I thought.

"The Night of the Dead approaches," Maske said. "I want us to begin seances at least two weeks beforehand, in pairs. One to perform at the table, and another to perform behind the scenes."

I shivered. The Night of the Dead was the night before the Long Night of the Lady, the longest night of winter. The Night of the Lady represented the hope of a turning point a that longer days and spring would return.

The Night of the Dead symbolized lost hope. Some say the currents of Styx that trapped the dead could flow back through the world and the dead could walk among us.

It was a night for seances.

Cyan met my gaze. She did not have to read my mind to know what I was thinking a with her in our midst, we were sitting on a goldmine. We had a Vestige crystal ball, and numerous other small artifacts we could spirit away in our pockets. If we went to the house of any rich merchants or nobles, they would be sure to have collections of their own. All Cyan needed to do was ask them to picture the dead person they wished to speak to in their mind.

I pretended to read from one of the books of seance as I pondered the implications.

Cyan?

She looked up. What?

Can I tell Drystan what you can do?

I thought you were still insisting on calling him Amon?

Styx.

She kept her composure, but only just.

Why?

He'll know the best way to approach this. How not to be too obvious.

There was a long silence as my heart thundered in my throat. I was speaking to a girl with my mind as Drystan and Maske sat at the table with us, none the wiser. She read my mind and spoke back to me. None of it was my own ability as far as I could tell. But even so, it was extraordinary.

Alright. As long as he keeps quiet.

He's much better at secrets than I am, I thought wryly.

Her laughter echoed inside my skull.

I hid a smile of my own, but I was relieved. I could tell Drystan. The secret was eating away at me. I had lost Aenea from the little threads of lies that spiraled into a web and caught us. I knew I did not want to lose Drystan.

That evening, after lessons, I pleaded taking a chill and announced I was going to study in bed until teatime.

"Of course," Maske said. "We'll start practicing in earnest tomorrow." He rubbed his face with his hands, tired. He was doing seances three nights a week, and spent hours and hours in his workshop or instructing us on magic tricks. He was patient, never snapping even when we kept making the same silly mistake over and over again, or dissolving into a fit of giggles. But he was tired.

I crept upstairs with my seance book. I tucked myself into bed, but could not concentrate. Setting my book aside, I held the disc that contained Anisa. Had it really been weeks since I had spoken to her? I sensed she was waiting for me to let her out again, to learn more. She possessed so many answers, if only I could ask for them...

My eyes grew heavy.

Drystan's tread on the stairs woke me up. I slid the disc under the pillow.

"Come in," I said, before he knocked.

He entered, closing the door behind him. "You slept through dinner. I tried to wake you."

I was usually a light sleeper. I wondered why I hadn't woken before. "Did I? I suppose I was tired."

"Strange day," he sighed.

I murmured my agreement. He made his way partly to his bed but then stopped, looking at the crumpled sheets as if they held no comfort. I scooted over on the bed, my heartbeat quickening. With a smile, he slid in next to me, settling his head on my shoulder.

I loved this simple affection. When I first met him, he was so aloof and removed. He still was, in many ways, but like me, he craved physical contact. And this closeness was so nice. Only Cyril had ever given me any physical affection growing up. My parents had never hugged me. Not once.

For a time, we said nothing. We listened to each other's breath as the flames in the fireplace made shadows dance on the wall.

"Is this uncomfortable?" Drystan asked, tapping the Lindean corset I wore under my clothes.

"There's no such thing as a comfortable corset." I strived for lightness.

"Then why do you wear it?"

"Because a boy with breasts is a bit of a curious sight, even if they're not very large," I said, a blush creeping up my cheeks.

"Well, everyone here knows the truth. So if it's a day where we're just around the theatre, I don't see why you couldn't leave it off. No one would mind." Drystan traced his fingertips lightly over the corset, and I swallowed hard.

"I suppose," I said. "Here, budge up."

He sat up, and I loosened the corset stays under my shirt, sliding it over my hips and throwing it onto the floor. I took a deep breath, my ribs free. In that moment, I felt so fully aware of all the parts that made me: the breasts beneath the rough cloth, the little extra between my legs, the shaved down on my cheeks and the wider spread of my hips. I felt... comfortable.

"That is better."

He chuckled.

We rearranged ourselves. This time, I rested my head on his chest. Drystan stroked a hand along my spine, up and down. I grew dozy with the feel of his feather-light touch.

"Before I fall asleep," I murmured. "I have to tell you something."

"Mm?" he said, and I felt the sound echo in his ribcage.

"Cyan said I could tell you. About her."

I felt his breath hitch.

"You don't have to. Or she could tell me herself."

"She knows that. I think she'd rather me tell you. Rather than her having to show you."

"Is she like you, then?"

"What? Oh." I coughed, remembering the horrible night I showed him and Aenea what I was rather than tell them because I did not know how to explain. Just before our lives fractured further. "No, it's not that."

"How do you know? Have you seen her naked?" he jested.

"No!" I sat up. His eyes dropped to my chest, lazily. I fought the urge to cross my arms over my chest. "You are not making this easy."

"Sorry, I'll behave. No more jokes. Cyan?"

Lord and Lady, how to say it? "Cyan can, um, well... She can read minds."

He stared at me, and then he began to laugh, just as I had responded to Cyan. He kept laughing though, even when my face remained still as stone.

"Did she do some mentalist trick on you? Cover her eyes and ask you to choose a number between one and twenty?"

"She asked me to think of my fondest memory. And she told me every little detail about it. Including what painting was on the wall, and what book lay open in my lap."

He sobered at that. "That's not possible."

I waved my hand vaguely. "Plenty would say the same about me."

"But isn't yours mainly physiological? It's not mindreading!"

"I've been seen by a lot of doctors. None of them have ever come across a case quite like mine. Besides, don't you remember what else I can do?"

"Remember what?"

"The night we ran away from the circus." We'd never spoken of it. In the beginning, we were both too broken. And then... it was easier not to discuss murder and death.

A shadow crossed Drystan's face, his pupils wide and dark. "I don't remember most of that night... after the cane."

"You blocked it out?"

He shrugged. "I suppose."

I didn't want to bring up that night, but I pushed on. "When the clowns were chasing us, and they trapped us. I told you to close your eyes. There was a flash. And we escaped."

His brow crinkled. "I think I remember a flash. It's all jumbled." Had he truly forgotten the memories to save himself from the pain? I wished I could do the same.

I puffed my breath out from between my cheeks. "Come on," I said, leaving the warm cocoon of the bed. "As ever, it's easier to show people than to tell them."

"You could show me what's under your clothes again. I remember that clearly enough."

I threw him a dirty look, even as my face burned. "You said no more joking."

"Maybe I wasn't joking," he said, sending another shiver along my spine.

Unable to articulate my thoughts, I turned from him. We shrugged into our jackets and shoved our feet into our boots. Up to the roof we went, and down the frozen drainpipe. Snow lay thick upon the ground. The world was dark, the sky brilliantly clear, each star shining down on us like a pinprick of light through black cloth. The air was fresh and cold.

It took a long time to find a Penglass dome that wouldn't be easily seen by people in the tall buildings to either side. Finally, I found one a little taller than us, hidden just inside an alley next to a shop with boarded windows.

Drystan looked at the dome in confusion, his teeth chattering with cold. "Why are we here?"

"Stand here, so anyone walking by won't see."

He complied. I took a deep breath, my bare palms hovering above the dome. Excitement coursed through me. And fear. Had it really been months since I had done this? Penglass called to me, especially every Penmoon, but I always resisted, not wanting to risk someone seeing... someone being hurt. But would the glass be like it was the night with Cyril, or like the night of the Penmoon?

"Keep your eyes shut until I tell you it's safe," I warned.

He did, and I closed my eyes to near slits.

I pressed my palms to the cold glass. Beneath my hands, the dark cobalt Penglass began to glow. The light reflected off the snow until it seemed as though we stood on diamonds. I took my hands away, widening my eyes. It was safe. The imprint of my hands remained.

"You can look," I said.

Drystan crept closer, the blue light illuminating the planes of his face. His eyes were wide with wonder, his lips parted.

"You created the flash?"

"If I touch it on the night of the Penmoon and focus, it becomes blinding." I swallowed, thinking of the clowns. I had tried to forget that, because of me, they would never see again.

"How is this possible?"

I tried to lock away the memory of that night in a corner of my mind, along with the other horrors. It was the only way not to be haunted. "I don't know. I discovered it by accident, when I was climbing with my brother." That memory had been one of the most amazing of my life, and then utterly terrible. Cyril had fallen off the smooth surface of the Penglass, breaking his arm. I had jumped down the Penglass after him, leaving two long trails of light as I did so. Nearby residents had seen them, and the next day photos graced the cover of the newspaper. No one had ever linked it to me. At least, I did not think they had.

Drystan reached out to touch the glass, but it remained dark under his fingers. I drew a few swirls like the winter wind, illuminating the snow a little more.

"So you see," I said. "There's much in this world we don't understand. I can do this. I never grow ill. My arm healed before I stopped wearing the sling. So if I can do all of this, then what Cyan can do does not seem beyond the realm of possibility."

His head jerked back at that. "How much quicker did your arm heal?"

"Two weeks or so."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He sounded hurt.

"I wanted to pretend it was not that odd. That I was not that odd." My voice caught, surprising me.

"You're not odd. This, what you can do... it's beautiful." He came close, and wrapped me in his arms. "You're beautiful."

My breath hitched in my throat.

Our lips met. I pushed him against the glowing glass, the stubble of his chin scratching mine. I rested a hand on the Penglass, the cool blue light bathing us as we kissed, careless of who might see.

20.

HIDDEN MESSAGES.