Nomi had almost drifted into sleep, when Malachi’s voice spiraled into the darkness. “When I was eight or nine, Father gave me a carved statue of a horse. I loved it. It was so delicate… the legs were so thin they were practically matchsticks. It had a mane, eternally frozen in wild tangles. The carving was exquisite, as beautiful as anything I’d ever seen.” He shifted, turning toward her. Nomi shifted too, because in the dark it was easier to be brave, and faced him. They lay, breath mingling, not quite close enough.

“One day, I was playing with my little horse, galloping it down the walls of the hallway near my room. Asa found me and wanted to play with it. I told him I didn’t want to share, but he didn’t listen. Eventually, we fought over the toy, and two of the horse’s legs snapped clean off.”

Nomi drew in a sigh. She could see little Malachi in her mind, so devastated at losing his favorite toy.

“Father wouldn’t get me a new one. He said I had to learn to be more careful with my things.”

“But it wasn’t your fault,” Nomi responded, feeling a pang in her belly. “It was Asa’s.”

“It didn’t matter to Father,” Malachi said.

“Your brother was rotten,” Nomi said.

“My brother spent every waking moment he had over the next six months to learn to carve and make me a replacement,” Malachi responded. “It was terrible, Nomi. Thick crooked legs, a chunky block for a tail, a misshapen head. It was the ugliest thing I’d ever seen. But all those hours and weeks and months Asa put into making it, just for me… I treasured it. Until I discovered the effort was for Father’s benefit. He was so impressed at Asa’s commitment, he gave him a real horse.”

Nomi could think of nothing to say. “Why are you telling me this?”

He shifted. Sighed. “Because… I suppose I wanted you to know I thought he was kind once too. I was angry that you trusted him over me. But it was not so strange that you did. He has always found ways to use people to benefit himself. I wish I’d known. I would have warned you.”

Nomi pressed her cheek into her pillow so hard the down pricked her and ached for lost chances.

With a sad sigh, she confessed, “I wouldn’t have believed you.”

SEVENTEEN

SERINA

THE FIRE DEVOURED Mount Ruin’s distinctive golden grass. It ate the informal groves of citrus trees, the scrubby brush and jungle foliage. It ate and it roared and it raced toward Hotel Misery.

Around Serina, women were running, their arms full of extra clothes, extra food, whatever they could carry.

Where could they go? Serina needed to compose herself. She needed to give them a direction. Where would be safe from the fire?