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Back The Midnight Lie
Chapters (60)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. 1
  5. 2
  6. 3
  7. 4
  8. 5
  9. 6
  10. 7
  11. 8
  12. 9
  13. 10
  14. 11
  15. 12
  16. 13
  17. 14
  18. 15
  19. 16
  20. 17
  21. 18
  22. 19
  23. 20
  24. 21
  25. 22
  26. 23
  27. 24
  28. 25
  29. 26
  30. 27
  31. 28
  32. 29
  33. 30
  34. 31
  35. 32
  36. 33
  37. 34
  38. 35
  39. 36
  40. 37
  41. 38
  42. 39
  43. 40
  44. 41
  45. 42
  46. 43
  47. 44
  48. 45
  49. 46
  50. 47
  51. 48
  52. 49
  53. 50
  54. 51
  55. 52
  56. EPILOGUE
  57. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  58. Also by Marie Rutkoski
  59. ABOUT THE AUTHOR
  60. Newsletter Sign-up

I wanted to reach the lamp and add oil, make the flame burn higher so that I could see if his eyes were truly dark or only looked dark in the darkness. Maybe, if I saw him better, I would understand why he fascinated me.

He said, “I would like to see you smile.”

I said nothing, and he fell quiet, too, until I heard a rustle and what sounded like a suppressed yawn.

I said, “I heard that.”

“You heard nothing! I am never tired!”

“Liar.”

“Tell me a bedtime story, then.”

“I am no storyteller.”

“Tell me something about you.”

I folded my arms around me. The coat was nicely made. Its warmth made me relax a little, despite my surroundings, despite the disquieting prisoner across the hall. “I am a baker.” I heard how small that sounded, how insignificant I must seem.

“Tell me more.”

I am a forger, I thought, but said nothing.

“Tell me something you like,” he said.

“Sweet things,” I said. “Apples.”

“Tell me why you like them.”

I was quiet.

“Nirrim, I am very tired and so, so cold. I want to fall asleep listening to your lovely voice. It would comfort me. Are you so unkind as to withhold comfort from a fellow prisoner? Your well-wisher? Your provider of coats?”

“Apples remind me of a friend,” I said. “I miss her.”

“Tell me about her,” he said, “so that I may miss her, too.”

14

THE BEDS FILED DOWN THE sleeping hall of the orphanage like neat, straight bones. Each night the girls washed their faces and hands and walked silently into the hall, hair braided into a scrawny rope that fell over the left shoulder, identical nightgowns made from stiff twill donated by a generous High-Kith lord and sewn by us. The babies, I told Sid, had crib mates. Sometimes I would pass the infants’ wing and see them heaped together like skinny puppies. I longed for it. I could remember when I, too, had slept like that. I know it seems astonishing that I could remember being so tiny, but I did. I remembered how the play of shadow and light from the slats of the crib fell on the nameless baby who breathed shallowly next to me, who would never be named. A shadow fluttered over her chest. A dark moth, I thought, though I had no word for moth. Surely it would fly away. I nuzzled closer to her, closed my questing hand around her socked foot.