A House Divided

Chapter 15

Cianne felt oddly at loose ends the next morning. Her father had left early and Lach and his mother were busy meeting with the Elders to plan Toran's funeral. Despite her soul-sucking sense of exhaustion, she wasn't able to seize the opportunity to sleep later. Her mind was far too busy, and the intensity of everything that had happened over the last several days left her with the sensation of a weight pressing down on her chest, making it difficult for her to draw breath.

Though it made her feel guilty, she allowed herself some time to think about Kila's return to her life. From under her shirt she drew out a tiny key on a leather cord that she wore around her neck at all times, then used it to open the small chest she'd extracted from the hidden compartment in her jewelry wardrobe. She didn't care one fig for jewelry, but even at the age of twelve she'd had an impressive collection of her own, much of it gifts given to her by other House members over the years. Upon her mother's death she had inherited Annalith's extensive collection, though she hadn't been able to bring herself to wear a single piece of it. Even looking at it was almost unbearable. Vivie hardly ever convinced her to wear jewels to important events, even when she employed her most persuasive cajoling techniques, and so Cianne's general disdain for expensive baubles had become known throughout the House. Another mark against her, she supposed. House Staerleigh wasn't overly ostentatious, but House members saw no reason to refrain from a tasteful display of one's wealth.

Which was why the jewelry wardrobe was such a good hiding place for the chest. No one ever saw her going into it, and House members tended to view her as simple, so underestimating her wiles that they would never believe her capable of any deceit. They would expect her to exhibit all sorts of suspicious behavior if she were attempting to hide something, so even though it made her grit her teeth, she did her best to take advantage and play into their prejudices against her.

Reaching through the stuffed wardrobe without brushing against any of her mother's familiar necklaces, bracelets, and earrings was also something of a training exercise for her. The task required a steady hand, intense focus, and an unwavering gaze fixed on the back of the wardrobe, where the secret compartment's latch was hidden. It was also a test of mental endurance, because each piece reminded Cianne of times spent with her mother, provoking memories both painful and so exquisitely happy as to render them painful as well.

Her ordeal wasn't over yet as she would have to return the chest to its hiding spot, but even that was nothing compared to what she was planning on doing as soon as possible. Her hands shook as she pulled a small leather book from the chest and slipped it into a hidden pocket sewn into the inside of her shirt. The book was so slim that wearing a flared waistcoat over the shirt was enough to conceal it. Once the waistcoat was securely laced, the book pressed against her breastbone, a reminder of what she'd carried close to her heart for these nine long years. The thought of returning it filled her with a dull heaviness, but she knew giving it back was the right thing to do. It hadn't been hers to keep in the first place; it was due to a mere quirk of fate that she still had it.

Closing her eyes, she pictured the book with perfect clarity. The wine-colored leather had darkened with age, the edges of it stained and frayed from much contact with fingers. The pages were thin, fragile, and Cianne always turned each one with extreme care, not releasing her breath until she was certain she hadn't ripped it. A little larger than her palm, the book contained a series of meticulous sketches, thirty-two in total, covering the pages front and back. Each sketch depicted one of the forms of the deshya.

***

"I can't do it!" Cianne said, throwing herself on the ground in frustration, trying to hide her tears. She hated that she was such a crybaby. She cried about everything, when she was mad, when she was sad, when her muscles became so tense from her inability to do something that she felt like her bones would shatter. Her mother had told her that she shouldn't be ashamed of the force of her feelings, that such deep emotions were the result of having a big heart. Her father, on the other hand, had often barked at her to wipe her eyes and compose herself, his scorn clear as he said that nothing was worth so much fuss. It didn't matter what the fuss was about; in her father's view, any fussing was too much of an extreme.