Tainted

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Tanymede helps me pick out a bloodred dress. I try it on for her. It's unlike anything I've ever worn. There are no sleeves, the dress stop a hands-breadth below my collarbone, a small "v" cut in the direct center of the top hem. The dress flows out around my waist and down my legs to my feet. From the waist down, tiny crystals are sewn into the fabric.

"It's beautiful," I say. "Where did you get it?"

Tanymede's eyes turn nostalgic. "It was Sani's," she says. It was for her first village dance. That was years ago, but I haven't been able to part with it."

"Now take this back to your tent. I have to go help with food preparation."

I strip out of the dress and back into my tunic and pants. I help Tanymede pull the sheets over her wares before taking the dress back to Ezzi's tent.

I haven't felt fully comfortable inside, but it's better than the awkwardness of sharing a tent with Rogue and Sailor. At least in here I can breathe without worrying about every possible little misstep I can make with Rogue. He barely even looked at me earlier.

I drape the dress over the bed mat I've acquired and lean a pewter serving tray against the tent wall to serve as a sort of mirror.

I split my hair into three parts. All I know is a simple plait, but if I twist the braid just so, I can have it hang over one shoulder, rather than fall down my spine. I wrap a thin ribbon around the end and tie it into a bow.

For the past few days, I've been sanding down bits of broken glass from the kitchens. I'd thought of making it into jewelry to sell at Tanymede's but since the edges are dull enough not to cut my scalp, I stick a few pieces into the plait, hoping it'll glitter in the firelight.

"That's a lovely touch." The breathy voice startles me so much I nearly topple over.

The tall woman from the Scout smiles warmly at me. She's much younger than she looked from afar, and even taller. And there's something so achingly familiar about her, I just can't place it.

"Thank you," I say. I stand. "I'm Mira." I stick out my hand.

The woman shakes it stiffly. Her hands are encased in those shiny, black leather gloves. They disappear up into the wide sleeves of her teal cloak.

"Surma," she says. With each word I worry that she won't have enough air to speak the next one. Her skin is as pale as moonlight, and her eyes are a crystal blue more arresting than Sailor's. She wears her hood low over her face, leaving just the lowest tips of her translucent eyebrows visible. But there's something about her nose and the shape of her cheeks that I recognize.

"Do you mind if I take a look around?" Surma asks.

"Not at all," I step back, letting her further into the tent. I try not to look too closely at her face and I try to figure out where I might have seen her before, other than that one time in the Laplands.

Surma walks slowly around the tent. Something dims in her eyes as she takes in the painted images.

"Did you know her?" I ask. "Rogue's sister?"

"Yes. Esmeralda." Surma whispers.

The tent walls waver in the breeze, almost as if they've heard Esmeralda's name.

Surma turns back to me. Behind her, the painted image of a drop of water and a lick of flame seem to dance.

"She was the fire that fed Haven," Surma murmurs. She looks to the painting on her left. A single tear rolls down her cheek, a mirror image to the drop of water.

"I loved her," Surma says, looking to the flame. "We promised we'd be together forever."

"I'm sorry," I say quietly.