The following day, Mira’s hair was again pulled back, this time, with a dainty wreath set upon the crown of her head. It was a pretty thing, but each time she tilted her head to look at something above or below her eyeline, it shifted. There was nothing to be gained by complaining about the discomfort of having to balance something atop her head all day, so Mira kept quiet. She was placed in a green dress with delicate gold leaf detailing and told that Loric, Dayne, her father, and Lord Terrowin had gone out for a hunt along with the younger boys.

Her father had not gone hunting with her other suitors, and it was difficult to think nothing of this. She tried to sit pleasantly and wait, focusing on the basket she’d started making three days back. The grass would not obey her, and she soon gave up, opting instead to visit the gallery.

Running her hands along the cool stone wall, she climbed the twisting steps to the third floor. Mira had forgotten the dream she had the night before—where she wandered in an endless sand—but remembered it instantly when she looked upon her favourite painting. She could taste again the fierce, droughty air.

“It’s a beautiful piece of art,” said an unfamiliar voice.

Mira jumped, having assumed she was alone in the gallery and pressed her hands against her heart. She turned to see the broken-nosed man observing another painting further down the hallway, almost hidden by shadows.

She tried not to show how much he startled her, but she knew he could tell. He smirked and lifted his hands in a way that implied he meant her no harm.

He bowed. “My lady.”

She curtsied. “Sir.”

He approached, standing a little too close for comfort, his shoulder nearly touching hers, his hands clasped in front of him. Mira had never been alone with a man she was not related to, nor had she been so near to one outside of a dance. She could smell him—a rich, warm musk that made her want to press her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

“The Battle of Sinya,” he said, nodding to the painting.

The man spoke the same language she did, but not as if he was born to it. The words sounded forced in his mouth.

Mira’s mother would have wanted her to politely excuse herself; she should not be so near a man without a chaperone, especially one she did not know.

Mira didn’t do what her mother would have wanted. Instead, she said, “How do you know this?”

“In my country, everyone knows this.”

“Your country, Sir?”

“Targos. It’s very far south from here, my lady. Even if you were to travel by ship, it would take you many moons.”

Mira had never heard of Targos. In truth, she hadn’t known there was anything but sea to the south of the Isle. Her curiosity made her bold. “How did you come to be here, in Lord Terrowin’s company?”

“It is a long story, the kind of story that tame ladies such as yourself don’t like to hear.” He looked at her as he said that, his gleeful eyes appearing black in the dim of the gallery. “But who knows? Maybe you’ll marry Loric, and I can tell you one day.” He turned his attention back to the painting. “The sand of Sinya stretches on for more than a dozen Arcliffs, with no water to be seen. More than half of the men in these armies died before they reached the battle.”

“What were they fighting for? Surely, not the land—what could they do with it?”

He smiled. “The gods—or rather, they each thought they had found the one true god, from which all other gods stem. The God of the Sun—” He pointed to the sun on one man’s shield. “Against the god of truth.” He gestured to an eye on another’s chest. “They have been sworn enemies since the beginning of time.”

Mira was mesmerized. “Who won?”

He laughed to himself. “You can say the god of truth won because his soldiers were left standing at the end of the fray. But you can also say the Sun God won because all the surviving men went mad from the heat.”

Mira stared at the painting in awe. “In Targos, do they worship one of these gods?”

His eyes shot to hers, radiant and daring, and there was a long silence. Many lines had been crossed between them already that morning, but speaking aloud any implication of his connection to heathens was another depth of risk. He was waiting—eagerly—to see if Mira would ask again, having thought about the repercussions. It was dangerous for him, being associated with heathenism, and for her, knowing about it. Her cheeks burned, and she stayed quiet.

He smirked. “I know better than to talk of such things here on this continent.”

Mira wanted to say, “I will not tell, Sir. I promise,” but she didn’t. The fear in her was too great, and his expression had changed. At first, she thought it was disappointment she saw, but it was more than that. He looked at her the way Mira once looked at her father’s grey horse, the one that had broken a leg and was about to be killed.

The broken-nosed man walked away, whistling a strange tune, and Mira was alone once more. He did not bow as he left. It was customary to bow when leaving a lady’s presence, and though Mira wanted to be offended, she wasn’t; if anything, she found his insolence exciting.

Mira brought her harp up to the gallery and played a sad, slow tune while she watched the painting. It seemed now more alive than ever. Each man’s face told a different story. A battle for the gods. It was childish, but Mira hadn’t thought of heathens as people with faith before that day. She’d thought of them only as lacking belief. In a single hour, the world had grown infinitely bigger, so big, Mira’s mind couldn’t contain it.

When the portcullis began to screech (a sound that gave all in the fortress at Arcliff great pride for only three castles in all the Isle had iron bars set within their gates), Mira knew the men were returning from the hunt. She stepped outside to see them in, earthy, damp air brushing against her forehead. Whenever her father had been away, she met him in the courtyard. It was one of the few things that remained untouched from her childhood.

The men had done well for themselves. Several rabbits dangled from ropes on their shoulders, and a fat, hairy boar hung over one of the horses.

Mira’s youngest brother Emery had caught two big rabbits and was very pleased with himself. He ran to her, showing off his prizes as the hunting hounds circled and panted and sniffed at the cobbles, seemingly trying to determine whether things had changed in their absence.

“Well done!” she exclaimed.

Emery’s knees and hands were caked with black soil. Mira knew if there were no guests present, her mother would have a fit over the state of him. Maybe Emery knew this too. Maybe that was why he was covered in mud—he’d had the chance.

Dayne hopped off his horse without a word. She made eye contact with him, but he looked away and walked inside without any of the appropriate courtesies. So it’s decided then. They must have discussed the marriage while out on the hunt.

Loric approached. “My lady, would you care for a walk?”

The world slowed. Mira’s heart quickened and Loric’s height, which she’d admired only the night before, became foreboding. He seemed nothing like the gentle man who danced with her and smiled shyly and set a flower in her hands. He didn’t seem like a man at all but a broad, lumbering colossus who could pick her up with just two fingers and end her with a pinch. She looked to her father.

There was kindness in her father’s eyes but also order. He nodded, short and sharp, so Mira took Loric’s arm and let him lead her into the gardens. Each step required a full breath, and for a moment, nothing seemed real.

She couldn’t tell how much time passed as they walked or which way they were going. It was all a blur. Steady yourself. She tried to breathe deep and slow, following Loric’s lead until he stopped walking and turned to her. You must look at him, she urged herself. You must. It took a moment, but she managed to hold his gaze. Her first thought when she saw him was: he is nervous too. Sir Loric was also breathing slow and with deliberation.

“My lady,” he began. “It is the wish of our fathers to join our families. To join us, you and me, by marriage.”

The words were heavier than Mira expected. They hung in the air.

“If you accept this offer, I swear to you that I will always uphold your honour. I will defend you from any and all dangers with my life if need be. And always, I will place you before myself.” He waited.

Mira didn’t think; she knew what was expected of her. The asking was only a formality. “I accept.”

Loric let out the breath he’d been holding. The pressure is on him as well. How could it not be? The two of them stayed still and quiet for many moments.

“My lady—” He paused as he had at supper the night before, as if he were about to say something he shouldn’t. “Are you… happy with this?”

Again, Mira didn’t think; she only spoke. “More than happy.”

He took her face gently in his hands and kissed her. Soft. Sweet. A beautiful kiss, but sad. Whenever she’d pictured this, it had always been the smithy’s apprentice Rowan who was kissing her.

Loric led Mira back to the castle, where everyone else was already settled in the great hall. She didn’t feel like chatting pleasantly with anyone. She wanted to go riding, to feel cold fresh air on her face.

It was Dayne who saved her. He led her to her place at the table and filled her cup with wine from his own goblet. Mira was not usually partial to wine (nor was she even allowed to have it), but the drink was cool and numbing and precisely what she needed. Breathe. Nausea splashed around in her stomach, and this confused her as she could not fathom why becoming engaged would make her feel sick.

She sat, staring off into the room with her eyes unfocused, wondering why she was not happier. Whenever Mira thought of her engagement, she’d pictured being in love like in a romantic ballad. The fantasy felt silly and embarrassing.

Dayne said, “It’s done then?”

She nodded and tried her best to look content.

Occasionally, her eyes met Loric’s. Each time, he gave her a small, uncertain smile or a little nod. It wasn’t kind of her, but Mira found his unease made her feel better. At least she was not alone in her overwhelm.

Her father announced the engagement, giving a short toast. After that, Lord Terrowin spoke, referring to Mira as a daughter. His words were sweet and welcoming, but she had trouble listening. Once the announcement was made, every person in the hall felt the need to come to Mira and express their joy. They congratulated her even though she’d done nothing more than stand in one place and speak a few agreeable words.

Her sister Elfrith was the worst. The girl was giddy and spoke so fast Mira couldn’t follow her words. “Are you the happiest? What will you wear at the wedding? Do you think you’ll have a boy first or a girl? Or twins?”

After an appropriate amount of time, Mira excused herself.

“Do you want me to come with you?” Dayne said.

In truth, she did, but she felt childish saying so. I’ll be married soon. I won’t have Dayne with me anymore; I won’t have anyone I know...

He came without her answer.

As they walked, the situation settled in her mind. Finally, it began to feel real—a little too real (and a little too quickly). Like in a bad dream, each detail of the corridor jutted out sharply from the rest, screaming for her attention. Colours grew richer. Sounds magnified. It had taken only moments for her entire life to shift, and she’d had no say in any of it.

The air grew heavy, pressing down on her head and neck and shoulders, increasing the work it took to breathe. She began to walk faster, hoping to get further away from the hall before her fit came on in full. She’d had this sort of thing happen before.

Salty water strained against the back of her eyes, begging to be let out, and her breath became uneven. Sharp, sudden gasps she had no control over. Her lungs were insatiable, sucking in as much air as possible but spewing it forth before it had time to take effect, making her dizzy.

She moved her hands to her stomach in an attempt to alleviate some part of her overwhelm. When this didn’t work, she took hold of Dayne, clenching his tunic tightly in a white fist. Her knees bent, and she would have sagged to the floor if Dayne had not taken firmer hold of her.

He moved her so she could lean against the wall, the cold stone offering some relief to the back of her neck and her palms. Dayne had seen this happen before too.

Whenever people witnessed it—which was rare, as Mira usually could feel it coming on and knew to go somewhere private for the torment—he would lie and say her corset was a little too tight that day. But he knew as well as Mira that these fits had begun far before she started wearing a corset. These fits were why he lied to her about demons. When she was nine, and it happened the first time, she thought it was the devils of Arsi, sent to punish her for unholiness.

A servant turned the corner and spied them, but Dayne waved the man away with two brazen flicks of his wrist. He kept his eyes on Mira, his brow furrowed with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said when the worst of it had passed, and she was able to speak again.

She took his arm, and they went the long way to her chambers, not up the stairs nearest the great hall, but by way of the northern staircase, walking the length of two extra corridors in the process.

As they walked, Mira found words for one of her worries. “What if he is like Borin, the stonemason?”

“I don’t think he is.” Dayne stopped and set his hands on her shoulders, turning her so she was facing him. “But if I am wrong, you will send me a letter, and I will see to it that he is dead. I swear it.”

His stare was so intense that Mira couldn’t help but believe his words. If Loric laid a hand on her, he would die.

When they reached her chambers, Dayne said goodnight and kissed her forehead. The idea of saying goodbye to her brother, for perhaps years at a time, was too much. He was the only person she did not need to perform for, the only one who knew what happened behind her face. He, too, was worried about how she’d fare without him. She could sense this in the way his hands lingered on her shoulders—as if he believed that holding on to her then and there was the same thing as keeping her from leaving when her husband required it. Mira didn’t want him to let go either, but eventually, he did. Dayne was always the braver one.

When Orlaith took down her hair, it helped with everything. Mira had been untroubled with it all up until the moment it happened. What changed? Was it the kiss? Dayne’s reservations? The man who told her of a whole other country across the sea to the south?

Maybe it is none of these things, but all of them together.

Why was Dayne so afraid for her? What did he know that she didn’t?

None of these thoughts matter. I’ll find out soon enough.

Mira imagined sneaking into the stables and riding away, never to be seen from again, frigid night air whipping her cheeks. As comforting as the thought was, she knew she wouldn’t act on it. There was nowhere for her to go.

If you were to ask any Islish man or woman about these thoughts, they would likely say that shaming her family and running away and facing whatever bandits or forest witches Mira managed to encounter would be far preferable to what actually happened.

When sleep finally came, she dreamt of the sea washing up over everyone and everything. She tried to run, but no one could outrun the sea. It swallowed her whole.