Of Beast and Beauty - Jay Stacey (читать хорошую книгу txt) 📗

of this story.

It’s a love story. Gem has never told me a love story. It feels more

intimate than his other tales. Sadder, too. I haven’t imagined the

Monstrous loving the way we love, but I suppose they must. It makes me

wonder if there is someone Gem left behind, a Monstrous girl whose arms

he imagines holding him until morning.…

“The next morning, the girl awoke to find the star weeping in the

grass,” Gem continues. “He had already grown tired of the girl’s arms. He

craved the eyes of every creature of this world and the next and the next.

He mourned the loss of his spark and shine and the glory of burning

brighter than anything else in the night. He cursed the girl, blaming her for

his fall, and left her so he could find his way back to the sky, abandoning

her long before the girl’s belly began to round with the new star he had put

inside her.”

I blush so hard, my cheeks tingle. Heat spreads from my face, down

my neck, to make my skin itch beneath my clothes. The new star he had put

inside her. By the moons. Yuan’s storytellers would never say such a bold

thing. If Needle were here, she’d be scandalized.

The knowledge makes the story a bit more delicious.

“Months passed, and the time came for the baby to be born. It was a

cold night, near the end of winter, and both of the tribe’s midwives came to

the girl’s hut, but the girl could not be saved,” Gem says. “After hours of

suffering, the star baby came from her in a rush of fire, killing his mother as

he shot toward the sky.”

I lift my head, lips parting in silent protest. Surely this can’t be the

end of the story, the poor girl dying in childbirth?

“The west wind saw the tragic birth,” Gem continues, “and wished he

had never carried the girl’s whispers to the star father. He plucked the girl’s

soul from her burning flesh and held her in his arms, offering her a breath

of his own magic to prove how sorry he was for the part he’d played. The

girl used the magic to steal the language of our people from the stars,

ensuring that no other Desert Girl would hear a star’s false promises or fall

in love with one of the fickle creatures ever again.

“But still, the west wind felt his debt had not been paid. And so, from

that day forward, he has continued to share his magic. He still comes to the

Desert People as their funeral fires burn, granting each of us one last wish.

And that is how we were given death magic, and why our deaths are cause

for celebration as well as sadness.”

He falls silent, but the air still hums with the power of the legend.

“That is a happy story?” I ask after an outraged moment.

“It is,” he says, a hint of laughter in his voice. “One of our happiest.”

“You’re mad!” I protest. “That poor girl. And whatever happened to

the star?”

“He became the star of the true north,” Gem says. “And, in honor of

his mother, he has guided the lost home to the tribal lands for hundreds of

years.”

“No. I meant the other star, the one who left the girl alone to die.”

“He returned to the heavens,” Gem says. “He continues to fill the

summer sky with orange and red, and unsuspecting women with babies. He

put a baby in the harvest moon that has refused to be born for hundreds of

years, for fear of hurting its mother, but that’s another legend.”

I’m about to say how unfair it was for the girl to die and the star to

live on unpunished, but I stop myself before the words can leave my

mouth. Of course it’s not fair, but … that’s the way life is. Gem and I know

that as well as anyone.

Gem and I. We have more in common than I ever dreamed we

would. Sometimes, it feels like I have more in common with him than I do

my own people. Sometimes, I wish he wasn’t my prisoner and that we were

more than polite acquaintances. Sometimes, I wish we could be friends.

But we can’t. And my only true friend is alone in the tower, waiting

for me to apologize for acting like a spoiled child.

“I should go. Thank you for the story,” I say, tossing the words over

my shoulder as I unwind my legs and start down the path, trailing my

fingers along the wall to guide me.

“Good night, Isra,” Gem calls, something in the way he says my name

making the hairs on my neck prickle.

I lift my hand and wave good-bye as I make my way into the heart of

the royal garden, careful to give the rose bed a wide berth. Gem may have

guessed that the roses allow me to see, but I’m not prepared for an

audience while availing myself of their magic.

I didn’t plan to stop here tonight, anyway. I haven’t pricked my finger

since the night the Monstrous invaded the city five weeks past. The

unrelieved darkness weighs on me, but not as heavy as the memory of the

hunger I felt pulling at me that night. The roses are tired of being teased

with a drop or two of what they crave; they grow eager for a proper

feeding.

“It isn’t time,” I whisper as I pass them by. It isn’t. Not for years and

years.

I know I’m right, but still, I shiver as I step into the orchard. The air

beneath the dome feels colder than it did a few moments ago, and I wish

I’d brought the shawl Needle tried to press into my hands as we left the

tower.

Autumn is dying, and winter will be here all too soon, a fact I would

be wise to remember the next time I’m tempted to throw my shoes into a

flower bed or linger listening to stories that have nothing to do with my

people or our life beneath the dome.

SEVEN

ISRA

“THE ground will be ready soon,” Gem says, his words underscored

by the steady chip, chap of his hoe as it breaks up the soil that has proven

too stubborn for our plow.

I follow behind him on my hands and knees, gathering clumps of

grass, rocks, and springy roots in my giant pockets. Needle stitched me a

new pair of overalls—in mourning green—but I wear them only out here, in

the loneliest corner of the city, by the Desert Gate. I like it out here. It’s

quiet and peaceful, and the guards hardly bother Gem and me at all

anymore.

After a month with no show of claws, the soldiers began taking turns

at Gem’s side. After eight weeks, they watch our progress from chairs at

the edge of the field. Bo tells me one of them always has a blow tube and a

sedative dart ready, but I’m not so sure. I catch snippets of their

conversations, and it sounds like they’re more focused on card games than

protecting their queen.

No matter how valuable my life is to the city, boredom eventually

won out over duty. Knowing Gem as I do, I’m betting that’s part of his plan.

He has a plan. A secret. I’d bet my hands on it. I know him better

than he thinks I do. You don’t spend every afternoon with

someone—listening to his stories and teaching him songs—without

learning a thing or two about the way his mind works.

“The herbs can be put off a month or two, but not the bulbs.” Gem

speaks our language like he was raised in the city now. There is nothing

growly or rough about him. He is the perfect gentleman. Gentle-Monstrous.

“We need to get them into the ground,” he continues. “They should

be planted while it’s still cold.”

“It will be cold forever.” A part of me believes it. Spring is a promise