Rachel Gillig

To the quiet girls with stories in their heads.
To their dreams—and their nightmares

She didn’t pretend, Ione. She simply was.

I envied her that. I was a spooked animal, so rarely calm.

as if they needed me in their arms as much as I needed to be held. As if nothing else mattered but to hold one another.

As if we had all the time in the world.

To the quiet girls with stories in their heads.
To their dreams—and their nightmares.

I felt him watching Ione through my eyes. When he spoke, his voice was slick with oil. Yellow girl, soft and clean. Yellow girl, plain—unseen. Yellow girl, overlooked. Yellow girl, won’t be Queen.

Hush, I said, turning my back to my cousin.

Like all dreams, it lacked a beginning and an end.

The Nightmare crawled through my mind. Desperate times, he said.

No Card is worth a formal introduction to Hauth Rowan.

Says the girl who talks to the monster in her head. Not exactly Princess material, are we, my dear?

I ignored him.

Ravyn watched me, his eyes fixed on my arm. I looked down and sucked in a breath, trying to cover my bare skin with the tatters of my sleeve. But it was too late; he’d seen my veins—dark and twisted.

When he reached out to touch my arm, I jerked away.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he repeated. “You, on the other hand…” He wiped his bloody nostrils on his sleeve, wincing. “Fuck.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s twice you’ve handed me my ass and run off.”

For the Black Horse Card, for power and speed,

The Spirit wanted blood from my warhorse, my steed.

For the Golden Egg Card, abundance and wealth,

I bartered two years of my life’s precious health.

The Prophet came next, the Card of foresight.

She wanted my fear, so I gave her my fright.

When I asked her for courage, the White Eagle Card,

I bartered my skin, which left my hands scarred.

So I begged for the Maiden, for beauty I prayed.

She asked for my hair, shorn off with a blade.