The Unbroken by C. Clark (ebook reader .txt) 📕

the other off-duty Sands’ eyes on her. Luckily, almost everyone was on patrol or guard duty somewhere in the city. Everyone else was just being polite. The Sands had a lot of practice politely ignoring each other for privacy.

Tibeau tore open the corners of the paper, enough to see the Shālan letters of the poetry book peek through. Sudden excitement shone bright in his eyes.

Aimée looked at it dubiously. “I was hoping for something more… edible.”

Touraine slapped Aimée gently on the chest. “Can you even read it anymore?” Touraine asked Tibeau.

“Can’t be too hard, can it? I knew it before.” He slid the book a little farther out of its paper to better peek at the first page. He sounded out the words slowly. Something about it sounded familiar, but Touraine couldn’t place it.

“What’s it mean?” she asked.

“We pray to rain, maybe? I’ll practice.” He shrugged carelessly, but Touraine recognized that squint he got when he was frustrated. Still, he forced a smile. “Maybe I have something to show you, too.” He grabbed his shirt from the fountain and mopped his face with it while he led Touraine up the stairs. “Aimée. I need your lockpick set.”

“Only welcome when I’m useful, hein?” Aimée grumbled, but she sounded excited, too.

They trailed past the room Touraine had shared with Pruett and Tibeau. Where was Pruett? Would she be back before Touraine left? Would she refuse to see Touraine outright?

The door they stopped before was nondescript. It took Aimée only a moment of fiddling with the lock to open it.

Her friends ushered her in and stood back with pride. Inside the room were books. Not as many as in Luca’s scattered library or Saïd’s bookshop, but more than a dozen. The room was dusty and dark, clearly unused. She remembered dimly that Cantic had mentioned books in the guardhouses. Touraine hadn’t had a chance to check before the guardhouse was no longer hers.

“We’re not supposed to have access, and to be honest, a lot of them are in Shālan, so most of us can’t read them,” Aimée said, shrugging.

Tibeau waved the book of poems. “But I’ll practice.”

Touraine stepped over to browse the spines of the books on their shelves. The room looked like it might have been a reading room. There was no furniture, not even pillows on the ground like the rebels had, which made her think it had all been repurposed.

“Do you mind if I take a few of these?” Touraine asked.

“You can’t afford your own books?” Aimée crossed her arms and shrugged, but she was still smiling.

“Luca—the princess sends me on errands sometimes.”

“Luca?” Tibeau raised his eyebrow. “That familiar already.”

Touraine’s face warmed with something between embarrassment and shame. She rushed to talk over it. “There’s a bookseller in the Puddle District.”

“A bookseller sold you a book of Shālan poems. Not Balladairan, were they?”

He slid back into his teasing lilt so easily that Touraine’s shoulders relaxed. He was on his best behavior, so Touraine could be, too.

Aimée, on the other hand, frowned sideways at her. “You call her by name. She lets you wander about like a stray dog. She’s even giving you weapons.”

Touraine followed Aimée’s glance to the knife Luca had gifted her. She imagined how it looked, flaunting this new privilege. “The gold stripes were going to have me shot, Aimée. This way, I stay alive and the princess promises to help the Sands out. I don’t have a choice.”

Still, Touraine liked the knife. She liked the clothes and the food and the doctors.

Aimée reached over to pluck at the fabric of Touraine’s new sleeveless shirt, eyed the new trousers and boots, and whistled. “I’m sure you’re right. But your lack of choice looks a sight more comfortable than ours.”

Touraine clenched her fists, ready to hit something. Then Aimée looked at her full on for the first time. The emotions on her face made Touraine ache.

Wry jealousy, disappointment, frustration. Even if Touraine was stuck with Luca, in her bed or playing traitor in the dead of night, it would be hard for any Sand to see her as worse off. With Luca’s favor, she was effectively immune from being shat on by Balladairan officers. Rogan would never touch her again. But Touraine was alone now. The Sands had each other.

“Aimée.” Tibeau put a warning arm across Aimée’s chest. “Keep it up and I’ll shove sand in places you didn’t even know you had holes.”

“All right, easy, Sergeant. Sorry, Lieutenant,” Aimée said, pushing Tibeau’s arm away. “Anylight. I’d stay close to her now.” She glanced behind Touraine, back toward the door. “Rogan went into a shitting rage when he found out you’d be let off. If he and his friends liked you before…”

As if summoned, a shadow blotted out the light from the open door. Touraine spun around, a cold fist of fear at her throat. It’s okay, she told herself. You’re Luca’s now. He can’t touch you.

The thought was cold comfort when Touraine saw Pruett framed in the doorway instead.

“Pru. Hey.” Touraine’s throat was too dry for words.

“That’s all you have to say?” Pruett sauntered in. Something crinkled in her fist as she crossed her arms. A broadside and her cap. She’d cut her hair, too, and her face was narrow without the frame. The bags under her eyes could’ve carried corpses.

“Pruett, I—” Instead of talking, Touraine held her arms open.

Pruett blinked hard and pressed her lips together. After an eternity of a breath, she pulled Touraine close. Her neck smelled like gun powder, oil, sweat.

“You smell like a fucking rosebush.” Pruett held Touraine at arm’s length, nose wrinkled.

“How is Rogan?” Touraine blurted. Her fear found its exit.

“Don’t worry. I’ve held him off so far. Seems he’s not that particular about who he chases, as long as she’s in power and he can try to make her small.”

Pruett looked her up and down, asking without asking, How are you?

“I’m fine.”

“Figured you were.” Pruett held out the broadside. It had been balled up at least once.

Touraine eased out the wrinkles.