Finale (Caraval, 3)

Every night Legend visited her dreams like a villain from a storybook. Night after night after night after night. Without fail, for nearly two months, he always showed up, and he always disappeared after receiving the same answer to his question.

Tonight they were in an otherworldly version of the saloon inside the Church of Legend. Countless portraits of artists’ imaginings of Legend looked down on them as a spectral piano player tapped a quiet tune, while ghost-thin patrons clad in colorful top hats danced around.

Tella sat in a clamshell-shaped chair the color of rainforest mist, while Legend lounged across from her on a tufted chaise as green as the sugar cubes he kept rolling between his deft fingers.

After that first night in the boat, he hadn’t worn the top hat or the red tailcoat, confirming her suspicions that the items were part of his costume rather than his person. He’d gone back to dressing in crisp black—and he was still quick to laugh and to smile, like Dante.

But unlike Dante, who had always found excuses to put his hands on her, Legend never, ever touched Tella in dreams. If they rode a hot-air balloon, it was so large that there was no danger of her accidentally bumping into him. If they strolled through a garden of waterfalls, he stayed along the edge of the path where their arms weren’t at risk of brushing. Tella didn’t know if their touching would put an end to their shared dreams, or if keeping his hands to himself was just another one of the many ways he maintained control, but it frustrated her endlessly. Tella wanted to be the one in control.

She took a sip of her sparkling green cordial. It tasted too much like black licorice for her, but she liked the way Legend’s eyes went to her lips whenever she drank. He might have avoided touching her, however, it never stopped him from looking.

But tonight his eyes were red around the edges, even more than they’d been the last few nights. The Days of Mourning for Empress Elantine were ending in two days, which meant the countdown to Legend’s official coronation was about to begin. Twelve days from now he’d be crowned emperor. She wondered if the preparations were taking a toll. Sometimes he spoke of palace business, and how frustrating the royal council was, but tonight he was being quiet. And asking about it felt like awarding him points in the game they were playing, because this was definitely a game, and giving Legend the impression she still cared was against the rules. Just as touching was.

“You look tired,” she said instead. “And your hair needs to be cut; it’s half hanging over your eyes.”

His mouth twitched at the corner, and his voice turned taunting. “If it looks so bad, why do you keep staring?”

“Just because I don’t like you doesn’t mean you’re not pretty.”

“If you really hated me, you wouldn’t find me attractive at all.”

“I never said I had good taste.” She downed the last of her cordial.

His eyes returned to her lips as he continued to roll his absinthe sugar cubes around his long fingers. The tattoos on his fingers were gone, but the black rose remained on the back of his hand. Whenever she saw it, she wanted to ask why he’d left it, if he’d gotten rid of his other tattoos, like the beautiful wings on his back, and if that was why he no longer smelled of ink. She was also curious if he still wore the brand from the Temple of the Stars, signifying that he owed them a life debt. The debt he’d taken on for her.

But if she’d asked that, it would have unquestionably counted as caring.

Fortunately, admiring wasn’t against their unspoken rules. If it had been, they’d both have lost this game a long time ago. Tella usually tried to be a little more discreet, but he never was. Legend was unabashed in the way he looked at her.

Although tonight he seemed distracted. He hadn’t made any comments about her gown—he controlled the location, but she chose what she wore. This evening her flowing dress was a whimsical blue, with shoulder straps made of flower petals, a bodice made of ribbons, and a skirt of fluttering butterflies that Tella liked to think made her look as if she were a forest queen.

Legend didn’t even notice when one of her butterflies landed on his shoulder. His eyes kept flitting to the ghostly piano player. And was it Tella’s imagination, or did the tavern appear duller than her other dreams had been?

She would have sworn the chaise he lounged on had been a bright, lurid green, but it had blurred to pale sea glass. She wanted to ask if something was wrong, but again, that would have given the impression of caring.

“Aren’t you going to ask me your question tonight?”

His gaze snapped back to her. “You know, someday I might stop asking and decide not to give you the prize.”

“That would be lovely.” She sighed, and several butterflies took flight from her skirt. “I’d finally get a good night’s sleep.”

His deep voice dipped lower. “You would miss me if I stopped visiting.”

“Then you think too highly of yourself.”

He stopped toying with his sugar cubes and looked away, once again preoccupied by the musician on the stage. His tune had ventured into the wrong key, turning his song discordant and unlovely. Around the room the ghostly dancers responded by stumbling over one another’s feet. Then a raucous crash made them freeze.

The piano player folded atop his instrument, like a marionette whose strings had been severed.

Tella’s heart beat wildly. Legend was always frustratingly in control of her dreams. But she didn’t sense this was his doing. The magic in the air didn’t smell like his. Magic always held a sweet scent, but this was far too sweet, almost rotted.

When she turned back around, Legend was no longer sitting, but standing right in front of her. “Tella,” he said, his voice harsher than usual, “you need to wake yourself—”

His last words turned to smoke and then he turned to ash as the rest of the dream went up in poisonous green flames.

When Tella awoke, the taste of fire coated her tongue and a dead butterfly rested in her palm.