she roamed the dreaming house, saw copper pots gleaming in the dark kitchen like a row of hung moons. Her feet made mouse sounds on the staircases. She found the library, remembered touching the spines of the books when she’d lived here before. She touched them again. She remembered and touched them, touched and remembered. Her piano was a large shadow in the parlor. Arin had brought it from her home. This was before the prison, before the imperial palace. He’d asked her to stay and share his life. She’d left him, had gone down to the harbor and stolen a fishing boat. The stormy sea. The emperor. A choice. The capital: stiff lace, sugar, snow. Thick blood, skinned fingers. A white knuckle joint. Choose, the emperor had said when she’d stood before him for the first time and saw his cold cunning. She’d chosen to marry his son. Her father had been proud. Memory crept over her skin in a prickling rash. Through a silvered window, Kestrel saw the harbor. The bay was a bucket of light.
