Grace by Elizabeth Scott

Author:Elizabeth Scott
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Penguin Group USA, Inc.
Published: 2010-08-29T22:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 21

I was told what to do—what I was—so many times. I had been told what would happen to me so many times. I was raised knowing the Angels were reminders that the People would never give way. I was raised knowing my life was to be used in hopes of changing the world.

I was to keep nothing in my heart but devotion. No love, no hate, no room for anything else but what I was to do. How I was to serve.

So when the soldier gestures for me to follow him, I do.

I have no other choice.

I only had one once, and it has brought me here, to me following behind this soldier, resignation heavy in my heart.

But the soldier surprises me.

I expect to be dragged into their washroom—which I am—but instead of reaching under my skirt he asks about my imaginary sister, the one who has a baby due very soon.

“Was she sick when she was first carrying the child?” he says. “Did it—did it make her ill? ”

I nod slowly, staring at him warily and trying to hide my surprise at his question. Every woman I have ever seen with a rounded belly in the Hills spoke of being ill. Some with pride, some with resignation. But they all spoke of it. They all knew it would happen.

He blows out a breath. “Was there . . . what did you do about it? What is there to do to fix it? ”

I cannot picture this soldier with a family, a pregnant wife, sister, niece—anything. He is Keran Berj’s creature and no more, except here he is, talking to me.

Asking for my help.

I clear my throat.

“Rest,” I say. “Bland foods. Sickness is normal. It passes.”

He stares at me for so long I think I have said the wrong thing but after a moment he hands me his flask. He pulls it away after I take three swallows. The water is so cold it bites into my teeth. It is glorious. I want more.

“You weren’t that helpful,” he says when I look at the flask, and then opens the door, pushes me out. His hand is heavy on my shoulder as he walks me back to my seat, and as I sit, he presses something into my hand.

I wait until after he is gone to open my fingers.

Sitting on my palm is a waxed packet of rice balls. The rice is fresh, the grains still puffed and not shriveled from the heat.

“Don’t cry,” Kerr whispers, and the pinch he delivers to my arm is almost enough to mask the note of fear in his voice.

“I’m not,” I whisper back, but there is something wet on my face, and I am.

“Are you . . . hurt?” Kerr says, low-voiced.

I shake my head. How can I say that three sips of water and these rice balls—gained from answering a simple question—are the most kindness I have ever gotten from anyone? How can I say that someone asking me for advice is

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