“Fine. I’ll begin with an easy question, cousin,” she said, spitting the word out like it were venom. “Are you jealous of Ravyn?”
Hauth’s laugh did not touch his eyes. “N-n-n-n.” He clenched his jaw and tried again. “N-n-n.” But the wine—the Chalice—would not let him lie. “Yes,” he said.
But the infection had changed everything. We were not the same, my half sisters and I.
Life had sheltered them, like pearls kept in a velvet pouch. And I—I was not made of pearls.
I was made of salt.