I sag. “I don’t—I don’t know how I feel, Saga. How am I supposed to feel about anything? How am I supposed to feel, at all?” “That didn’t keep you from kissing that bastard son of Kallias in the tunnels,” she says viciously. I grind my jaw, tears pricking hot. “That was different.” “Why?” I blink and see sparks of blue and silver; I taste magic, enough to light the dark. I don’t want to parcel out my feelings, lay them on a tray like Saga’s earrings, pick out the ones I want to keep. I don’t even know how.
