Jeweled by Anya Bast

a note of something in her voice—emotion. He frowned. It was probably the first time ever he’d heard such from her. First it had been a note of panic, then chagrin at her own short-sightedness. But this last bit was regret, sadness.
    Perhaps this experience was breaking down the barriers that kept her magick of empathy so carefully away from her. Did that mean the walls were about to break? That could happen if something traumatic happened to her, he supposed. After all, it had been the separation from her family at the age of four that had built the walls in the first place. If so, she was about to become a mess of major proportions.
    Evangeline hadn’t allowed herself to feel emotion since she was a child. At least, not enough of it to be of consequence—only enough to help her survive her life in the palace. Little bits of feeling here and there, driving her actions in a way that would keep her fed and with a roof over her head. He knew; he been watching her closely for her entire life.
    It wasn’t that her feeling emotion would be a bad thing. Anatol thought it might be the best thing for her, but it would complicate matters out here while they were trying to survive. Having her break down emotionally would not help them in the coming days.
    He glanced over at her. She’d leaned her head back against the wall and her long lashes shadowed her cheeks.
    “Evangeline? Are you still awake?”
    “Yes.”
    “Do you remember your family?”
    She opened her eyes and looked at him for a long moment before speaking. He thought for a moment he’d overstepped and she was angry, but then Evangeline would need to actually be in touch with her anger for that. He had a pragmatic reason for asking. It might be time now for both of them to seek their families.
    “Not really,” she answered, diverting her gaze downward. “Just brief flashes.”
    “But you know your last name and the province they live in.”
    “What are you saying? That I should go back to being a pig farmer’s daughter?”
    “We’re going to have to explore all our options.”
    She blinked at him slowly and looked away with her chin raised. “I don’t think being a pig farmer is an option.”
    He composed himself before answering. “You might have been very happy being one.”
    She gave him a look of complete scorn and closed her eyes again. “Who were your parents before the royals tracked your magick?”
    He gave a quick grin. “Hatmakers. They lived—live, I guess—in Ameranzi Province. I don’t know much about them. They’re not dirt-poor, more middle class, but I haven’t seen them since I was a child. Belai strongly discourages visits, but I remember them trying to see me.”
    “Mine never tried.” There was no note of sadness in this sentence. It was a statement of fact.
    “You don’t know that. They may have tried many times and were turned away without your knowledge.”
    For a moment, he thought he saw pain cross her face. But then she settled back against the wall and said, “I’m going to try and rest now.”
    “Yes. You should. Tomorrow will be eventful.”
    He suspected what would happen. Gregorio Vikhin had gotten exactly what he wanted, exactly the result he’d sown for so many years, but it had come with a brutal twist. Anatol could hear the voices in the street, the jubilance, the drunkenness. The people had what they wanted and now they were elated, power hungry . . . and frightened. They were excising hundreds of years of life under an unfair yoke.
    There would be bloodshed and it would be legion.
    Tomorrow the steps of Belai would run red with the murders of the royals, the nobles, and the J’Edaeii alike. There would be no mercy. The people would wrap themselves in the wise words of Gregorio Vikhin, but those words would be viewed through a haze of hatred and revenge.
    Anatol saw the truth of things. He knew it would come to pass.
    And where was Gregorio Vikhin tonight? Undoubtedly, he was mortified to see his