Shadow and Bone by Leigh Bardugo (z-lib.org).mobi

“The Lives of Saints?”
He nodded. “There was a time when all Grisha children were given this book
when they came to school at the Little Palace.”
“Thank you,” I said, perplexed.
“Peasants love their saints. They hunger for the miraculous. And yet they do
not love the Grisha. Why do you think that is?”
“I hadn’t thought about it,” I said. I opened the book. Someone had written
my name inside the cover. I flipped a few pages. Sankt Petyr of Brevno. Sankt
Ilya in Chains. Sankta Lizabeta. Each chapter began with a full-page illustration,
beautifully rendered in brightly coloured inks.
“I think it is because the Grisha do not suffer the way the Saints suffer, the
way the people suffer.”
“Maybe,” I said absently.
“But you have suffered, haven’t you, Alina Starkov? And I think … yes. I
think you will suffer more.”
My head jerked up. I thought he might be threatening me, but his eyes were
full of a strange sympathy that was even more terrifying.
I glanced back down at the book in my lap. My finger had stopped on an
illustration of Sankta Lizabeta as she had died, drawn and quartered in a field of
roses. Her blood made a river through the petals. I snapped the book closed and
sprang to my feet. “I should go.”
The Apparat rose, and for a moment I thought he would try to stop me. “You
do not like your gift.”
“No, no. It’s very nice. Thank you. I don’t want to be late,” I babbled.
I bolted past him through the library doors, and I didn’t take an easy breath
until I was safe in my room. I tossed the book of Saints into the bottom drawer
of my dressing table and slammed it shut.
What did the Apparat want from me? Had his words been meant as a threat?
Or as some kind of warning?
I took a deep breath, a tide of fatigue and confusion washing over me. I
missed the easy rhythm of the Documents Tent, the comforting monotony of my
life as a cartographer, when nothing more was expected of me than a few
drawings and a tidy worktable. I missed the familiar smell of inks and paper.
Mostly, I missed Mal.
I’d written to him every week, care of our regiment, but I hadn’t heard
anything in reply. I knew the post could be unreliable and that his unit might
have moved on from the Fold or might even be in West Ravka, but I still hoped
that I would hear from him soon. I’d given up on the idea of him visiting me at
the Little Palace. As much as I missed him, I couldn’t bear the thought of him