The Assassin and the Desert by Sarah J. Maas

her.
    She leapt back a few feet, crouching close to the roof’s wall, but stopped when she felt the Master’s hand on her shoulder. He motioned to leave the snake be and sit beside him on the merlons that ran around the roof. Grateful for a break, she hopped up, trying not to glance down at the ground far, far below. Though she was well acquainted with heights, and had no problems with balance, sitting on an edge never really felt
natural
.
    The Master raised his eyebrows.
Talk
, he seemed to say.
    She tucked her left foot under her right thigh, making sure to keep an eye on the asp, which slithered into the shadows of the roof.
    But telling him about her fight with Ansel felt so . . . childish. As if the Master of the Silent Assassins would want to hear about a petty squabble!
    Cicadas buzzed in the trees of the keep, and somewhere in the gardens, a nightingale sang her lament.
Talk
. Talk about what?
    She didn’t have anything to say, so they sat on the parapet in silence for a while—until even the cicadas went to sleep, and the moon slipped away behind them, and the sky began to brighten.
Talk
. Talk about what had been haunting her these months. Haunting every thought, every dream, every breath.
Talk.
    â€œI’m scared to go home,” she said at last, staring out at the dunes beyond the walls.
    The predawn light was bright enough for her to see the Master’s brows rise.
Why
?
    â€œBecause everything will be different. Everything is already different. I think everything changed when Arobynn punished me, but . . . Some part of me still thinks that the world will go back to the way it was before that night. Before I went to Skull’s Bay.”
    The Master’s face was unreadable, but his eyes shone like emeralds. Compassionate—sorrowful.
    â€œI’m not sure I
want
it to go back to the way it was before,” she admitted. “And I think . . . I think that’s what scares me the most.”
    The Master smiled at her reassuringly, then rolled his neck and stretched his arms over his head before standing atop the merlon.
    Celaena tensed, unsure if she should follow.
    But the Master didn’t look at her as he began a series of movements, graceful and winding, as elegant as a dance and deadly as the asp that lurked on the roof.
    The asp.
    Watching the Master, she could see each of the qualities she had copied for the past few weeks—the contained power and swiftness, the cunning and the smooth restraint.
    He went through the motions again, and it took only a glance in her direction to get her to her feet atop the parapet wall. Mindful of her balance, she slowly copied him, her muscles singing with the
rightness
of the movements. She grinned as night after night of careful observation and mimicry clicked into place.
    Again and again, the sweep and curve of her arm, the twisting of her torso, even the rhythm of her breathing. Again and again, until she became the asp, until the sun broke over the horizon, bathing them in red light.
    Again and again, until there was nothing left but the Master and her and their steady breathing as they greeted the new day.
    An hour after sunup, Celaena crept into her room, bracing herself for another fight, but found Ansel already gone to the stables. Since Ansel had abandoned her to do the chores by herself yesterday, Celaena decided to return the favor. She sighed with contentment as she collapsed atop her bed.
    She was later awoken by someone shaking her shoulder—someone who smelled like manure.
    â€œIt had better be afternoon,” Celaena said, rolling onto her stomach and burying her face in her pillow.
    Ansel chuckled. “Oh, it’s almost dinner. And the stables and pens are in good order, no thanks to you.”
    â€œYou left me to do it all yesterday,” Celaena mumbled.
    â€œYes, well . . . I’m sorry.”
    Celaena straightened and peeled her face from the pillow to look at Ansel, who stood over the