Marie

Month 12, Day 8, 4:00 AM

When Marie woke, she realized a few of things. It was dark. She was in the biggest, softest bed she’d ever been in, and someone else was sleeping on the far side of the bed. Worryingly, she found herself tucked under the covers, but she wore something unfamiliar; not her dress or boots. At least she was wearing something. She tried not to think about how that happened.

But, most surprisingly, she did not hurt. No, that wasn’t quite right, because she did ache a little, especially her head and her side. But, those pains felt like the pain of overwork and stress, rather than deathly injury.

She figured that the last time she’d been conscious, she’d been dying. She wasn’t entirely sure what dying felt like, but pain, bleeding, unconsciousness, and delirium seemed like probable symptoms. Technically, the process of dying happened all the time, she supposed, because you got old and died. But, specifically, when she’d last checked in with consciousness, she had been dying of a self-inflicted stab wound to the chest.

She choked off a laugh; she’d hurt herself worse than the aberrant had. Still, she wasn’t dead! Probably. She didn’t know what death would feel like, but she suspected death did not feel like a full badder and some sore muscles.

She flopped sideways in the bed, looking across at the person sleeping on the other side. Whoever it was, they slept on their back, fully dressed, on top of the blankets. There was light enough from the windows to see the koi on their coat.

“Poe?”

“Hmm. Ugh. What?” He came awake with mutter.

Marie had lots of questions to ask him. What happened to Millie? Was that a spell? How did they escape? Where were her clothes? How did she get healed? Where were they? Why was he in the room with her? But the question that really felt the most compelling was:

“Poe, why are you sleeping on top of the covers?”

“It’s one thing to sleep on a bed with an unrelated girl in it, and quite another to sleep in a bed with selfsame unrelated girl.” Poe said slowly.

Marie felt a little flush of embarrassment. Of course. Sleeping in a bed together could spread … rumors? What was he trying to say? But then, there were more important things.

“Where are my clothes?”

There was a silence. It lasted a little longer than it should have. ‘Did he go back to sleep?’ Marie thought.

“Don’t be angry.”

“Why would I?”

“The healer had to remove them.”

“Ok.”

“With sharp shears.”

Marie frowned. You couldn’t take off clothes with …

“She cut them off?” Her clothes were destroyed? She liked that dress!

Love this story? Find the genuine version on the author's preferred platform and support their work!

“He.” Poe continued.

“He … And where were you for this?”

“Ah. I helped.”

“So. You’ve seen the tattoo.”

Frank breathed a relieved sigh.

“And, you’ve seen me naked and destroyed my dress.”

Poe lifted his hand to cover his eyes. “I guess so.”

“I’m … I need to use a bedpan.”

“This a suite. There’s a washroom.” Poe pointed.

Marie decided this was enough conversation for now. Poe knew her secret now. Or part of it. And she didn’t have the dress that Poe bought for her. Or her favorite boots. She’d loved those; they were fit, tough, and waterproof.

She fought her protesting muscles, got up, and retreated to the washroom. Sorcerous lamps lit the clean whitewashed plaster room as well as other comforts: mirror, self-cleaning bed pan, and a basin with warm water tap, soap, and towels. After settling her business with the bedpan, she looked herself over in the mirror.

The healer miraculously treated her wounds. The knife had left barely any mark at all. It had felt so wrong, and the invasion into her body had embarrassingly caused her to swoon. Marie berated herself for not being tougher. And, not being better able to handle the knife she’d brought to the fight.

‘Why am I so clumsy?’ She thought. Her scrabbling in the cellar had chipped her nails and scraped the enamel. Now, on the tips of her nails, the enamel had faked of entirely. But, her hands were pink and healthy; the scrapes and damage from hammering on door were gone, as we were the painful bruises that she’d had on her arms.

She flushed in embarrassment at the the long shapeless tunic thing she wore. Its open sides had ties to hold it together, which made the tunic appear both oddly revealing and yet also plain and ugly. She hated how it made her look thin and sickly.

‘Of course,’ Marie thought, ‘It doesn’t help that I am thin and sickly.’

She also wondered where her knife and the other items that were in her pockets had gotten to, like her conduit, and her old cloak pin. She felt sick that she’d lost the conduit. Even a small one would be worth a lot. ‘How will I pay him back?’

Even aside from the ugly tunic, Marie still seemed in bad shape.

Her black makeup had smeared around her eyes, especially with the tears leaking out of them, and her lips had cracked and dried.

She wetted a towel and proceeded to scrub her face. It took some time, but eventually, she’d scrubbed the makeup clear.

Looking in the mirror again, regardless of her return to her usual level of ill health, she still sported bloodshot red eyes, and she had purplish dark circles around them. Although this might have nothing to do with stabbing, more to do with her uncontrollable tears. She’d been crying since she’d entered the washroom, and nothing she had done seemed to stop it.

Marie firmly concluded this was improper behavior and unseemly for a young apprentice sorcerer.

She found herself longing for a proper neck-deep bath. Normally, she washed with a rag and a basin. But, every few weeks, Mama would take them to a proper bathhouse … she’d even gone with her friend Millie a few times.

This made the crying somewhat worse.

“Marie?” Poe called from outside the washroom.

“Don’t come in here!” Marie shouted.

“I, uh wasn’t planning to.”

“Just, stay out.”

“Are you hurt?”

Marie thought she had no reason to cry. ‘I am fine. I’m clean and not hurt. I don’t need to cry.’

Marie cried harder. She wanted to stop. Her sides hurt, and she couldn’t breathe properly. It made her think about how the knife had gone in so quick, and how foreign it felt. She clutched her side. She’d been dying. She’d never felt terror like that before. Raining alone in the washroom felt oppressive. Unbearable.

She wrenched open the door.

Poe, who stood just outside the washroom, stepped back sharply. Marie did not let him retreat; she staggered into him, and hugged him around the middle as tightly as she could.

He smelled a little metallic, but underneath were warm smells of cypress, a clear freshwater pond, and his pipe smoke.

Poe awkwardly, but gently, returned her embrace.

“It’s ok. You’re safe.” He said.

Marie just cried more.