19 – 3
I wake to sunlight on my face, a spray of sunset colors sneaking in through a gap in the curtain. I roll onto my back and scrub my palms over tear-stung, sleep-blurred eyes. Pull a deep breath in and sigh it out. I stretch, reaching arms and legs towards the bed's corners, and groan. Stiff, aching muscles whine as they're forced to move. My shoulder pops, as do both of my ankles and one of my knees. My feet hurt. So does my head. I'm not looking forward to leaving the cool, soft confines of the bed, but I'm hungry and I have to pee. With an annoyed groan, I heave myself upright and get my feet on the floor.
Halfway there.
My other knee pops as I finish the journey, my jaw following suit as it parts around a truly enormous yawn. I drag my feet over the cool, sanded floor and fumble with the door handle until it opens. Shuffle down to the bathroom and repeat until its door also gets out my way. Settle in and sigh in relief as one of my needs is seen to. I'm awake enough after to realize that the house is quiet.
I step back out into the hall. “Hello?”
No answer. My voice, hoarse from snoring, falls flat into the quiet of an empty house. A hot spike of anxiety chases the last of the sleep from my mind. Where'd everyone go? Did something happen? I grasp for a knife I've long since lost, or a sword long since destroyed, curling my empty hand into a fist. Were they taken? Did Merigold find us? Did she send Pike?
Fear's acrid sting is on my tongue. It locks my jaw shut and flares my nose. I'm breathing fast, too fast, and my heart pounds in my throat. Not him. The point of a crossbow bolt gleams in my mind; first dry, then dripping red. Anyone but him. Any-thing but him!
My hands are shaking. I am shaking. The door to the kitchen is closed, sunset light coming under the door. I stare at that little bar, frozen in place, and wait for something to disrupt it. Nothing does, but it does not reassure. Pike's smart. Even if he wasn't, he'd have heard me calling out. All he'd have to do is keep himself and his hostages out of the way, and I'd never know he was there. Not unless I look, not unless I open the door.
I'd be walking into the last moments of my life.
I can't open the door. He's there. I know he is. I know it.
There's acid in my belly, a rasp-wire knot in my throat. Wave after wave of panicked, anxious heat rushes through me, blurs my eyes, and fills my mind with fog. My legs give out. I fall into the wall, slide down to the floor. Sweat beads on my skin.
I can't.
I can't!
The point of a crossbow bolt gleams in my mind; first dry, then dripping red. Drop after drop falling onto dry, splintering wood.
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He killed Juliana. She was a knight, she was their captain, and he killed her. What chance have I against him?
None. I'm not a knight. I'm not anyone. I'm a collection of scars and hauntings, long lost down a road I wasn't ready for.
I wasn't, not for any of this. How could I have been? How could anyone have been?!
What good is a dance in the face of the bramble-beast? The tunnel-thing? What good is tradition when you're starving, when you're freezing, when an infection is poisoning the blood in your veins?
Nothing. It's all worthless, every last inch of it. The Royah must hate their children. I gasp a bitter, humorless laugh. Why else would they do this to them?
In time, minutes or hours, I begin to calm. I'm left chilled and sweat-covered, loose-limbed and weak on the hallway floor of the Thorngage house. The fear that overtook me, that drove me to such heights of panic and paranoia, lessens. It doesn't leave. I wish it would.
A door opens, followed by the scrape of shoes and the chatter of a little girl. Lavinia rhapsodizes about the ducks that she and her friends found, how cute the little ducklings were, and the possibilities of keeping one as a pet. Even muffled by doors and distance, the fond exasperation in Adelaide's sigh is clear.
Ask your father, she says, as is tradition; and Lavinia whines loudly, as is also tradition. Their steps grow louder, their talk less muffled. Keep your voice down, Adelaide says, Zira's still sleeping.
- - -
I've already given them enough reason to think I've lost my mind. They don't need another, but another is what they'll get if they see me like this. I scramble upright on coltish, uncooperative legs, scrub the sweat from my face, and shake the last of the tremors' echo from my hands. I'm reaching for the door when it bursts open, slamming into my fingertips. I hiss at the sharp burst of pain.
Lavinia's bright green eyes widen, “Oh, you're awake!” She sees my wince and the grit of my teeth; and they widen further, “Are you alright? What happened?! Are you bleeding?” I'm not, it won't even bruise, but she doesn't leave space for an answer, ordering, “Let me see,” and yanking my hand over. She gives my fingers a close inspection, one interrupted by Adelaide's appearance behind her.
“What's wrong?”
“Zira's hurt!” She pulls me closer to them, hauling on my wrist like a fisherman landing a catch. “Look!”
Adelaide does, sees that there's nothing to see, and turns her gaze to me. “Are you alright?”
“Yes.” I free my hand from Lavinia's grasp. “I jammed my hand on the door. It's fine. See?” I flex my fingers, curl them into a loose fist, then relax them.
Lavinia peers for a moment, then concedes, “Alright,” then brushes past me and down towards the bathroom. Over her shoulder she tosses, “but if your fingers fall off, I get to say I told you so!”
“Lavinia!” Adelaide calls sharply down the hall. A practiced and insincere sorry drifts back, and she sighs. Then, to me, “Are you hungry? You slept through dinner.”
My appetite fled in the face of the fit that left me sweating and breathless on the floor, but I know better now than to turn down food. “A little,” I answer, “but I can – you don't need to – ”
Adelaide touches my shoulder, her bright green eyes warm, weary, and sad. “I know,” She ushers me into the kitchen, towards the table, “Sit. I'll get you something.”
I do as bid, rest my chin in the cup of my palms. Close my eyes, and take a deep breath. Let it out slow. I do it once more and again, until ceramic and cutlery scuff on polished wood. I smell bread and beef stew, a hearty mix, and some of the hunger that woke me comes back. I open my eyes to see Adelaide set down a pitcher of water and settle into the chair opposite me. All we'd need to revisit just this morning past was some of that bitter, apple-scented tea.
“Are you sure you're alright?” she asks. I tear a chunk of bread off the roll and dunk it into the broth; chewing slowly and avoiding her eyes.
Instead of answering, I ask, “Where's Clarke? And – and Milo?”
She saw the dodge, of course. “They went for a walk. She wanted some air.”
I swallow thickly, the savory chunk of bread sticking on the way down. “Oh. I...I didn't know.”
I wanna go home. It echoes in my thoughts, every broken word edged in heartbreak and sorrow.
“Zira...”
“I'm fine. Thank you. For the food.”
“I...” She tries to catch my eye. I don't let her. “Of course. I'm here, if you want to talk.”
Another bite of bread, then some stew. “I know.”