19 – 4

There is a knot in my belly, a nauseating twist of strong feeling around which bites of bread slosh in spoonfuls of stew. I force myself to keep eating, to swallow each ashen mouthful, and do not look away from my slowly emptying plate. I feel the weight of Adelaide's pained regard, her wish that I would accept her offer: to speak with her, honestly and openly, as I had before.

I'm here, she had said, if you want to talk.

I didn't, not about this. Either she would see me as Milo and Clarke have begun to, a thing halfway to madness, or she would think my words come from a place of grief and dismiss them. Which, come to think of it, Milo has also begun to do. Is that why he went with Clarke on that walk, to convince her I don't mean what I say? Is he succeeding?

I should think he is.

Reach the bottom of the plate, the last of the bread and stew. Wash it down with a gulp of lukewarm water and mumble my thanks to the floor. I flee, rushing down the hall with Adelaide's eyes on my back and her voice in my ears. She calls my name. I don't stop, not until I'm back in my room with the door shut.

I feel sick. Lean against the door and close my eyes, breathe deep and slow until the sloshing churn in my belly settles. I'm still waiting when I hear footsteps in the hall; slow and offset, as if by a limp. She's coming to me, it would seem, following where I fled. Bile climbs my throat, stings sour on my tongue. I swallow it down. Don't waste food. Do not.

A door opens, the steps pause, and Lavinia says, “Was that Zira? I heard someone running.”

“You still have soap in your hair,” is how Adelaide answers, “Go and wash it again.”

Lavinia protests, “But–!”

“Lavinia.”

A clear warning.

“Fine,” a reluctant concession, then, “...is she alright?”

There's a moment of quiet. Adelaide's deciding what to say and how. Eventually, “She's not feeling well. Maybe the two of you can do something later, when she feels better?”

Lavinia's smile shapes the sound of her agreement. A door closes, the steps resume, then stop on the other side of my closed door. A tentative knock. An even more tentative, “Zira?”

I cross my arms over my churning belly.

“Zira?”

Flex my bite at the floor.

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“Zira, please.”

There is a knot, a nauseating twist. It's an island of strong feeling, surrounded by a sea of sloshing sick and bobbing bites of bread and beef. It's guilt and grief, sorrow and shame, rage and resentment. Through a wall of teeth, I ask, “Did he tell you?”

She shuffles closer, resting against the door. “Did who tell me what?”

“Milo. Did he tell you? About – about me.”

There's a silence, one so long and uncomfortable that the answer can only be, “He did.”

Of course he did. She's his wife, the mother of their child. Why wouldn't he? I snort a bitter laugh. Now, everyone knows; and why shouldn't they? I've confessed to dangerous intentions, murderous ones. Even if they think it comes from a place of grief, I've done it loudly, repeatedly, and have yet to take it back.

I'm not going to take it back. I'm not the one who's wrong. She is. Merigold is. She's more than earned the death I mean to grant her.

“I'm not feeling well,” I quietly echo her words, “I want to rest.”

It is, of course, a lie; and on any other day she might've pressed, might've called it for what it was, but this day has been long and arduous. There hadn't been a moment for her to rest, and it would seem that cost has come due. She sighs, “Alright. Rest well, we'll see you in the morning.”

I hum. She leaves, a limping stagger-step back down the hall. I have the solitude I wanted. Now, what do I do with it?

- - -

Every minute drags its heels on its way out. I've sat on the bed, made a nest of pillows against the headboard, and done nothing. Not a second's gone by that I've used wisely, instead choosing to watch the slow march of sunset through the gap in the window curtain. Elsewhere, the cheerful chaos of Lavinia washing her hair winds down. She chirps a feel better, Zira at the closed door I hide behind before storming the kitchen to demand feeding and entertainment.

How affected is she by all this, I wonder? How much distance has youth and not knowing Juliana granted her? Quite a bit, it would seem; but that's if I were to decide by her behavior alone. She could be hiding her sorrow behind a mask of cheer, playing up her youthful excess to lift her family's spirits. I've done it before. Most children have, I should think. If she is wearing a mask, it won't last. She'll be worn down by the act soon enough. If she's not, then good.

Guilt and grief, sorrow and shame, rage and resentment. No child should feel these things.

You are a child, Milo's voice echoes.

Am I?

Does a child smell the smoke of a town aflame? Do they feel the point of a wicked talon, slicing through their back? Do they hear the screech-and-scrape of sucking mouths on cracking glass?

Do they see blood, dripping from the point of a crossbow bolt, every time they close their eyes?

No?

Then what of a horse's head, torn uncleanly from its neck? What of ringing deafness before a scene from the deepest hell? What of hunger, terror, and sickness?

Are these the experiences of a child?!

No. They are not. I am not. I am grown. My choices and intentions are of no one's concern but mine. Whatever consequences follow my killing Merigold are mine to endure. Whatever burdens come are mine to carry. The knot in my belly loosens. Its nauseating twist unwinds. I breathe deeply in and slowly out.

Milo and Clarke return from their walk. They join Lavinia and Adelaide in the kitchen. Lavinia says something and Clarke laughs, bright and beautifully. Adelaide surely pulls her husband aside and whispers to him what happened while he was gone. Milo understands, for he always does, and whispers back. Night begins to fall. I begin to plan.

The very first steps toward killing Merigold.

Coda

The lord of the wood sits as an owl, its mind on its favored's heart. It tastes her pitiful grief, her wearisome sorrow, and her obnoxious indecision. Instead of rolling its eyes, it takes advantage of this form to roll its entire head. Amusing, but not diverting.

That's what it chose her to be, and she is failing to provide.

Perhaps it should cut its losses before she falls so low as to be boring. The magi is as dull as she, but the man and woman have potential. They have dreamed darkly of late, but have begun to lighten. It wouldn't take much to right their progress.

The daughter?

No. Too simple.

Oh, but what's this? A spark in its favored's heart? It delves deeper, peeling the rind of her other feelings as it would an apple, and what should it find at the core of her but delicious, delectable hatred.

Joy buoys its soul. It is ebullient.

At last. At last!