23 – 5
I awaken slowly, a molten sprawl of girl nestled in a soft mattress and covered by warm blankets. Embers glow from behind the gap-toothed door of the pot-belly stove in the corner of the room, casting warmth and light across the floor. It's early – gray-dawn – and I am a molten sprawl of a girl sunk into a soft mattress. It's luxurious; decadent, after nights spent on beds of stable-straw or cold dirt. Sleep is slow to leave me; and I am loath to chase it away. I blink crustily at the flurries of snow falling outside the window, breathe slowly, deeply, and let myself be.
Harlan was right: food, a bath, and a night's rest have done me a world of good. I don't feel better, exactly, but I do feel different. These things, these simple acts of care, have put a distance between me and that moment of realization. It hasn't made it better, but I can at least think it without wanting to scream; and I do, letting it drift in a mind made muggy by slow-leaving sleep.
I'm a bad person.
I am. It can't be argued. I'd be surprised if anyone would want to, once they knew. It's why I didn't tell Edith, even though she deserves to know the truth about who she calls friend, who she's relieved to see alive. I want her to want to. When Clarke comes here, comes home – which she surely will – she'll tell Edith everything, and rightly so. I'll lose her after that, as I rightly should; until then, I want her to be on my side. For just a little bit longer, I want her to be my friend.
Gray-dawn lightens, brightens into early morning. Sunrise comes swift and early in winter-time. I'd gone to bed just after eating my fill of bread and stew, so exhausted that I could barely stand. Edith had come with me, all but carried me into bed, and then lingered instead of leaving. She'd asked if she could stay; afraid that she was dreaming and would wake to a world where Clarke and I were truly dead. She sleeps now with her back to mine, snoring little snores and radiating warmth.
I'll miss her friendship. I'll miss her.
The sun comes out and the snowfall stops. Valdenwood wakes up: ice-breakers out on the piers with their long poles, metal ringing as they break up floes; carts roll on cobbles-stone streets, cart-animals braying and neighing, cart drivers complain about the cold. Somewhere, someone starts a saw; a great wheel of one that whines through thick timbers. I see a man on a roof through the window, shoveling snow from the eaves and stepping with great care. He stops to wave at someone on the streets, flipping a spadeful of snow onto them with a laugh.
I can't see any scars from the fire, nor the flood that put it out. The warped, blackened wood that was once homes and hearths has all been hauled away. The ships that burnt in their berths were towed out and scuttled, sunk into the deep. The smoke-stains and ash-marks were scoured with brush and bristle. There's no fear in people's voices, no stress and anger that they turn on each other.
It's nice to see. I'll miss this place, too.
Edith comes awake with a long breath in. She then lets it out, along with, “Zira?”
“I'm here.” I roll away from the window, onto my other side to see her blink at me in sleepy relief. “Good morning.”
She smiles, “Mornin'.” Then a mighty yawn cracks it open, followed by a twisting stretch and popping joints. “Sleep well?”
“I did.” Even if I hadn't, I'd have said so; but it was nice to not have to lie to her. “You?”
You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.
She nods, then admits quietly, almost confessing, “It's been a while.”
I needn't ask why. Between Agnes falling ill and the news of Clarke and I's repeatedly dying, she's plenty of reasons to sleep poorly or not at all. She'll have another once she learns the truth; knowing that puts a twist of guilt in my stomach, souring any appetite I might've had for the breakfast she puts out for us.
“It's not much,” she says, whirling around the inn's kitchen, “with Gran ill, I just don't have the time for anythin' more.”
“How is she?” I ask, and she pauses in her dance.
A shadow crosses her face, worry and fear and a small, fragile hope. “Not well,” she admits, “It's in her lungs. She can barely stand, and breathing's getting harder by the day, I –” She stops herself. Flexes a line in her jaw. Breathes in. Lets it out slow. “Medicine won't do, and we haven't got any, anyway. She needs Clarke.” She turns to me, steel-gray eyes glimmering. “Where is she? Why wasn't she with you?”
Should I lie? Would it even be a lie to say I don't know? For all I know, she could've left Amberdusk and all the Timberlands behind. It would mean admitting that we'd separated, admitting why, and that would start Edith down the very road I'm not ready for her to walk.
I have to say something, though, but before I can begin deciding what, there is a cut of cold air through the kitchen's warmth as the door opens. There, with snow in her ink-dark spill of hair and a flush on her cheeks, stands Clarke: whole, hale, and beautiful.
- - -
Edith hurtles across the room to throw herself into Clarke's arms with a sob of relief and a choked Goddess fuckin' bless! Clarke receives her embrace, returns it gladly, and holds her tight while she cries, fear and stress bleeding away. “Oh, Edith,” Clarke kisses her hair, eyes shining happily, “it's so good to see you.”
That shine dies when she sees me, stood there like a stone in the road. What takes its place is a whirl of furious feeling kept contained to her eyes and the furrow of her brow. There is hurt and heartbreak, sorrow and anger, and beneath it all, the only thing to soften the blow: a small seed of relief.
Edith pushes back, dashing tear-tracks from her cheeks, and demands, “Where the moonlit hell were ye?!”
Clarke looks away, though not before a flash of resentment crosses her eyes. It's gone when she turns to Edith, hidden away along with the rest. “I was in Amberdusk. Why? What is it, what's wrong?”
“It's Gran,” Edith says. It's all she needs to say.
Clarke's demeanor focuses. “Show me.”
Agnes Drumm had persevered in my memory as I had first seen her: ceaselessly energetic, confident, and capable. She might've been old, but she hadn't looked it.
She did now.
There was precious little left of the life or strength I remembered. The lines on her face had become deep, shadowed valleys, her skin had become dry and papery, and all that remained of her voice was a thin, reedy quaver. The air smelled of sickness, and as Edith led Clarke into her room, was split by an ugly fit of wet, gasping coughs.
I linger in the doorway while Edith hurries to help her grandmother sit up. The old woman waves her away even as she leans on her for support. There wasn't enough breath in Agnes' lungs to protest that she was fine, that she didn't need help, but the desire to was clear enough.
Clarke went to her knees in front of Agnes, one hand going to the hollow of her throat. “You know what I'm going to tell you,” she says, putting the other on the old woman's leg, “but I'm telling you anyway: this shouldn't hurt. At most, you'll feel a strange chill. If you feel – anything – else, you must tell me at once, alright?”
Agnes nods, the room is lit by a flare of ice-blue light, and a stream of frost curls down from Clarke to her, sinking beneath papery skin. A fraught moment passes in quiet.
“Well?” Edith prompts, agitated.
Clarke's eyes are closed, deep focus in the furrow of her brow. “She has pneumonia. I can take care of it, but she'll be weak afterwards. She'll have to do – very little – for at least a month, or there's a risk it'll come back. If that happens, it'll be worse.” Her eyes open, then flick up to Agnes, “You'll cough most of it up for the next few hours. Drink tea with honey for your throat and eat as much as you want.” Something fragile enters her next words. It makes them a whisper. “This would've been it for you, you understand? You can't – You're all I have left.”
“I'm not goin' anywhere,” Agnes promises. She holds Clarke's face in her hands, “Ye'll be sick of me, yet.”
Clarke smiles softly, sadly, and rises to her feet. “I hope so. I'll come by later to check on you, alright?”
Agnes waves her – and us – out, evidently done with being attended to. Edith, to her credit, waits until we're well out of earshot before turning on Clarke and I and asking, demanding, “What's going on with you?”
I don't look at Clarke. She doesn't look at me. “Nothing,” she says.
It's almost funny how true that is.