Chapter 19
Chapter
Nineteen
A fter that, Nemeth doesn’t pursue friendship with me. It suits me just fine. The days pass, and as they do, we avoid each other. If I hear him heading down the stairs, I make sure to keep my door closed. I spend as little time in the kitchens as possible, only going down when I have to cook something or to make my medicine. If I wash up, I make sure to never get undressed, lest he think it’s an invitation. I’m making it quite clear to him that I’m not interested, either.
For months, I don’t see those green eyes in the shadows.
I’ve learned a way to keep track of the passing days. Each time I rouse from sleep, I ask the knife if a new day has arrived. Through a process of yes and no questions, I’m able to determine the date, and I make counting stitches along the hem of my oldest chemise. Riza sent a sewing kit with me, and while it took me a long time to figure out how to get the thread to stop coming out, I’ve mastered a simple stitch enough that I can use it to keep track of time.
I count the days, because it’s something to do.
Balon doesn’t return for three weeks. Then four. After five weeks pass, I figure he’s grown bored of visiting me and stop checking for him.
The storms pound against the tower many times after that first night, and I put a pot on the floor to catch the drippings of water. I move my bed to the far side of the wall, and head up into the storage area above to move the wood away from the dripping spot. I don’t go to check on Nemeth as the storms crackle and thunder overhead. I don’t care if he’s frightened or unnerved by their ferocity. I hope he breaks and busts his way out of the tower, and then I can return home and say see? I wasn’t the problem.
One morning (at least, I assume it’s morning) I wake up and my breath frosts in the air, and my teeth chatter with cold.
Winter has arrived.
On All Winter’s Feast, I will have been here half a year.
Half a year, and my food supplies are looking pathetic indeed. I’ve counted out my medicine components, making sure I have enough for the weeks that follow, and I should be fine. I should have enough to carry me through to the new year, when fresh supplies will be brought to me. That is both troubling and a relief. I’m glad, of course. The medicine is paramount. But that means that they probably brought me with enough food supplies, which means I’ve squandered them, somehow. Am I eating too much? The loose fit of my corsets (and the constant growling of my stomach) tells me no, I’m eating less than before.
I’ll just have to be smarter with my food. For all I know, Nemeth has been stealing from me all this time. I have no wards on my food like he does…and he’s not afraid to lie to me about it.
So I spend two days moving my foodstuffs out of the root cellar and into my quarters. I don’t know if it’ll do much good seeing as how Nemeth can slink through the shadows, but it makes me feel better to know I’m watching over them. I keep my light lit at all times, even when I sleep. It’s comforting to know I have it, to be able to open my eyes and see my surroundings instead of feeling about in the dark.
Wood for a fire remains a problem, though, and continues to be an even bigger problem as the weather turns colder. The tower, cool in the summer, is like ice in the winter. It’s miserable, and no matter how many layers I put on, I can’t seem to get warm. I end up sleeping fully clothed, my hands covered in socks, with every blanket piled atop my bed, and I still wake to my teeth chattering.
The beloved glowing orb that Nemeth gifted me is truly wondrous, but it doesn’t give off heat. Winter brings new problems when I wake up to my medicine frozen in its vial. I warm it by tucking it between my breasts, but without fire, my existence is growing increasingly miserable. Keeping my food stores isn’t a problem—I barely have the energy to gnaw on my half-frozen vegetables, much less to make a fire and bake something like my book advises. I spend my time scouring the storeroom upstairs for things to burn, but everything there is either moldy with age, made of metal, or I’ve already burned it.
I turn towards my sled.
I’ve kept it by the door, as it’s too big for me to move upstairs on my own. It’s as large as my bed, and so heavy that tugging on it only makes an offensive scrape across the floor. I’ve been saving it, determined to use it as a measurement. If I need to burn the sled, it’s an indication that I’m in dire circumstances and I need to do something drastic.
It looks like that time is now.
I have two doses of my medicine left before I need to make another fire. Three, if I’m stingy. After that, I’ve got to make a fire. Last time, I burned one of my dresses because I was out of wood, but it burned down so quickly I had to end up burning another, and I know that won’t continue to work. I’ll be running around naked before the end of the month.
And besides, the ribbons and bits of fabric are what I’m using for tinder, since my box is long empty.
Downstairs, I approach my sled with one of the heavy pots from the kitchen. Most of the trunks were fairly easy to take apart—bang something heavy on one side until the fittings come loose, or use a knife to pull out the nails. The sled is of a heavier make, though, and I’m intimidated by it.
I set my light down carefully a safe distance away, then try to turn the sled on its side. One of the runners might be easier to take off than pulling apart the entire thing. It takes me a while to turn the heavy thing over on its side, but once I manage to flip it, my back smarting, I run my fingers over the wood, feeling for joints or nails.
Nothing.
Hmm. I tilt the sled onto one side and then let it crash backward to the floor, wincing in anticipation of the tremendous crash. It makes a crash, all right, but the entire thing stays in one piece. I’ve heard one of the knights brag that our woodworkers are the finest in the land and I’m finding out, depressingly, that this might be the case. I hammer at one of the runners, then the other. I try to loosen planks. I wedge my knife into a crack and try to widen it.
Nothing gives. Nothing budges, and at the end of an afternoon, I’m covered in sweat and all I’ve managed to do is dull my knife and give myself a backache. The sled is as solid as ever.
Without the sled, I can’t have my medicine.
Without my medicine, I’ll die.
I sink into a puddle of skirts near the sled and stare at it, numb. Tears of sheer frustration threaten.
You can cry about this later, I remind myself. Tomorrow, when you’ve had a nice fire and you’ve made another batch of medicine. You can weep all you want tomorrow.
Normally the pep talk works. Normally I can put off crying. Today is not that day. Exhausted, I burst into noisy tears and sob into my hands. I feel helpless and miserable and so damned alone.
And I can’t make a fire to save my life.
I truly can’t .
The realization just makes me cry harder, and I let myself weep over the entire situation—over my sister’s death and the destruction of my life. Over being trapped here. Over cold baths and meals of raw turnips and the fact that my arm is permanently bruised from my clumsy injections. That even Balon has given up on me. That I’ve still got so far to go before I’m free and I won’t make it. That I’m going to die in this cold, lonely tower, alone and forgotten.
I cry and cry, until I’ve got nothing left. And then I cry some more.
I hear the rustle of leathery wings before I see the green eyes. “Candra.”
Not him. Not now. Not when I’m at my most vulnerable.
“Piss off,” I choke out. “You’re not wanted here, Fellian.”
To my relief, he doesn’t mock me. He just slinks back into the shadows, green eyes disappearing.
Good.