Chapter 43
43
I woke with a gasp. My eyes flew open as I jolted upright in bed. For a moment, panic seized me, the memory of searing pain and sapphire flames still vivid in my mind. My hands flew to my chest, expecting to find charred flesh and blackened skin, but there was only the soft fabric of my nightgown, damp with sweat.
Slowly, the fog of terror lifted, and I took in my surroundings with growing confusion. I was in my room at Thorne’s house, tucked beneath the familiar weight of the blankets.
I pushed myself up on shaky arms, my body aching. I groaned as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and willed my eyes to focus beyond the ache rattling through me.
I was alive. Somehow. Impossibly. I had survived.
But Thorne… The memory of his anguished face haunted me, the desperation in his voice as he begged Alastor to save me was something of nightmares. He’d carried me into the heart of the flames, holding me close even as the fire consumed him. Alastor had told him to leave me, but he’d refused, walking through for me. But… why? This thing between us, it wasn’t nearly as strong as that gesture implied. Or had I been blind? Refusing to see what was in front of me because I knew the inevitable? He’d burned for me. And what did fire that healed the broken do to someone that was whole?
Needing the comfort of my power, I tugged within, coaxing it forward as a small tether on the other end wrapped around the golden book. With trembling fingers, I reached beneath my pillow to grab it, wondering if I’d tucked it under there in my poisoned, delusional state. I let it fall open in my lap.
The pages were blank, the parchment pristine and unmarked. I traced my fingers over the empty pages, willing them to reveal something, anything. A sign that he was all right, that he had survived the ordeal just as I had. But the book remained stubbornly silent, offering no reassurance, no solace.
My mind grew increasingly heavy. The pull on my limbs too much. With all of my will, I shoved the book back under the pillow, lay back down and fell back asleep.
“Miss Paesha?” Jasper’s soft voice dragged me from sleep in what felt like moments later. With a deep line between his brows, he held a steaming cup out to me with his only hand. “You must drink.”
I eyed the cup warily, realizing that I couldn’t trust a soul. Not even this one. Someone had poisoned me, and I wasn’t sure how. Aside from a single visit to Alastor, I’d been here. Only here. Surrounded by nothing but familiar faces. Alastor had mentioned venom, but I’d been in the kitchen with everyone before I had gotten sick. Briony had made tea, Willard had handed it to me, Jasper had been there. Harlow and Archer had been there.
I turned away from Jasper without a word, giving him my back, letting my stomach whirl with the motion. How long had it been since I ate? How many days had passed? How long had I been in Wisteria? The days were impossible to count. Even at my best guess, I had no idea how long I had left. The hourglass controlling my fate was emptying quickly. And if I thought about that for too long, I’d probably be sick.
“You have to eat something,” Archer barked at me later. “You can’t wither away and die in this bed.”
I rolled again, realizing it was darker outside now. I’d fallen asleep.
“I can if I want.”
He knelt down in front of me. “It wasn’t me. You have to know that, don’t you? I got you these myself in the kitchen. Watch.” With slow movements, or maybe that was just my weak mind, he lifted a small finger sandwich from the plate and took a bite, then followed it with a sip of the tea.
I watched him chew, swallow and stare me right in the face, more serious than I’d ever seen him. “Now eat.”
I rolled back over.
“That’s fine. Your bed has two sides.”
He stomped around to the other side, crossing his arms over his chest. I wanted to trust him more than anything, but instead, I closed my eyes to hide the tears.“Where is he?”
“In his bed. We’ve moved the children that were in there to a different room. The space is tight but we’re making it work.”
“Is he hurt?”
“Eat and I’ll tell you.”
A tear slipped free. “Alastor said I was the Hunted. Someone’s trying to kill me. And it’s probably someone here.”
“Hey,” he said, squatting down. “We don’t know that. I’m betting it wasn’t and I rarely take a bet I can’t win. We were at the Vale. It could have been Alastor or that guard pricked you with something and we didn’t realize it. Or someone at the Parlor even, with a slow acting poison. You were sick for days and days. Five in this bed alone. Something that takes that long doesn’t happen all at once.” He grabbed my hand, blue eyes a sea of solemnness as he looked at me. “I’ll take a bite and a sip of everything you eat if you want me to. I’ll go first, Fingers. You can’t give up.”
“For all we know, you’re already poisoned. Slow-acting, remember?”
“Then we tighten the house. We move the kids somewhere else. The Salt back to the streets or the Hollow at their own risk. No one but your approved list of people gets in or out.”
I shook my head, swiping away the pesky tears. “No. We don’t displace dozens of people for the comfort of one.”
“We do if that one is you.”
With reluctance, I pushed myself up on one elbow and took the small sandwich from Archer’s outstretched hand. The bread was soft and yielding beneath my fingers, the edges perfectly trimmed. I brought it to my lips, inhaling before taking a tentative bite.
The flavors burst across my tongue, cool and refreshing, a welcome respite from the bitter tang of paranoia that had taken up residence in my mouth. I chewed slowly, each movement of my jaw a monumental effort. Archer watched me intently, eyes tracking every bite, every swallow, as if he could will me back to health through sheer force of concern.
When the last morsel was gone, he pressed the delicate, chipped teacup into my hands. “I know this is your favorite cup. Not sure why, though. It’s broken, in case you didn’t notice.”
I let myself smile, breathing in the fragrant steam wafting from the tea. As I drank, Archer settled himself more comfortably on the edge of the bed. He began to talk, his voice a low, steady murmur that washed over me like gentle waves lapping at the shore. He spoke of inconsequential things at first, the antics of the children as they adjusted to their new surroundings, Briony’s valiant attempts to wrangle them into some semblance of order, the way Harlow had thrown herself into the role of caretaker with a ferocity that surprised no one. He spoke of Willard’s increasing agitation, the long hours he spent sequestered in Thorne’s study, poring over the few things Thorne had kept. Mostly his ledgers and a few history books.
Gradually, as the tea settled warm and heavy in my belly, Archer’s words took on a more somber tone. “We tried to find the antidote, you know? But that’s hard when you have no idea the source of the poison. Then Thorne showed up, early, in case you didn’t catch that five days comment. He burst through the door like a man possessed. You should have seen it. Scary fucker. We sort of guessed the Goddess of Time told him what was happening after Harlow went banging on her door, begging to take his place so he could come back. Vesalia refused of course.
“Thorne carried you out of here like you weighed nothing. Wouldn’t let any of us near you. Just wrapped you up in his cloak and disappeared into the night. We didn’t know… we thought…” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.
I set the empty teacup aside, my fingers trembling slightly as I reached out to lay my hand over his. “Thank you for staying. For fighting.”
He knelt closer, leaning on the bed. “You’ll both get better, and then it’s back to business. That’s what we do.”
“Can I see him?” I asked, not daring to look Archer in the eye.
He stood, putting his hands in his pocket to pull out a coin, rolling it between his fingers before he answered with a heavy sigh. “He doesn’t want anyone in there. When Alastor’s men dropped you two off at the front door, he demanded we leave him alone. He hasn’t let anyone in since.”
In the middle of the night, when the house was still and silent, the moon lit my bedroom floor and I couldn’t stand it any longer. I rolled out of bed. Actually rolled, dropping to the floor, the pain of it stealing my breath.
I couldn’t find the strength to rise, so I dragged my exhausted body towards him. Every inch was a battle. My arms trembled with fatigue as I moved closer in a desperate crawl. Down the hall, past the doors hiding sleeping children and others in need, beyond the single crooked painting he’d refused to sell.
I paused outside Thorne’s door. Uncertainty coiled in my gut. He had made it clear he wanted to be left alone, that he didn’t want anyone to see him. And I’d avoided him until I couldn’t take it. But the need to be near him, to reassure myself that he was alive, that we had both somehow survived the fire, overrode any hesitation.
Reaching up, I turned the knob slowly, half expecting it to be locked, but it gave way easily beneath my palm. The door swung open on silent hinges, and I crawled into the room, my heart lodged in my throat.
The curtains were drawn, but slivers of moonlight slipped through the cracks, painting the space in shades of silver and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of medicinal herbs and the coppery tang of blood. And there, in the center of the large bed, lay Thorne.
Someone had been here. Someone had tried to help him. Thank the gods. Except not the gods because fuck them. He was a tangle of blankets and bandages, his normally golden skin pale and drawn. A sheen of sweat glistened on his brow.
I pulled myself up, using the bed frame for support, my muscles quivering with the effort. I crawled in beside him, the cool sheets a balm against my feverish skin. Thorne shifted, a low moan escaping his chapped lips as he turned towards me, his eyelids fluttering open.
For a long moment, we simply stared at each other, drinking in the sight of one another, alive and breathing. His eyes, normally a vibrant mass of brown and green, were dulled by pain and exhaustion, but they still held me captive, searching my face as if memorizing every detail.
The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken words and emotions too raw to voice. I traced the lines of his face with my gaze, the sharp angles softened by the moonlight, the dark stubble shadowing his jaw. He looked vulnerable like this, stripped of his usual masks and defenses, laid bare by the healing fire of meddling gods.
Slowly, hesitantly, I reached out, my fingertips grazing the edge of the bandage wrapped around his chest, a physical reminder of the price he had paid for my life. I swallowed hard, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes as I followed the path of the bandages, mapping out the extent of his injuries.
“Thank you,” I said simply, no other words feeling significant enough.
He managed a ragged breath. “You don’t get to die until I say so.”
“Always so commanding,” I whispered, letting my eyes fall shut, feeling whole in a way I’d missed with his absence.
As we lay there, side by side in the moonlit room, an odd sense of déjà vu washed over me. The scene felt familiar, like a half-remembered dream that lingered just beyond the reach of consciousness. In my mind’s eye, I saw flashes of another time, another place, a cozy bedroom bathed in the warm glow of a crackling hearth.
A man lay beside me, his face obscured by shadows, but his presence was achingly familiar. I could feel the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his chest as he slept, the rough calluses of his hand as it rested on my hip. We were tangled together, limbs intertwined, fitting like two pieces of a puzzle that had finally found their way home.
The details of the room sharpened, coming into focus like a painting slowly revealed. An apartment full of couches and there were… spoons? We’d bought spoons together that day. I could feel the love that permeated every inch of this space, the sense of belonging, of safety, of home.
The vision shifted, the edges blurring and reforming, and suddenly I was standing in a rain-soaked meadow, the scent of wildflowers heavy in the air. The man stood before me, his features still indistinct, but his presence a tangible force, drawing me in. He reached for me, his hands rough and warm as they cupped my face, his thumbs brushing away tears.
“I’ve been waiting for you. Waiting for you to remember.”
I leaned into his touch, my eyes fluttering closed as I breathed him in. It was a scent I knew, a scent that meant comfort and desire and an aching, desperate mourning.
“Remember what?” I whispered.
He pulled me closer, his arms banding around me, strong and unyielding. I melted into him, my body molding to his as if it had been made to fit there, in the circle of his embrace. His heartbeat thundered beneath my cheek, a steady, reassuring rhythm that tethered me to him, to this moment.
“Us.” he breathed, the word a reverent sigh against my hair. “Remember us, my love.”