28. Mercy
28
MERCY
T he rain has returned. It batters steadily against the windows, the wind howling as if mourning a dying lover. It’s late evening, and I’m lounging on one of the couches in the library in my quarters, my bare feet curled up under me.
To my left, the large fireplace crackles softly with flames and embers while my dogs slumber atop the wool rug in front of the mantelpiece.
Two of the four walls of the library are floor-to-ceiling bookcases, some books as old as our family feuds. There’s a large section dedicated to the Lottery records and the resulting nineteen-year rule. Reading about classified information and family secrets I haven’t been privy to before would usually thrill me, but the book balancing on my lap is as entertaining as a dull knife to the eye. The words blur, my thoughts much too volatile for any of it to make sense.
Wolfgang is ignoring me again. It’s been nearly a week since he last had his hands on me. The night at Vore when he killed one of his men for touching me.
Heat curls low in my stomach at just the thought. It incenses me. I should carry out my own execution for even daring to keep track of time in this manner. Every day I’m repulsed by how easy it is to let my mind wander to the few times I’ve felt Wolfgang’s touch on me.
And yet …
I find myself emerging from memories without any concept of time, trapped in the echo of inconsequential moments like when his hand found the small of my back in the pouring rain.
I slam the book closed with a huff and throw it beside me on the couch. Propping my chin into my palm, I sigh, my gaze idly lingering on the rows and rows of our family history.
I wonder if …
I can barely finish the thought. Irritated that I would even entertain any of Wolfgang’s recent erratic behavior and how it’s only left me wanting more. But try as I might, curiosity prickles my skin.
This library must have a book detailing the divine law that forbids us from mixing our bloodlines. And if fornication never leads to procreation, would we be punished? I can’t believe that Wolfgang and I would have been the first to have—I swallow hard, barely wanting to admit to myself, but alas—an attraction to one another.
Quietly, not wanting to wake the dogs, I uncurl myself from the couch and stand up. But I only make it a few steps toward one of the shelves when I feel the air shift.
I stop in my tracks, my head slightly cocking to the side, eyes narrowing.
The sensation is similar to when I feel the call, but it’s not quite the same. It takes me a few seconds to remember where I’ve felt it before. Then it hits me.
The Oracle.
She sits stoically on a settee in the drawing room, back straight and palms flat on her thighs over her gray tunic. It seems she knew I’d be called to her, and she has been patiently waiting. I sense my god of death drifting around her, but I know it’s not her time. If I could sense all six gods, I’m sure I would make out their presence here too. She is their mortal vessel after all.
Her eyes are streaked with the same black and gold as when I first saw her. They slowly slide to watch me enter the room. The weight of her observation makes me tighten my chiffon robe around my waist and cross my arms.
I’m not sure if I should speak first.
The room is tense with silence as I deliberate.
She wordlessly signals me to sit across from her, and I do as I’m told. I wring my hands together as we sit, not one word yet exchanged. Until I finally crack.
“Are we waiting for?—”
She holds out her hand for me to stop. I snap my mouth shut.
Time crawls forward. I count my heartbeats as we sit.
Footsteps approach the drawing room and I start counting those instead, until Wolfgang finally appears, wearing an embroidered smoking jacket.
I’m disgusted by the small leap my heart takes when I see him.
According to the small flinch and low hiss he lets out when he notices the Oracle, I don’t think he knew who was waiting for him here. His eyes snap to where I’m sitting for half a second, his jaw feathering, before jumping back to the Oracle.
She gives him the same wordless signal, motioning him to sit beside me. He stands, fists tight against his sides for a second too long, until reluctantly lowering himself onto the settee.
A snail could run laps around how slow the seconds seem to tick by.
Finally, she speaks.
“The gods are agitated,” she says, her voice much louder than expected.
I wince while Wolfgang shifts beside me. My stomach sinks, suddenly anxious that the gods know exactly what we have been up to. Cold sweat prickles my forehead.
“Agitated?” I repeat slowly, keeping my expression unperturbed. “How so?”
Her blue gaze flicks to mine. And again, I feel myself shrink under her scrutiny.
She presses her lips into a thin line. “There’s been chatter of a rebellion.”
Wolfgang laughs dryly. “A rebellion?” Crossing his arms, he sits back into the settee. “Nonsense.”
The air shifts and I can feel my god’s presence like a pulse inside my chest. Still, I can’t help but feel sheepish relief that the agitation is not about our most recent indecency.
The Oracle’s eyes narrow, her attention now fully on Wolfgang.
“Foolish mortal,” she grits, “Power is not everlasting. It can always be taken away. You are nothing but playthings to the gods.” She stands, clasping her hands together. “Handle this,” she orders. “I do not wish to visit you again.”
With those parting words, she shuffles out of the drawing room, leaving us in tense silence.
I cross my arms in petty defiance, stewing over her words, my heart drumming in my ears. How dare she speak to us like that. Treating us as if we’re unfit to rule.
But then again.
First the pamphlets, then the play, and now this?
Maybe the Oracle is right, and we’re not taking this as seriously as we should.
“What do you—” I begin to say, but at the sound of my voice, Wolfgang briskly stands up and marches out of the room.
I watch him disappear through the doorway, and let the frustration wash over me, sighing loudly as I look up to the ceiling in exasperation.
Killing him would be much easier.