Chapter 29
Chapter
Twenty-Nine
Isit at the small table in our hut, picking at the plate of food I smuggled from the cave that acts as a food hall. But I’m not at all hungry.
Imogen’s words have been playing in my mind ever since she left the cave, but what plagues my thoughts even more is how she looked at me. As if I were carrying a weapon.
I have felt more than one shiver climb up my spine since our conversation. What about the vials is so dangerous that I should destroy them? What are they?
I was hoping Imogen could provide at least some answers, but somehow, I have ended up with more questions than before.
Nowhere is safe for you if anyone finds out what you have. But I am not the one who has them anymore—Cedar is. Worry surges in my chest.
I need to pick up the supplies from Imogen, and we need to leave first thing in the morning.
Just as I stand to head for the door, it flies open and a shirtless Rylan stumbles through it. “What are you…” My eyes slide down to the red slash across his torso. “What happened?!”
His smile is goofy as he takes a wobbly step into the hut. “We were training.” He shrugs as he gets closer, and I catch a whiff of a potent stench coming from him. An intoxicating combination of moonshine and perspiration.
“While drunk?” I ask, my hands finding his arms as I lead him towards the bed.
“It seemed like an amusing idea at the time,” he says. “But then that started to sting.” He looks down at where blood paints his middle. It looks like a sword slashed him clean across his abdomen.
Gods, he was so drunk he didn’t even dodge the blow.
“You’re lucky it isn’t deeper,” I mutter as he lays down with a delayed groan. I quickly locate my medicine box and look for the needle and thread. I must admit, when Hazel gave this to me, I never expected to use it this much.
As I pull the small sewing box out, I notice a gap in the space it left, as if the wood isn’t sealed together properly. I can just imagine my father now, inspecting it with a scoff, appalled at his own work.
I run my finger over the crack. That’s when I hear a faint click, like a latch falling open, and the wooden piece feels looser than before. I feel my forehead tense with a frown as the piece slides sideways with little effort.
“Are you coming to stitch me up, healer?”
I ignore Rylan’s mumbling in favour of staring into the small compartment hidden in the back of the medicine box, where a key shines from where it fits snug in the small compartment.
The little pieces of bread and cheese I snacked on earlier threaten to rise from my belly as I reach into the back of the box, my fingers closing around the key.
The iron is cold to the touch, but that isn’t what causes me to nearly drop it once it is in my grasp.
An intricate pattern wraps around the key, one of vines and leaves.
My breath is laboured, and the air suddenly feels thick.
I mindlessly slide my dagger out of my pocket, and when I hold it next to the key, the similarities are undeniable.
I sit utterly still, unable to so much as blink as I sit with the dagger in one hand, the key in another. It’s heavy—heavier than it should be even with the added designs. Did my father put this here, or was it someone else? Perhaps the person he made it for? But the compartment…that is his work.
All of this is connected—the dagger, this key, the vials. And somehow, my parents are right in the middle of it all. Who were they?
Rylan groans, and I slip out of my dazed state. I shove the key back into the compartment and slide it shut. I will show Rylan tomorrow when he is not drowning in drink.
I clear my throat before picking up the sewing box and moving over to the bed.
“Woah,” he says, and his eyes widen more than I thought possible given his current state. “I thought you were going to stitch me up, not harvest my organs.”
I look down and realize I am still gripping the dagger. “Oh,” I say on an exhale, and deposit it back in my pocket before I sit at the edge of the bed.
I shake my head, attempting to dislodge the unrest settling in my stomach as I open the small sewing box. “I thought you said you didn’t mind being at the end of a blade I was holding.”
“Yes, well, when I am incapacitated, I can hardly say I feel the same.”
A smile lifts my cheeks. “I don’t blame you. I mean, if Evander could get you like this, imagine what someone like me could do.”
It is a joke—anyone with eyes could see I am far from a fighter—but Rylan watches me. His eyes are heavy, but somehow it feels as if he is looking right through me. “Imagine what you could do,” he mutters.
His words send butterflies dancing within me. Rylan has a certain tone that, no matter the words coming out of his mouth, it leaves me flustered.
I attempt to focus on feeding the piece of thread through the eye of the needle, but it slips out every time.
Rylan sits up, his body crowding mine. “Do you need a hand?”
“No,” I breathe, forcing myself to concentrate and try again, only to fail once more.
“Are you sure?”
I turn to glare at him over my shoulder, but the movement brings my face within inches of his, and I find myself paralysed by his proximity.
He brings his hand to my face, his fingers drawing patterns across my cheek as my eyes flutter closed. “Sometimes I think if I look hard enough, I might find the answers to all the questions of the world in these freckles.”
I open my eyes, but he doesn’t pull his gaze from where he focuses on the markings of my face.
“Perhaps they spell something, or maybe together they form a map, one that might lead me over the bridge of your nose and into your soul.”
I remind myself that he is intoxicated, but it doesn’t change the way his words etch themselves into my skin.
His eyes finally meet mine and I inhale a sharp breath. “Do you trust me yet, Rosie?" I blink excessively. That is not what I expected him to say, but I can read the desperation in his eyes, the yearning to know my answer.
“Should I trust you?” I breathe.
His lips lift in a slow smile. “That is your question to answer.”
His eyes fall closed not a minute later, and he sinks back into the mattress, leaving me colder than I was a moment ago, my cheek tingling with the memory of his touch.
“Wake up,” I say, leaning over him. “Rylan, you can’t fall asleep. I need to stitch up your wound.”
“I’m not sleeping,” he mumbles, though I almost think I imagined it. His mouth didn’t look as though it moved at all. I must be far more tired than I thought.
Just when I mean to make my last attempt at threading the needle, a knock sounds on the door. Rylan doesn’t stir. Not falling asleep, huh?
I push off the bed and open the door, but no one stands outside. There is simply a basket at my feet. I peer around the corner, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever left it, but all I see is darkness.
I pick it up and bring it inside before closing the door behind me.
When I lift the lid, I see jars and bottles and tins.
Nestled in the corner of the basket is the list I gave Imogen.
She has crossed off every item, completely fulfilling my request. But she’s added her own request at the bottom of the list.
Do what I said. Destroy them while you still have time.