Chapter 58 #2
“That’s the point,” I say.
“Why?” she asks, softly.
Because scars are someone else’s handwriting, I think. Because I’m tired of being a page other people write on.
But I don’t say that. I don’t give her the raw parts.
“Because I can,” I answer instead.
She hums like she’s filing the truth behind the lie, storing it for later. She always did that; took my half-answers and built a fuller picture without demanding I hand it over.
“How’s your day?” she asks.
The question is normal. Domestic. Almost absurd coming from someone whose nerves are slowly failing, whose life depends on a retired neurochemist balancing doses like prayer.
“Busy,” I say.
“Level Three busy,” she presses.
I glance at her. “Yes.”
That seems to satisfy her for a moment. Then her eyes flick toward the hallway again, toward the closed door where Henrik’s lab lives like a parasite. “Henrik came earlier,” she says.
My muscles tighten before I can stop them. “And?”
“He didn’t stay long,” she continues. “He… talked. More than usual.”
I don’t like that. I don’t like Henrik talking to her like he gets to be human near her. I don’t like him occupying space in her world as anything other than a tool.
“What did he say,” I ask, and it comes out flatter than I mean it to.
She doesn’t flinch. “He said he thinks he found something.”
The words land inside me with a sudden, violent kind of stillness.
Something.
Hope packaged into a single vague syllable.
“And?” I force out.
She smiles, small and tired. “Not a miracle,” she adds quickly, like she’s trying to protect me from the drop. “Not a cure-cure. But… something that might extend things. Ease things.”
My throat tightens. “What is it.”
She hesitates. Then she turns her head slightly toward the side table where a glass container sits under a small lamp—preserved flowers, dried and delicate, arranged like museum pieces.
One of them stands out.
Monkshood.
Aconite.
That deep, bruise-purple hooded bloom that looks like elegance wearing a threat.
My chest tightens so sharply it almost hurts.
“He said it’s an add-on,” she murmurs. “A stabilizer. Something in the alkaloid profile that interacts with the nervous system differently when it’s… diluted correctly. He said it’s dangerous if used wrong, but if used right—” She swallows. “If used right, it might slow the decline tremendously.”
Monkshood.
Of course it is.
The flower Elara loved. The flower she drew with devotion. The flower I brought her like a test and watched her treat like a relic. The symbol of her curiosity. Her danger. Her softness with teeth.
The universe has a cruel sense of humor.
I stare at the preserved bloom until my eyes ache. My mind tries to conjure her hands around it, graphite smudged on her fingers, her mouth tightened in concentration as she sketched its perfect shape. My mind tries to conjure the way she said its name like it wasn’t just a toxin, like it was art.
My sister watches my face carefully. She sees the shift. She always does.
“That one means something to you,” she says quietly.
I don’t answer.
Her voice softens further. “Is it her?”
My jaw tightens. “It’s a flower.”
She makes a sound—half amusement, half exhaustion. “You’re bad at lying when you care.”
I hate that word in her mouth. Care. Like it’s allowed. Like it’s safe.
I force my gaze back to her. “Henrik is sure?”
“As sure as he ever is,” she says. “He’s been balancing it with the formulas. Tiny micro-additions. He said it’s not about poisoning me—he said it’s about using the poison like a lever. Like a key.”
A key.
Everything in my life is keys. Locks. Doors. Access.
And now the thing that might keep her alive a little longer wears the shape of a flower that reminds me of the woman I’m trying not to miss.
My sister shifts, wincing, and I move automatically, one step closer before I remember to keep distance. My body tries to protect without permission. It does it before my mind can veto.
She notices.
Her eyes flick up to my face. “How are you holding up,” she asks.
The question is gentle. That’s what makes it dangerous.
“I’m fine,” I say.
She snorts weakly. “That’s your favorite sentence.”
“It’s a functional sentence.”
“It’s a coward sentence,” she corrects.
I hold her gaze. “I don’t have the luxury of falling apart.”
Her smile fades a little. “Maybe you do now.”
“No.”
She studies me for a long moment, then her eyes drift to the hallway again, to the door, to the room where Henrik pretends he’s doing penance through science.
“Did he offer you anything?” she asks.
My stomach tightens. “What.”
“Henrik,” she says. “Did he offer you something to help you.”
I laugh once, short, humorless. “Help me? He’s the reason I’m like this.”
“Yes, and no. Our father is the reason we’re like this. And that doesn’t mean he can’t try,” she says quietly. “He said Eidolon did things to you. Permanent things.”
I go still.
She continues gently, like she’s approaching a skittish animal. She swallows, eyes shining with something dangerously close to hope. “He said there might be something that could ease it. Not cure you. But… ease.”
My jaw clenches. My left hand tremors faintly at my side, and I curl my fingers into a fist to crush it.
“No,” I say.
She blinks. “Lucan—”
“No,” I repeat, sharper.
She studies me. “Why.”
Because if I let Henrik touch me, he becomes more than a tool. He becomes a man near my skin. A man with access. A man who can decide what “better” looks like, and I don’t trust his definition. I don’t trust anyone’s definition.
Because if I’m eased, if I’m softened, I might become something I can’t control.
Because pain is familiar. Pain is stable. Pain is honest.
And because—
Because the only thing that ever made the hollow in me feel less absolute wasn’t medication.
It was her.