CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ALYSSUM
Asoft knock on the door roused me from a deep, dreamless slumber, and it took a singular sleepy inhale for all of it to come rushing back. It hadn’t been a nightmare, I realized as I wiped the sleep from my eyes to assess the unfamiliar atmosphere of my room.
I truly had survived crossing.
“Lyssa?” Milo’s small voice carried through the thick wooden door that led to the Ugly Tankard’s hallway. “Lyssa, are you in there?”
“I need a moment!” I called out, throwing back the dark green linens of my bed.
It wasn’t quite as large as the one I’d had in Lunamor, and it was much more plainly made than the ornate design of my four-poster, but there was a modest charm to the simple carvings, the nicks and imperfections that made it unique.
The room was bathed in a warm glow from an oil lamp Catrin had placed on my bedside table.
The barely-there flame was easily adjusted, more than doubling in size as I twisted the knob Catrin had pointed out before I’d succumbed to the wiles of comfortable bedding.
The high ceiling, with its exposed beams, and the dark, wooden floors contrasted the rough-textured walls that looked to be made of painted rock.
There was only one window, round and mostly obstructed by curtains the color of midnight ivy that Catrin had partially drawn on my behalf.
For furnishings, there were matching bedside tables and a massive wooden chest by my feet, a simple round table with two stools near the window, a full-length mirror by the door, and a large wooden tub nestled into the opposite corner accompanied by a sputtering hearth.
Adjacent the bed, a simple wardrobe was left slightly ajar, and I wiggled out from beneath the warmth of my sheets to tiptoe my way over.
The floor was colder than I’d expected, and I drew my free arm against my middle, exhaling with puffed cheeks as I sought something, anything at all that could cover my shift before I answered the door.
“There’s usually a robe by the mirror,” Milo moaned. “Hurry. This is heavy!”
“What’s heavy?” I was about to settle for my cloak—I’d have to thank Catrin for hanging it up neatly—but Milo was right.
Resting on a hook by the mirror was a floor-length velvet robe with silk lining, all in that same deep green hue.
A nicer piece than I would have expected, given the tavern’s modest appearance.
I draped it over my shoulders quickly, studying my reflection as I secured the sash around my waist. My splotched face and neck were unbecoming.
If possible, even more of the color had drained from my face.
And depths, my hair was still a mess, though it seemed most of the dried blood seemed to have flaked off onto my pillow.
I inhaled deeply, eyes rolling starward in submission; I’d never felt so unwashed, and there was no Nora to assist me in righting these wrongs.
I would have no help bathing or dressing, or a delicious Petunia-made breakfast lying in wait once I readied myself for the day.
I wouldn’t even have Tilda’s lessons to avoid, only to be scolded by her later.
There was a sliver of ache needling towards my heart, and I could only pray it wouldn’t grow. How was I going to make this work?
One step forward before the next, Alyssum.
I steeled myself against the onslaught of emotion that threatened to crush me. Wallowing in my feelings certainly wouldn’t help anything, and so I made my way to the door, unbolting the iron rod and swinging it open.
“Finally!” Milo cried, stepping into the room with both hands gripping the handles of a large, steaming bucket.
He waddled over to the bath, placing the bucket down carefully with a dramatic sigh.
He wore nothing but the same taupe pants sliced at the knee as he had yesterday, without the many-pouched belt.
Instead, a leather drawstring bag the size of his torso was secured to his back, which he dropped unceremoniously onto the trunk at the foot of my bed.
“Do you have any shirts at all in your wardrobe?” I asked casually, since politeness seemed low on Milo’s list of necessities.
“Of course I do,” he said with a scoff. “What a ridiculous question.”
A new set of footsteps drew my eye to the door, and a girl a few years older than Milo appeared with another steaming bucket of her own.
“Pardon me, miss, but Master Catrin said you’d be ready for a bath by now. Have we come too early?” Her sandy-colored hair was hidden beneath a linen cap, her light skin sufficiently flushed, and she wore a simple brown dress with a pale green apron.
“No, not at all. In fact, a bath sounds perfect.”
“Have you been asleep this whole time?” Milo said with a gasp, plopping onto a free section of the trunk. “The sun has rested and risen again since Master Catrin brought you here yesterday.”
Was that possible? I’d never slept for such a long stretch in my life. “I… I’m not quite sure what to make of that,” I admitted. “I suppose the journey took more out of me than I’d thought.”
The girl brought her bucket of water over to the wooden tub. She poured it over the edge slowly, causing steam to rise and dampen the air. Once through with her own, she added Milo’s, which he seemed to have forgotten about.
“Thank you,” I said, Nora’s features flashing into my mind’s eye. I should have thanked her more often. I bid that thought away, beckoning myself back to the present moment by tapping the dip of my neck. “What is your name?”
“Gallia,” she offered with a slight bow of her head.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Gallia. My name is Lyssa.”
“She already knows your name,” Milo said, though he seemed preoccupied with unpacking his bag onto the trunk.
“There is such a thing as manners, Master Milo,” Gallia chastised. We shared a humored smile as she bounded towards the hallway.
“What’s all of this?” I sat beside the first pile he’d laid out, watching Milo as he emptied his rather stuffed bag of books, vials, and clothing.
Milo stood to face the trunk, seemingly too focused on his task to respond immediately. By the time he was finished, there were four neat piles before him.
“Listen closely,” Milo said, his chest puffing out importantly.
He pointed to a small cloth bag he had placed on the far side of the trunk first. “These are your lady undergarments, so you’ll have to unpack that yourself.
” Then he drew his finger to the left, to a stack of folded clothes.
“And here you’ve got three shirts, a skirt, and two dresses.
Master Catrin says they should fit. She’s got a rather good eye, but if something is amiss—” he pointed a thumb right at his bare chest “—you let me know, and I’ll get it taken care of.
If you prefer pants, we’ll need to get you fitted.
Then we’ve a potion, infusion, and tincture,” he said as he leaned forward to tap each corked vial in turn.
“This black one is your potion—salted myrtle, to be taken in one gulp in case any of your unveiling symptoms return. This purplish one is an infusion for your bathwater. You can dump the whole thing in, as Master Catrin’s making some more that I’ll bring by before supper.
And this here pink one is a tincture, only to be used in small sips ‘case you have trouble sleeping, given… well… everything. Don’t ask me what’s in those last two specifically; Master Catrin wouldn’t tell me.
” His lips pinched together, as if this last point were rather contentious and he didn’t want to discuss the matter further.
“Finally, you’ve got some books. I’m not much of a reader myself, but Master Catrin said you might want to look these over. ”
“Did she?” I was coming to suspect Catrin might be a star that had fallen to Morwyn, blessing those she encountered regardless of their deservedness, so despite my general disinterest in the written word, I found myself drawing one of the books onto my lap.
“I’m not much of a reader either, yet I have the most unusual feeling she’s correct in her assessment. ”
“She usually is,” he grumbled, seemingly less than pleased with that truth at the moment.
The book was bound in dark leather that looked as though it’d been dyed purple many lifetimes ago.
I drew my fingers over its cracked spine, humming to myself as a warm, unfamiliar sensation cradled my chest. Something about this book felt…
familiar, although I was certain I’d never seen it before.
I turned it over, wondering if perhaps I had the wrong side, but no—there was no title or author to be found.
The only identifier was a small upside-down V etched into the very middle of the spine.
With a furrowed brow, I opened the book to its title page.
Stories of Sor, Volume I
Written by Cyrilla Allon, Elmar Holara, and Lilja Elvadir
A collection of tales for Soran children and their friends, imaginary or otherwise
I wondered if Lilja and Bjorn knew one another, but her name did not hold my attention for long. Instead, I stared at the title, my focus singular as my thrumming heart quieted the room. It wasn’t until Milo spoke that I returned to myself.
“What is it?” he asked, craning his neck to get a better look.
“It’s an anthology,” I said. “A Soran anthology.”
“Of children’s stories?” Milo, who clearly thought he was much too old for that sort of nonsense, made his way towards the door with a wrinkled nose.
“Of children’s stories,” I echoed, closing the book as though it were bound in gold.
Was this a common book, I wondered? Something I’d have poured over as a child, had the Treaty not dictated my shelves?
Or, was it a book my mother would have read to me?
A favorite of hers, perhaps, when she lived in Sor?
The thought caused my heart to swell, and I squeezed the volume against my chest in response.
Only once in my life had I touched a book that contained knowledge of Sor, and it hadn’t been worth the punishment.
As my blood seeped into the rug of the throne room, I had promised myself then and there that I would never again try to learn more of my mother’s origins.
But now I held a forbidden book with my own two hands—one she may have read in her lifetime—and no one was coming to take it from me.
There. I could feel it. A dormant spark, too long kept in the shadows of my mind. A potentially limitless rage I had spent my life suppressing, now blazing on the edges of my consciousness, beckoning me.
It’s unfair, what they took from you. What they expected of you.
Think of what you could have had. Who you could have been.
A pretend Lunamorian. A pretend Sentinel. Only Soran when it was convenient…
A pawn. Nothing more than a pawn.
I swallowed the anger with a steadied exhale, clearing my mind; it was too powerful, and I knew that if I allowed it a foothold, it might have the strength to deafen everything else. And I couldn’t let that happen. I hadn’t risked my life only to be consumed by rage on the other side of it all.
“You’re odd,” Milo said finally. He leaned against the doorframe, studying me with a passive expression.
It took me a moment to realize he was in fact not reading my mind, but instead watching how I held the book to my chest like it might try to fly away. “You know, only a couple of days ago I might have disagreed with you.”
“And now?”
“Now, I think you might be right.” An incredulous laugh escaped me, and I shook my head in disbelief as the fury dissipated. “Then again, you’re pretty odd yourself.”
“That’s true,” Milo conceded with a lopsided grin.
“Milo,” I called just as he disappeared into the hallway.
He returned, his mop of black, wavy hair peeking from around the frame.
I set the anthology back on the book pile before angling myself in his direction. “I wanted to apologize.”
He sidestepped into full view, pocketing both hands and rolling onto the balls of his feet innocently as if he couldn’t imagine what I might want to apologize for.
But Catrin would have spoken to him by now.
As the one who brought me to Grenythwood, it was imperative that our stories aligned.
I wasn’t quite sure what she had told him, but I imagined it was just enough to earn his complicity.
“I was dishonest with you,” I admitted. “Of course you knew I wasn’t being truthful about my origins, but… all the same, I wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“Master Catrin said you were afraid, and that’s why you came here. Is that true?” His boyish features drew downward solemnly.
I sucked in a breath. “It is.”
“Then I forgive you,” Milo said. “I’ve lied when I was afraid, too.”
I managed a small smile, meeting his cloudy eyes. “That’s very kind of you, Milo.”
“Master Catrin also said it could be dangerous, should your identity be discovered.” Milo looked down at his feet, as though the idea made him uncomfortable.
“Very likely, yes,” I said. “I’m safer here than where I was, but there are people who would want to bring me back. If they were successful…”
I’d prefer death.
Milo’s jaw set and his eyes hardened. He checked the straps on his bag, tugging at them more than seemed necessary. “Then you can never tell me who you are.”
I stared at him, unblinking. Something had clearly upset him, but I couldn’t identify what. “Why do you say that?”
“For the same reason Master Catrin won’t teach me certain things,” he said, a sigh heaving his small chest. “I’m a Videa, so my loyalties will always be divided.”
“A Videa? I’m sorry, I don’t know what that means.”
“It’s my family name, and it means I can’t keep a secret, even if I wanted to.
” Milo shrugged, as if that were explanation enough.
“I’ve got to go. Lots to do today, but no hollow henbane pruning, praise Naeno.
I’ll be back later. Oh, and when you’re done with your bath, Master Catrin says you should speak with Winnie downstairs.
You can’t miss her; she’s the one who looks like she’d name her own tavern the Ugly Tankard. ”
He disappeared down the hallway before I could ask why he’d praised a moon instead of the stars.