Chapter 17 Zaria
ZARIA
My eyes snap open, air locked somewhere deep in my chest.
I sit up too fast, the world tilting, my hands gripping the sheets.
For a few seconds, I don't know where I am.
The walls press in. The ceiling feels like it is falling.
Then it comes back.
The room. The window. The TV.
Callum's house.
I force myself to breathe.
In through the nose. Hold. Out through the mouth.
The way I used to in the ritual house before it all started.
My heartbeat slows and my vision clears.
I'm locked in, but I'm not tied down.
That's something.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and sit there for a moment, staring at the floor.
I stand and stretch, my joints popping. I look around the room, and that's when I notice them.
Bags on the floor.
Three or four of them. Large and sturdy designer-store type bags with thick rope handles.
They were definitely not here last night.
My stomach drops. Fear first, always fear first.
For a moment I don't move. I just stare, waiting for the punchline. Waiting for whatever trap this is supposed to be. Good things don't just appear. Good things always have a cost.
But nothing happens, so I take one step.
Then another.
The first bag rustles as I nudge it gently with my toes, testing it like it might bite. I crouch down and peek inside.
Clothes.
A whole stack of folded blouses, linen pants, and cozy pajama. A thick cashmere sweater and even some cozy wool socks. I smile when I see these. All of the items are new, soft, and rich-looking.
A far cry from the thrift-store finds and clearance-rack items I'd usually have that fall apart after a wash or two.
I reach for the next bag.
More tops, a few skirts, and some beautiful dresses.
The third bag has all kinds of shoes, ranging from tennis shoes to boots and finally high heels.
This can't all be for me.
The fourth bag is smaller. I open it.
Toiletries.
A toothbrush still in its package. Toothpaste. Face wash. Lotion. A hairbrush. Hair ties.
I sit back on my heels, staring at the items spread across the floor.
This doesn't make sense.
Everyday I've been wearing a fresh robe that's been brought into my room by a sweet housekeeper, Martha.
It was plenty and honestly more than I expected given the circumstances.
She asked me if I wanted anything else and I just mentioned some warm socks.
I did not expect that would turn into all of this.
I didn't expect this.
Why would Callum do this? What does he want for it?
Nothing is free.
In the Order, if Brother George gave you food, you owed him your body.
If Sister Monica gave you a blanket, you owed her obedience.
If Cormac gave you anything, you owed him your life.
Every kindness came with a price. Every gift was a test.
I gather up all the bags and walk back over to the bed and dump them out into a huge pile.
I try on the pants first.
They fit, perfectly, and feel light as air while on.
I pull on the black long-sleeve top. It's soft, the kind of fabric that doesn't scratch or cling. I like these types of shirts, they cover my mark.
I try on a few different pairs of shoes and find ones that I can easily move around in, maybe even run in if I need to.
Then I stand in front of the mirror, and for a moment, I don't recognize myself.
The girl staring back at me looks normal and, dare I say, well put together.
I smile and it feels good.
I touch my face, brushing over the faint bruise on my cheek that is finally starting to fade.
My hair is still a mess, tangled and uneven, but it's clean.
I grab the hairbrush from the toiletry bag and work through the knots, wincing as the bristles pull.
There we go. This is the version of me I haven't seen in years.
The version who used to sit in diners with her mother, who used to dream about college, who used to think the world was bigger than the walls of the Order's house.
My chest aches.
I turn away from the mirror and grab the toothbrush.
Brushing my teeth feels like a small miracle.
The minty taste spreads across my tongue, washing away the staleness that has been there for days.
I rinse my mouth and spit into the sink, then wash my face with the face wash.
The lotion smells like lavender. I rub it into my hands, my arms, my neck.
When I'm done, I step back into the bedroom.
The TV is still on, it has barely been off since Callum allowed me to watch it. With all the channels, there is always something worth watching.
I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the screen.
There is a woman kneading dough and it's kind of mesmerizing.
But after a few minutes, the calm turns into something else. Maybe restlessness with my new look.
In the Order, I always had tasks.
Scrubbing floors. Folding linens. Preparing altars. Memorizing verses.
I hated it, but at least it kept my hands busy, kept my mind from wandering into places it shouldn't go.
Here, I have nothing and nothing can be worse.
Because nothing means thinking, and thinking means remembering.
And remembering means seeing the girl's face as they burned her alive.
I stand abruptly, shaking my head.
No.
I'm not going there.
I pace the room instead.
From the bed to the window. From the window to the dresser. From the dresser to the door.
I try to count my steps, but it doesn't help.
I stop in front of the door and stare at the handle.
I know it's locked.
I've checked it a dozen times, but I check it again anyway.
I reach for the handle and turn.
It doesn't budge.
I jiggle it, pulling harder this time.
Still nothing.
Then I hear it. A key sliding into the lock from the outside.
I jump back as the door opens.
It's the same guard I have been seeing.
He stands in the doorway, his expression neutral, his hand still on the doorknob.
"Hi," I say.
He nods.
"Am I just supposed to sit here again today?"
He looks me over, his gaze lingering on my pants, the shirt, then the shoes.
"I'll let him know you're dressed," he says and shuts the door.
The sound is louder than I expected and I flinch.
The lock clicks into place.
"Guess I'll wait," I say to the shut door.
I'm good at waiting.
I've been waiting my whole life.
Waiting for my mother to come home when I was a kid.
Waiting for Cormac to acknowledge me when I found him. Or the Order to let me prove myself.
Waiting for the ritual to end or for my payment to end.
But this is different.
Because this time, I'm not just waiting for something to happen.
I'm waiting for him. And I hate that I'm starting to hope he'll come. To see the one person who has given me some resemblance of kindness and so far has expected nothing in return.
Or that I feel safer locked in this room than I ever did in the Order.
I hate that I keep replaying the moment he handed me the robe, the way his jaw tightened, the way he looked at me like I was something fragile instead of something broken.
I hate all of it, but I can't stop.
Because what if he's not the monster I thought he would be. What if we've been wrong this whole time.