Chapter 32
Chapter thirty-two
“I quite despise being sick, but I do love the attention of everyone fussing over me.” – from the diary of Oren Byrne, age seventeen.
The coachman’s face when we arrived back at the front of the church might have been worth the pain, but it was far too extreme. Not to mention, I could barely see anything, so I couldn’t enjoy his caught-fish expression, complete with popping eyeballs and gaping maw.
Nevan and Neil had fared a little better than I.
Nevan bled from slashes on his arms, and Neil was sporting a busted lip and blackened eye.
They were lucky that Blodwen hadn’t gutted them.
From what I’d witnessed of her in battle against Abnus, three months ago, she was a skilled swordswoman, and not to be trifled with. They were incredibly lucky to be alive.
For myself, my arm hung uselessly at my side while every jar of the carriage made my ribs and sternum ache.
I couldn’t breathe through my nose or see much out of my swelling eyes.
When we returned back to the manor, the footman gaped at us for all of one exceedingly long second before calling for assistance.
Everyone rushed out of the manor like ants swarming us at a picnic. Mother cried and held me close while ordering for someone to fetch Mrs. Maher. Frances passed out quite comically into Georgie’s not-so-waiting arms, nearly sending my sibling-in-law to the ground.
Father took charge, as he always did, and ordered the chaos around him into a semblance of control.
Georgie hauled a rather senseless Frances inside.
Phineas hooked his arms around each of the twins’ waists and helped them in.
Sevrin, ever so gently, extracted me from my mother before sweeping me into his arms like I was some distressed hero or heroine from one of my gothic novels; it was mortifying.
“You’ll be alright, Oren,” Sevrin said, but his voice trembled ever so slightly, and I knew it wasn’t my slight weight that was bothering him.
“I’ll be fine,” I said in a firm voice. Oh, by the sweet Lord, it did hurt, but I would survive it, though never in my entire life had I ever been so frightfully injured.
All of my brothers, including Aidan, had had their scrapes over the years, but not I.
I’d been, and still in many ways was, a hothouse flower.
So carefully guarded and cultivated that no such danger could find me.
Well, I was out of my glass enclosure, and I was going to experience life, even the bad parts.
Sevrin took me directly to my room where Mrs. Maher fussed over me, tutting and eyeing my injuries with a critical eye.
“What, pray tell, is this, young master?” she asked.
I couldn’t see what she was pointing to on my neck, nor could I fathom what it might be. Suddenly heat rushed to my cheeks. Abnus. He had left a great many marks on me over our time together.
“N-nothing. Absolutely nothing,” I stammered.
A light tinkling laugh filled the room. “You and your brother Aidan are remarkably similar. He may not be able to lie, but you are certainly not skilled at it.”
My flush deepened.
“Oh, don’t trouble yourself. It’s not a bad thing to be unskilled in the art of deceiving. Lies take their toll on your soul. I promise you that. You will meet the Almighty with a far clearer conscience than most,” she said, and I frowned.
I wouldn’t have thought she was religious, but then again, I rarely attended services, so how would I know if she was there or not?
Though if she was indeed religious—she had to know what the kiss mark on my sternum meant—why would she think I’d enter the heavenly gates, if there was such a thing, with no marring on my soul?
Such philosophical contemplation would have to wait for another day. My ears were ringing, my shoulder throbbing, and my ribs were afire with each breath. Now wasn’t the time to be thinking about our physician’s religious leanings.
Mrs. Maher bandaged me up and prescribed rest, and laudanum. I refused the latter, as I wished to keep some of my wits intact.
A worm writhed in the back of my brain, refusing to be silenced. It shuffled and danced in my thoughts, saying I missed something—something so obvious, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of what it was.
Mayhap this had been too easy with Eilis Duffy confronting me like he had.
And me killing him was too convenient. Even now, his death didn’t seem real.
It felt as if another had done it, not I.
I could see him falling and cracking his head open upon the crumbling wall and the blood pooling around him.
And yet it wasn’t I who’d done it. Someone else had.
I didn’t even feel a sense of guilt, which I should have, shouldn’t I? I had taken a life.
Or perhaps I didn’t want to believe that I could accomplish something without my brothers? That I, useless and unneeded and delicate Oren, had ended the threat to Sídhetír and its people without them. Was I that desperate for recognition? Was I that hating of myself to accept any?
I couldn’t think about any of it. My head hurt far too much, and all I was capable of was falling asleep, and so I did. Besides, the worries weren’t so pressing that sleep needed to be delayed, right?