Chapter Two Idris #4
“What—Idris!” Abram hurries forward and catches my arm, his eyes wide behind his glasses. “Here—sit, sit. What’s wrong? Should I get Father?”
“No,” I manage. “Just—some water?”
He grabs a glass and pours from the pitcher left on the writing desk.
I drink slowly, using the time to collect my thoughts.
If Abram knew everything, he’d carry it, sure as if I’d passed the curse to him.
He’d feel it was his fault that I am … whatever I am now.
And whatever the inevitable outcome, he’d blame himself.
There’s no point in telling him. Speir himself said there’s no helping me. I chose to bear this—so I’ll bear it.
“You all right?” Abram asks, watching me anxiously. “Maybe you should call it a night.”
I shake my head. “I’ll be fine in a moment. Just got overheated.”
“Overheated?” He frowns and touches my forehead. “You’re cold as ice.”
I knock his hand away gently. “I promise I’m fine, Abe.”
The door swings silently open. Father looks in. A prick of concern crosses his face when he sees Abram, but he enters. “Idris?”
I hear the other question in his voice: Is it done?
And beyond that, my ears still ring with the Hidden One’s screams. Father chose pretending, chose ignoring, chose ease at a price he gambled on us.
My muscles tense, and I stand, though a moment before I didn’t think I could. I move between him and Abram.
“I’m fine,” I answer, not ready to give him the sign he wants. I’m not sure he deserves to know. It’s as if he’s an entirely different person to me now—a stranger.
His gaze darts to Abram. He won’t ask directly with my brother here.
I put the empty glass aside and throw an arm around Abram’s shoulder, pulling him toward the hallway. “Come, brother, the night is still young! I would see you dance.”
He grimaces. “I danced earlier.”
“What, three times?” I shake my head.
“Are you sure you’re feeling well?” He tries to get a look at my face, and I force myself to grin harder. “You seem—”
“Of course I’m well. It’s my birthday! And you need to put a bit more effort into having fun. Look, I’ll introduce you to the prettiest girl here.”
Abram groans. “Please don’t.”
We enter the ballroom, where the party continues as if nothing’s happened.
To them, I must have been gone only ten minutes or so.
The movement and color and voices and music grate against my head, against the image of the iron shoes that flashes in my mind every time I blink.
I press on, trying not to remember, and search the faces.
“There.” I pull Abram toward Princess Catharine.
He stutters an objection, all but digging in his heels. When she lifts her silver eyes to us, his protests cut abruptly into a stunned silence. I smile, and this time it isn’t an effort.
“Princess.” I bow. “You remember my younger brother, Abram.”
She drops an elegant curtsy, almost a dance all its own. When she straightens, she tilts her head to look up at him, and her dark curls fall over her nearly bare shoulder. The curve to her mouth is both gracious and kind. “Yes, of course.”
“It—yes—you—good evening.” Abram makes a too-fast bow. His cheeks darken, and he shoots a glare at me.
I cough into my fist. “Ask.“
Abram fixes a tight smile on his face, and his desire to kick me radiates between us. But he manages, “Princess Catharine, I would—would you—that is, are you free for this next dance?”
“I am, actually.” Her gaze flits to me in something like amusement—this time, she is not being stolen away. She lifts her hand, indicating to someone beside her. But my eyes fix on her silver bracelet. As she moves her hand into a shadow, the metal becomes dull and plain. Like a chain of iron.
I feel the heat of the furnace all over again. The spark of iron before it even touches my skin. Hear the hammer pound. The screams. My family did that. My family.
Princess Catharine is speaking. Something about her sister.
The screams swell in my head, and I can’t breathe.
The gaiety around me is too close, too bright, too wrong for a world where my own great-great-grandfather nailed shoes into someone’s feet.
I tear my eyes away from the princess, looking desperately for a way out.
An empty chair. It’s on the edge of the older men’s card tables. One man lifts his hand to me in greeting, and that’s all I need.
“I’m afraid I’m called elsewhere,” I say to Catharine and her sister both. “I hope you’ll excuse me.”
Unsteady in my rush, I make my escape. Dimly, I hear Abram saying something about his friend Jay. Perhaps suggesting him as a partner. It doesn’t matter. If I don’t sit, I will collapse.
I reach the chair and sink down. The man—I can’t place his name—chuckles and claps me on the back, almost spilling me onto the floor.
“Too much to drink, aye?” he says merrily. “Poor bairn. Best let up on the hard stuff, or you’ll regret it in the morning.”
I nod and murmur in agreement. I want to curl over, but I don’t. I cover my face with my hands, making myself breathe deeply.
Has the curse started? I can’t tell. Perhaps it’s only just taking root. Nothing feels right anymore.