5. Chapter 5
Chapter five
I ’m awoken by the strike of a match, followed by the pleasant crackle of flame. Moaning, I bury my face in a luxuriously soft pillow and squeeze my eyes tighter, refusing to leave the cocooned comfort of the bed. My head pounds like someone’s taken a hammer to the inside of my skull, and my throat feels like it’s been scraped raw with sandpaper. My entire body aches, right down to the pricking tenderness of my skin. The last thing I want to do is open my eyes.
But as curtains are whipped open, and the vague memory of where I am reemerges, I begrudgingly sit up, only to be sure it isn’t that heinous monster of a king lurking in my room. As vile as he is, I doubt stalking is out of his purview.
I blink into the darkness wondering what time it is, when a fire blazes to life in an ornate hearth along the far wall. The flames flicker merrily, bathing the large room in soft light and dancing shadows. A woman stands with her back to me, one hand thrown on her hip, the other gently stoking the flames with a poker.
Seizing the opportunity of her inattention, I slip silently from the bed and dart toward the door, hoping she may have left it open. But when I reach the space where it should be, it’s only to find the same disappointment as last night when Sam had left me in here. There’s no knob, no hinges—nothing but ornately etched designs curling up toward the ceiling in the same manner as the throne room stories below.
Huffing a furious sigh, I pivot to find the woman continuing about her chores, having paid no mind to my fruitless escape attempt. She appears young, maybe in her late teens at the oldest. Her heart-shaped face is supple and full, her beautiful white-blonde hair pulled into a tight bun at the base of her neck. A simple black dress swishes around her ankles as she moves from window to window, opening the shades to reveal swathes of the odd night sky beyond.
“What time is it?” I venture, wondering if this is some kind of sleep-deprivation torture ordered by the infernal king. My voice is still weak from the effects of my near drowning, but it’s loud enough that when the woman doesn’t respond, I know it’s because she’s blatantly ignoring me.
She finishes with the curtains and begins fretting over the bed, straightening the mess I made of the blankets. I watch her for a few long moments as the warmth of the fire begins to seep into the icy room. I nudge closer to the flames, attempting to swallow down my growing sense of panic. I’m still clad in the same dirty night gown, and though exhaustion had eventually won out over my desire to stay alert, now that I’m awake, the reality of my predicament begins to press anew against my chest.
The doors, the darkness, the king . Jamie’s horrific murder, the slack-jawed gape of his rotted face.
And before all of it, my awakening from a dream only to spiral into an abyss.
All of it floats through my mind in increasingly sharp fragments, none of which fit together to form any semblance of rationality. The world rushes around me like I’m trapped in a never-ending nightmare; like I’ve come untethered from the universe and tipped into madness. Maybe I’m trapped in one of the Amelioration camps again and too far gone, too drugged up, to even realize it.
Suddenly angry, I charge toward the woman. “Why did you wake me up in the middle of the night?”
She finishes tidying the sheets, before turning to me with an exasperated look. She’s beautiful by anyone’s standard—creamy skin, large blue eyes, and a delicate mouth which is turned down in a confused frown, like she can’t quite understand me and somehow pities me for it. My eyes latch onto where the collar of her dress has shifted, revealing a sliver of gnarled scar tissue at the base of her throat.
I take a leveling breath and try another angle. “Are you trapped here, too?”
Rather than answering, the woman simply adjusts her collar, before pointing sternly toward the adjoining bath. Steam hisses from the partially ajar door, and it takes me an entire minute to realize she’s drawn me a bath. She grunts with a firm nod of her head, gesturing to the tangled mess of my hair with a pointed look. I run a tentative hand over the back of my head and cringe inwardly.
Whoever she is, she’s right about the state of me. My hair is crusted with dried seawater and clumped in thick, tangled strands. My nightgown, once a sparkling shade of peach, is now closer to the color of a mud puddle, and my skin is streaked with black sand and blood.
Without bothering to wait for my agreement, the girl shoves a pile of fresh clothes into my arms and crowds me into the bathroom.
I dig my heels stubbornly into the ground. “Wait, wait. I don’t care what that horrible monster has ordered you to do, you don’t have to wait on me. We can help each other.”
I mean it as a kindness, but the woman’s mouth thins, and her eyes narrow dangerously like I’ve offended her. I’ve spent so long with spikes outside my skin, using my unpleasantness as armor to keep everyone at arm’s length, it’s difficult to remember how to reach outside it. How to draw someone in, rather than push them away.
Attempting a gentler tone that sounds entirely unnatural in my mouth, I ask, “What’s your name?”
The woman presses her lips together like she’s debating how to answer. Then, with a delicate swallow, she taps her mouth and shakes her head slowly.
“You can’t speak?”
She nods, her pretty face unreadable. Before I can ask anything else, she pushes me inside the bathroom and snaps the door closed behind me.
Though just as colorless as the rest of the palace, the room is far more luxuriously appointed than I’m accustomed to. Everything is crafted of shining obsidian, from the sprawling vanities to the paneled walls, down to the elaborate taps of an enormous tub sunk in the middle of the floor. Windows stretch from floor to ceiling, inlaid with geometrically patterned iron and delicately etched glass.
An ache unfurls in my chest as I study it, both an appreciation of the beauty and a sharp bitterness toward it. How unfair that the plague has drained all the beauty from my world, when someone as terrible as the Carrion King has the privilege of it in every aspect of his life, down to his bathrooms. As evidenced by his treatment of my flower, I doubt he’s ever cared to examine his privilege or taken the time to appreciate the art that exists all around him.
I shove down my anger, bathing and dressing quickly. A disgusted squawking noise sounds in the back of my throat when I unfold the clothes the girl gave me. A useless dress with flimsy silk slippers, and a matching set of embroidered, black gloves.
I curse the king for not only being a vile monster, but also a misogynist prick who thinks he can wrap me up like some sort of kidnapped damsel. The thought of proving him wrong burns in my chest like a signal fire, as I roughly tug on the garment.
The fabric is supple against my skin, and the long sleeves are far warmer than the what’s left of my flimsy night gown. While the skirts aren’t voluminous enough to be a hindrance, they’ll decently conceal a weapon if I can find one. With a furtive glance at the door, I begin to hunt through the bathroom.
Eventually the king will have to let me out of this room. And when he does, I plan to be prepared. I was caught off guard last night when his death shadows froze the gun in my hand, but I’m a quick learner. I won’t make the same mistake again. Quietly enough to keep the woman from barging in, I rifle through the vanity drawers, shoving aside lotions and tonics and hairbrushes until I finally find a metal nail file.
Small and flimsy, but it’ll do in a pinch. At least until I can get my hands on some silverware.
I shove it in the pocket of the dress and then brush through my hair so quickly, my eyes water. When I emerge, it’s to find the man from the night before, Sam, speaking in animated tones to the servant girl. He’s sprawled out on one of the velvet chairs, two booted feet propped up on the serving table in front of him.
While he’s not dressed nearly as flamboyantly as the king, his appearance still carries far more flourish than I’m used to. A white ruffled shirt hangs open at his chest, revealing a myriad of tattoos inked over his brown skin. The shirt is tucked carelessly into a thick pair of leather pants that hug his overly muscled legs so tightly, they leave little to the imagination. Assorted sizes of silver and gold chains drape his neck and one of his ears is lined all the way up with hooped piercings. His black hair is braided in intricate cornrows, all of which he’s pulled into a long ponytail that hangs nearly to his waist. He tosses a few of the braids carelessly over his shoulder as he regales the girl with a story.
And indeed, if the woman is being held hostage by the King of Carrion, she appears entirely at ease with Sam. She sits cross-legged in the opposite chair, her skirts tucked around her legs and her hands moving in quick response to him. Sam throws his head back with a booming laugh, and it’s clear they’re both fluent in sign. I’ve never had a complete grasp on the language, but I’ve picked up enough over the years that a few of the signs should at least be recognizable. But as her hands continue to move, I find none that are familiar.
When they notice my presence, an awkward silence descends over the room, before Sam clears his throat and stands up. He dips his head respectfully, before his mouth breaks into a warm smile.
“Good morning. I trust you slept well.”
I’ve frozen in the bathroom doorway, eyeing Sam with increasing alarm. He’s been nothing but polite since we met, even going so far as to let me attack him when he clearly outmatches me in weight and strength, but anyone with an ounce of sanity can see the world outside the palace is as dark as midnight.
Following my gaze to the night sky outside the window, Sam’s smile softens, the white of his teeth glinting in the dim room. As my silence stretches on, he shifts on his feet in discomfort.
“I see you’ve met Marina,” he says awkwardly. “She’s here to help with anything you should need during your stay.”
I grip the file in my pocket, the flimsy metal digging into the soft flesh of my palm. “I don’t want to stay at all,” I bite out. “And I certainly don’t want to be waited on by another helpless victim of your cruel king.”
Marina begins gesturing furiously, at me or Sam, I’m not sure. Corrosive rage pulsates through me at whatever’s been done to her in this awful place. The scar on her throat tells me enough; Marina wasn’t born mute.
It takes me a full minute to remember rampaging through the palace to murder some man crazy enough to call himself a king is not on my agenda. Doing whatever it takes to wake up from this plague-induced nightmare—that is the only thing that matters.
I rein in my anger with brutal efficiency, having become practiced long ago at allowing injustices to slide off my skin like oil. I let Zenni go without a fight and she was my friend. I can let Marina go, too.
Sam places a calm hand on Marina’s forearm, and as something passes between them, she relaxes, though not before shooting me a withering glare.
When Sam looks back to me, his gaze is oddly pitying. “As the king said, no one is holding you hostage, if you are so inclined to leave.”
“Are there people uninclined to leave the weird castle of a child-murdering madman with the power to rot them from the inside out?” I blurt out incredulously. “If I knew how in the hell I got here, trust me…I’d already be gone.” Blood rushes past my ears as I stomp to the door, motioning wildly. “There aren’t even any doorknobs!”
Sam chuckles, a warm, deep sound. I tense, wrapping my fingers around the file in my pocket as he walks up behind me, but he only leans over my head and presses a palm to the carved panel. Like smoke, the entire thing dissipates before my eyes.
“No knobs needed,” he explains, as I blink dumbly at the door and then dumbly up at him, my breathing ratcheting higher and higher. “And you fell.”
“What?”
“That’s how you got here. You fell.”
I peer up into his handsome face for a prolonged moment. How can he possibly know about the dream? Because that’s what it had to be—no one survives falling from a fifteen-story building, and if they do, they aren’t in any condition to speak, let alone gallivant around a gothic castle.
“I fell,” I repeat dubiously, the words sounding oddly light in the space of the room.
Sam nods. “Yes, miss.”
“Willa,” I reply without thought. “Call me Willa.”
Sam inclines his head, the corner of his mouth tipped in a grin. “Willa. The only way into Letum these days is by falling into a star.”
“Into a—into a star?” I repeat faintly, feeling as if the ground itself has come undone beneath me, and somehow, I’m now standing on the ceiling. In those final moments of the fall, I imagined I was doing exactly that—dipping my toes into the silky starlight, swimming through the ethereal colors. But imagining something doesn’t make it reality. I know that better than anyone. Wishing, dreaming—they’re useless past times of those too weak to face their reality.
Sam nods again, even as Marina eyes me warily, like at any moment I’ll collapse into full blown hysterics. I’m not sure she’s wrong, as my breaths come in increasingly short bursts, like the oxygen of the room has thinned, and I’m choking on my own panic.
“You know, like the old fairy tales?” Sam asks patiently. “Neverland, Avalon, the Seelie Courts? You’ve gone and fallen straight into Letum. Though don’t ask me how you managed to make it through the wards alive. It’s been over two centuries since anyone has.”
“Letum,” I squeak, as the rest of Sam’s words race through me. My cheeks grow hot, like I’ve come down with a sudden fever, and my head begins to swim.
Fairy tales, he said. Stories.
Wherever this place is, it's somehow managed to avoid the plague. That must be why there is still beauty and art and hope. People in Letum—they must still dream of better things .
Which only makes the king’s murder of Jamie so much worse. If this is a world without the plague, it means children like Jamie still hold all the imagination and childlike wonder that’s gone extinct in my world.
And the king snuffed it out like it didn’t matter—like it wasn’t something precious.
I grip the file so tightly, it leaves an imprint in my palm, as something lethally cold settles around my heart. I meet Sam’s eyes. “You’re here to take me to that bastard, aren’t you.”
It isn’t a question, but Sam gives me an apologetic wince.
“Let’s get this over with.”