26. Angélique
26
Angélique
I t’s been a day since I left my room for the last time. I’ve seen the sun set and rise through my windows, but I can’t seem to care.
My hand is fully healed, but I almost regret it.
It was easier to hate Elhyor when I had the reminder of what he did etched on my skin and branding my hand. At least I’d have a physical reason to end him.
But instead, all I can think about is the way he looked at me when I left for my room yesterday, like he wanted to burn the world.
I can’t decide if he wanted me to burn with it, but I’ll go with that because I can’t start thinking that he cared enough to get me healed or I will spiral more than I already am.
I can’t start thinking that he cares.
I can only focus on the fact he pinned me to the wall like one would do with postcards six-hundred years ago.
There’s a knock on my door.
“It’s Cassiopé. Can I come in?”
As if I am the one deciding who comes and goes in this room.
I saw the lock Brice had installed on the door yesterday. Unless there’s an ax hiding in this room, there isn’t a chance I can get out on my own.
I still answer with a simple, “Yes,” and go back to looking at Léandre’s gift.
I’d spent my morning looking at the Ari?l media key, but I wasn’t really sure what I was looking at. They looked like a bunch of numbers for things like shipments.
I’ve got no clue what they mean.
For someone used to them, they might make sense, but I don’t know what I’m supposed to look for or if anything in there is important.
I’ve been trained as a warrior, a spy, and an assassin—and even that simple thing I managed to screw up—not as a tactician. I know how to fight, but I have no clue what could be important as a strategy, and I feel like all that those files contain are numbers.
The media key is back under my mattress, but I didn’t feel like putting The Hunchback of Notre Dame there, too.
Today, I need the comfort of knowing Léandre is with me. I need to know I’m not alone.
I know, sad thoughts.
But who wouldn’t have sad thoughts when they know they’re going back to a life of misery?
At least in Notre Dame, I could do whatever pleased me.
Well, it’s not completely true. I love training, and I couldn’t even flex my muscles in fear of being discovered as anything other than a lovely doll.
And now?
What would be the point? I can’t even get out of my room-slash-prison.
The handle goes down, and I wait for the sound of the lock being opened, but nothing comes.
The door opens on Cassiopé, and I’m dumbstruck.
Was I never locked in?
I stayed in bed all day and assumed I was locked in after what happened yesterday, but I didn’t even try to open the door.
What the hell?
“I thought I would bring you dinner,” Cassiopé says before she crosses the distance between the door and my bed, without even fully closing the door. “I didn’t see you for breakfast and lunch and thought maybe you didn’t want to see anyone after your accident.”
My accident?
Does no one know that I attacked Elhyor?
I choke on my own saliva, trying to muster the will to ask about it, but the only thing I see in Cassiopé’s eyes is compassion, and I’d hate to kill it.
Still, I need to know what has been said about the attack.
“What did they say about my… accident?” I ask tentatively.
I hate lying, but isn’t it what I’ve been doing for almost a week?
A week. Tomorrow, it’ll be a week since I arrived here, and I’m nowhere near close to succeeding in my mission. I’m nowhere near close to freedom.
At my question, Cassiopé looks at me like she doesn’t know what to do with me.
I know it’s weird to ask what people would say about an accident, if it was, well, really an accident, but she doesn’t press.
“That you fell from the stairs and rolled to the bottom, breaking your wrist in the process.” She looks at my hands, and I’m not fast enough to hide the one that was wounded just hours ago, because there’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes that I don’t like. “It’s not what happened,” she adds, and what was probably supposed to be a question doesn’t sound like one at all.
“It’s not,” I answer truthfully. I don’t want to elaborate, though, because I don’t understand why Elhyor didn’t say anything to anyone.
I would expect him to feel at least a bit threatened—he said he couldn’t be killed, though—and make everyone in Notre Dame hate me, but no, and that doesn’t make any sense for me.
“Did they do something to you?” Cassiopé asks, the compassion back in her eyes, teaming up with a bit of rage.
Oh, god, no.
Does she think Elhyor hurt me on purpose?
If we want to be specific, he did, but I realize he could have done so much worse.
And I’m not even really treated as a prisoner in the aftermath of the attack.
“It’s nothing like that,” I try to assure her, but somehow, it doesn’t come out the way I want, and Cassiopé’s gaze hardens as she stands.
I grab her arm with my left hand and stop her.
“I’ll explain, but stay here until I’m done, okay?” I ask.
I don’t know what propels me to come clean to Cassiopé. She’s been nice to me since I arrived, but we’ve only known each other for a week. I shouldn’t feel the need to explain or confide in someone, but as much as I love Léandre like a brother, he’s never been good at listening, not in the way I would have loved it.
He’s always been there for me, but he always sees the good side of everything, and sometimes, I just needed for him to understand the harsh truth I was living in.
Maybe what prompts me to explain to Cassiopé is just that: I need a harsh truth to be sent my way.
Because I can’t understand where I’m at right now.
Cassiopé nods before sitting again.
Before I understand what she’s doing, she removes the hand that was holding her arm and turns it so that my palm is up.
It’s healed, yes, but there’s also an angry red line still, where the dagger pierced my skin. It’s on the other side, too, but there was less damage on the top of my hand. The line there is thinner and isn’t as obvious as the one inside my palm.
She slowly traces the reddish scar before looking at me.
“This doesn’t look like a broken wrist,” she says with a mocking smile.
At least she’s smiling. I’m not sure that smile will stay, though.
And I’m right. As I start telling the story of how I attacked Elhyor, her smile falls. I feel her hand gripping mine inside of hers as the story goes on, to the point it becomes painful, but I don’t move. I don’t try to retrieve my hand. I don’t try to fight her as I come clean.
I don’t talk about the fact it had always been planned since the day I arrived in Notre Dame, though. I know it would paint me in a good light, but it’s not like I can actually succeed in my mission.
The mission has failed already.
The mission had failed even before it started.
As I tell Cassiopé my parting words to Elhyor, she stands and discards my hand without paying any attention.