Chapter 9 #3
But then I remembered her cheerful smile that first day, the way she’d met Lord Lukhan’s cruelty with unwavering courage. The way she’d opened her rooms to the homesick first-years, creating a haven where they could ease their loneliness.
She’d been there when they needed her. Now, she needed someone… even if she was too stubborn and too proud to admit it.
I approached her. She didn’t look up, not even when I placed the tray next to her on the broad window seat.
“I noticed you skipped the midday meal again today,” I said.
She lifted her head slightly. “Not hungry.”
“Your sisters are worried about you.” I pulled a chair over, putting it close enough to talk, far enough to give her space.
She shrugged. “I’m fine.”
She was not fine. The hollows in her cheeks were more pronounced than they had been even two days ago.
“You need to eat something,” I said, pushing the tray a little closer to her. “I want to help you and your sisters with whatever you need. In any way I can. You don‘t have to bear this alone.”
Her spine stiffened, and her chin came up with a flash of the old Talisa’s pride. “I don’t need help.”
“Everyone needs help sometimes,” I said. “Even stubborn islanders.”
“We’re managing fine.” Her voice was brittle as thin ice.
“Liar. Your sisters say they aren’t. And I only have to look at you to see the truth.”
For a moment, I thought I’d made a terrible mistake. Her face went completely blank, shutting me out as effectively as a slammed door.
Then I saw her mask crack, and raw pain come seeping through the fractures.
“I know,” she whispered. “I’m failing them.”
“No,” I said firmly. “You’re grieving. There’s a difference.”
Her fingers bunched the stained fabric of her academic gown. “Mama told me to take care of them. Instead, I can barely—” She broke off, swallowing hard.
I leaned forward, not touching her but closing some of the distance between us.
“Talisa, no one expects you to be perfect right now. Least of all your sisters. We just want you to stop avoiding us.” I took a deep breath, afraid of saying the wrong thing.
“It’ll get better. Not soon. But eventually. ”
“What would you know about it?” The words should have been cutting, but they emerged sounding soft and wounded.
I thought of my mother’s face when an epidemic of sweating sickness had taken my little brother three winters ago.
How she and my father had moved through our house like a pair of ghosts for months afterward.
How my aunt and uncle had quietly taken over running the business, giving my parents time to find their way back to themselves.
“I know that grieving alone is harder than grieving with those you love and who love you,” I said. “And that sharing your pain helps to lessen it.”
She looked away. “I—I’m afraid that if I allow myself cry again, I won’t be able to stop.”
“And that’s all right,” I told her. “I’m here for you, as long as you need me. And my mother sent me here with an entire trunk packed with nothing but handkerchiefs. She believes that no one should leave the house without at least three handkerchiefs, in case a friend needs one.”
“So, we’re friends?” she asked, her gaze returning to search my face. “I was hoping—but you’re so nice to everyone…”
Vesta’s tits, where had I gone wrong? She wasn’t even sure of how much I liked her. Admired her. Adored her.
“Yes,” I said simply. “Of course we are. We’ll support each other through the hard times and celebrate together in the good ones.”
Silence stretched between us, fragile as cobwebs. I stood, opened my arms, and then held my breath as she hesitated, clearly torn between pride and her need for comfort.
“I—I can’t believe she’s really gone,” Talisa’s voice cracked. “She—Mama—”
A harsh sob tore through her. She pushed herself to her feet and flung herself into my embrace.
I closed my arms around her as she sobbed and howled her grief into my chest, her body shaking as she clung to me with frantic strength.
She wept for a long, long time while I patted her back and stroked her hair. Luckily, no one came into the common room to see what was happening. I knew she would hate for anyone else to see her so broken and vulnerable.
When her tears finally ran out, and her sobs died away, I reached into my robe’s pocket and handed her a handkerchief.
She wiped the tears from her reddened eyes and cheeks, then blew her nose with an indelicate snort.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice thick and hoarse.
“I’m honored you trusted me with this.” I handed her the mug of spiced cider.
She took it, her hand shaking, and managed a weak chuckle. “You’re honored that I covered your academic gown with tears and snot? I promise I’ll clean that up for you.”
“No need,” I assured her, trying not to let my relief show. “That’s what the campus laundry service is for. Besides, I have a spare.”
She took a sip, then another.
When she’d finished drinking the lukewarm cider, she reached for the bunch of grapes.
It was the tiniest of steps back to normalcy. But it was something. A beginning.