Chapter 56 Jules
Jules
By the time I get Hanna into her room, she’s barely holding herself upright.
Her steps drag, her shoulders slump, and there’s a grayish pallor to her skin that makes my stomach twist. She looks like someone who’s just finished a double shift and then run a marathon on no sleep—which, given everything that’s happened today, isn’t that far off.
“I need the bathroom,” she says suddenly, voice tight. “Please. Right now.”
“Okay—okay,” I say quickly, guiding her the last few steps. “I’ve got you.”
The bathroom attached to her room is enormous—it has black marble floors veined with silver, a claw-foot tub big enough for three people, and tall mirrors framed in wrought iron—but Hanna barely seems to notice any of it.
She stumbles to the sink, turns on the water too hard, and grabs a washcloth from a neatly folded stack. She runs it under the tap until steam rises, then presses it to her forehead.
Before I can even ask what she’s doing, she starts scrubbing—hard.
“Hanna, wait—don’t do that to yourself! You’ll rub yourself raw!” I grab her wrist, trying to slow her down.
She jerks away, her green eyes wild.
“I can’t stop—I have to get it off of me!” she exclaims, still rubbing furiously. “I can feel it—it’s there—it’s—”
“Hanna!” I raise my voice, panic clawing up my throat. “Stop! Please!”
She doesn’t—she won’t.
Her breathing goes ragged, almost sobbing as she scrubs harder, water sloshing everywhere, droplets soaking the front of her dress.
I don’t have a choice—taking a firm grip on the wet washcloth, I yank it out of her hands.
Hanna freezes. For a split second, she just stares at me. Then her face crumples.
“You don’t understand,” she cries, sinking down to sit on the edge of the tub. “It’s so cold! It’s making me so cold!”
The sound of it—that sharp, broken fear in my friend’s voice—hits me harder than anything else today.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, kneeling in front of her. “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t even be here. This is all my fault.”
I wrap my arms around her, pulling her close, and she clings to me like she’s afraid she’ll shatter into a million pieces if I let go of her.
She shakes in my arms, deep, shuddering tremors that don’t feel like they’re coming from her body so much as somewhere deeper…maybe from her soul.
I push the thought away and stroke her hair, murmuring comforting nonsense words, the way I’ve done before after a bad breakup or an especially awful hospice experience she couldn’t leave at work.
I can do this. I can take care of her, I tell myself. It’s the least I can do…I only wish I had the power to do more.
When Hanna finally calms enough to lift her head, I see the damage.
The skin between her eyebrows is bright red now—irritated and tender-looking. The redness is a stark contrast to her paper-pale face.
But worse than that is the fact that I can still feel it. The mark is still there—like a chill from the grave. I can’t see it but it’s there—it’s not something soap and water can touch.
A cold knot forms in my stomach. Oh God, what is the Soul-marking doing to her? How bad is it going to get?
I try to push my fears aside—I need to be strong for my friend now. Carefully, gently, I help her into the bedroom.
Her room is beautiful—gothic in a softer, more restrained way than Lucian’s is.
Tall arched windows draped in deep charcoal velvet…
walls the color of moonlit stone…a massive four-poster bed carved with curling bats and ravens instead of roses.
The fire crackles low in the hearth, casting warm gold light over thick rugs and dark wood furniture.
It’s gorgeous but I barely notice it—I’m too worried about Hanna..
I help her out of her dress and into a soft nightgown the servants have laid out—dark wine-red silk, loose and flowing. It hurts my heart to see how fragile she looks in it—like a candle flame that might go out if someone breathes too hard on it.
A maid has been hovering quietly near the door the entire time, worry etched into her face.
“Could you bring some hot tea?” I ask her softly. “Please?”
“Of course, my Lady.”
She nods and disappears immediately.
When she returns, she isn’t alone.
Mr. Mittens trots in at her heels, tail held high, indignation written all over his furry little face as if he has had quite enough of this entire day.
“Oh, thank God,” I murmur, reaching down to scoop him up. He head-butts my chin in approval and purrs loudly. I feel comforted by my cat—he provides a touch of home in the gothic grandeur of the Crimson Spires.
We settle on the loveseat by the fire, Hanna wrapped in a blanket, and me perched beside her with my cat purring like a tiny engine in my lap.
The tea smells like chamomile and something darker underneath—maybe clove or star anise. It warms my hands as I pass her a cup.
As she sips, color begins to return to Hanna’s cheeks. After a while, her shaking eases.
“I’m sorry I was so upset,” she says, staring into the fire. “It’s just… I feel like I’m getting sucked away somehow. It’s so weird… it’s like there’s less of me here than there was this morning.”
My heart drops into my shoes.
Less of her—what an awful thought!
I feel terrible, but I force my expression to stay calm.
“It’s been a hell of a day,” I say, giving her arm a squeeze. “Anyone would feel off after everything that’s happened.”
She nods, but her eyes don’t leave the dancing flames.
“I’ve sat with a lot of people at the end,” she says quietly. “I know what it feels like when someone is…slipping away. And this—” She presses a hand lightly to her forehead “—this feels too familiar.”
I swallow hard. I can’t freak out. I can’t let her see how terrified I am. But the idea that I’m losing her—that she feels herself going—is absolutely horrifying.
“You’re not going anywhere,” I say, with a lot more confidence than I feel. “Lucian is handling this. He’s already working on getting you home.”
I hope my voice doesn’t betray how badly I need that to be true. At least it doesn’t shake.
Hanna finally looks at me, her green eyes quizzical.
“You trust him,” she says. “You really do.”
It isn’t a question, but a statement of fact.
I hesitate for a minute, considering…then I nod.
“Yes, I do. ”
The truth of the words surprise me. Yes, I do trust Lucian. Even though he brought me here against my will, he’s been nothing but gentle and careful with me ever since. And he’s rescued me twice. Yes, I trust him.
Hanna exhales slowly and leans her head against my shoulder.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “Then I’ll trust him too.”
I wrap an arm around her and hold her, staring into the fire. Mr. Mittens settles himself, purring, between us.
Please let everything be okay, I think. Please let Lucian be able to fix this.
Because if he can’t—
I can’t even bear to let myself finish the thought.