Chapter 63 Jules
Jules
I tell myself I don’t have time to feel hurt.
There are bigger things at stake than my bruised heart—like my best friend’s life. Like her soul getting sucked out of her body.
Still, the ache sits in my chest as I make my way down the corridor toward Hanna’s room—a dull pressure that won’t go away no matter how hard I try to shove it aside.
Focus, Jules. Hanna needs you, I lecture myself. I’ll just have to get over it—I’ve gotten over men before. It’s just that none of them called me his “Queen” and treated me so well. I think it hurts more because Lucian was so possessive just hours ago…and now he’s willing to never seen me again.
I try to push the thoughts aside as I reach Hanna’s room. When I open the door, the first thing I see is Mr. Mittens.
He’s curled protectively on the bed, a black-and-white loaf of fur tucked near the pillows like a sentry on duty. The moment he spots me, he lifts his head, hops down, and pads over with a soft, indignant mrrrow, pressing his forehead into my shin.
“Good morning to you too,” I murmur, bending to scratch behind his ears.
He purrs immediately, loud and insistent, headbutting my hand. I pet him absently as my gaze lifts to Hanna.
She’s dressed and sitting on the loveseat in front of the fire, hands folded in her lap. A plate of brunch sits untouched on the side table beside her—flaky pastries, fruit, Eggs Benedict, warm and steaming which I know for a fact is her favorite…but it looks as though she hasn’t even taken a bite.
She looks wrong.
I would say she’s pale, but pale doesn’t begin to describe it. Her skin has taken on a strange translucence, like moonlight through thin parchment.
For a horrible second, it almost feels like I can see through her, as though she’s halfway gone already.
Fear stabs straight through my heart.
“Hanna? Are you all right?” I hurry over and sit on the loveseat beside her.
She turns her head slowly, eyes unfocused and dreamy in a way that makes my stomach clench.
She reminds me—absurdly, almost painfully—of the heroine from that historical romance Book Club read last month.
Ashes at Dawn. The one with the frail young woman who spent the entire book coughing up blood—which everyone knows is the universal symbol of “oh, she has TB and she’s definitely going to die”—while the wicked rake fell hopelessly in love with her.
That book did not have a happy ending, but I don’t want to think about it now.
“I’m fine,” Hanna says, but even her voice sounds see-through, if that makes any sense. “I just feel kind of weak, that’s all,” she murmurs.
Weak? That’s like calling a hurricane a light breeze! She looks terrible. But of course, I can’t tell her that.
“Just hang in there,” I say, trying to sound strong. “Lucian promised that we’re getting you home today. And guess what—I’m going with you.”
I try to sound upbeat—casual. But the bitterness still sneaks in around the edges.
“What?” Hanna’s eyes widen. “Are you serious? He’s letting you go?”
“Yes, he says that from the minute he grabbed me, I’ve been trying to get home. So he’s giving me what I want.” I shrug, like it doesn’t matter—like my heart isn’t breaking in two. “So I guess we’ll both be at the next meeting of Book Club together.”
“Sure—I can’t wait.”
Hanna nods, attempting a smile. But something about her expression feels delayed, like her reactions are half a second behind where they should be. Like part of her is somewhere else—like maybe the creepy dark land behind the Bone Gates of that Hollow Necropolis.
Another dart of fear pierces me, but I try to hide it. I gesture to her untouched plate.
“Do you want to eat something? Maybe just a little? Those Eggs Benedict look amazing.”
She shakes her head slowly, not even looking at the food.
“No thanks. I’m not hungry.”
That alone terrifies me.
Hanna loves food. Loves it. She’s the kind of person who plans her day around meals—who orders dessert even when she swears she’s full. And now she’s refusing her favorite breakfast which I’ve never seen her pass up before.
This is bad. This is really bad.
I’m just about to insist she drink some tea or coffee—something warm and sweet to give her at least a little bit of sustenance—when there’s a knock at the door.
The maid enters, hands folded respectfully.
“If it please you, my Lady, Don Lucian has summoned you and your friend. He says you’re to go home. If you’ll come with me, I’ll lead the way.”
“Oh, thank you.”
I nod and glance at Hanna.
She nods back, slow and unsteady, like the movement costs her something. She looks as though she might faint or fade completely away right there.
“Here—let me help you,” I say quickly, sliding an arm around her waist.
Mr. Mittens winds around my legs, purring anxiously.
I look down at him.
“You’d better come too. I’m not leaving without you.”
He answers with a decisive mrrp, his white-tipped tail flicking.
As I help Hanna to her feet, I get another nasty shock—she feels… lighter.
Not thinner—she’s still her same, beautiful, curvy self—but when I steady her, it’s like she weighs far less than she should—like fifty pounds less. It’s as though something essential has already been taken from her.
How much of her soul has been siphoned away already? How long does she have before…
I don’t let myself finish that thought. I tighten my arm around her instead, anchoring her as best I can.
“Come on,” I say, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “The sooner we get you home, the better.”
And with Mr. Mittens padding along at our heels, I guide my fragile, fading friend out the door—hoping with everything I have that we’re not already too late.