Chapter 37 Secrets
Wren stumbled into her chambers on shaking legs.
Her clothes felt too tight on her skin and her face was burning in spite of the chilled air she had just walked through.
She scratched her neck as she worked to untie her cloak.
It slid off her shoulders to the ground, but still she struggled to breathe.
She threw Castien’s letter onto her bed then attempted to remove her uniform.
Wren’s fingers were numb from the cold night, causing them to be less than nimble when working to loose the ties at her back. She let out a frustrated growl as she contorted her body to reach them.
After she was finally able to get out of her dress, she left it on the floor beside her cloak.
In nothing but her slip, she rushed to the powder room and dipped her hands into the copper bucket that Blossom kept filled with fresh water.
Wren splashed her face with it, wincing at the cold but doing it once more for good measure.
She dried her hands on the towel hanging from a nearby hook, then returned to her room shivering.
Wren could not discern what to do to feel normal again. Her face was hot and her heart pounded, while her whole body trembled with chills. She did not know what to make of it.
The fire in the hearth burned low. Wren grabbed the poker from the stand to the right of the fireplace and prodded the logs.
She did not have any wood to add to it, so this would have to do.
Once the flames brightened a touch, she made her way across the large floral rug to her bed.
Wren let her slippers fall off her feet as she climbed onto the mattress.
The canopy drapes whispered against her skin and made chill bumps rise.
She tucked her lower half beneath the layers of blankets and sat staring at the fire across the room.
Her mind raced with the details of her encounter with Castien.
She recalled the panic of feeling a stranger’s hands on her without warning, then the inexplicable, stark relief when she heard his familiar, silken voice.
Had he noticed her shaking? His apology was quick and seemed sincere, though she could not know if it actually was.
Castien deemed her the enigma, yet it was he who was the riddle.
He revealed no emotion, but there was something in his gaze that called out to her.
His dark eyes were as infinite and boundless as the night sky.
And what they hid was as mysterious as the depths of the Tides.
She lifted her fingers to her lips. He had not harmed her.
His touch had been firm, but not bruising.
Still, she was shaken. Tonight was the first time in over ten years that her lips had been touched.
She vowed she would never experience the sensation again.
Don’t be so dramatic, she scolded herself. It’s not as though he kissed you.
The clarification didn’t soothe her. Nor keep the nightmares of her past from assailing. The memories tore at her mind like gnashing teeth. Every flickering shadow seemed to be him, back from the dead to punish her.
You loved me, the creeping blackness snarled. Tears swam in Wren’s eyes.
“I didn’t know any better,” she whispered.
It’s your fault that your brother became a murderer.
Wren wrapped her arms around her middle as she sobbed.
“No, no, he said it wasn’t my fault.” Her voice was broken. A tattered garment in the wind. “He said it wasn’t my fault.”
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty, the darkness chanted. She pressed her hands against her ears but couldn’t escape what was lurking inside her.
Ruined girl. You’ll never be anything more than a broken doll with blood on her hands.
She sank further beneath the covers. When she reached to pull them higher, Castien’s letter rustled in the quiet.
Wren grasped the parchment and traced the red crest in the darkness.
Tears streamed down her face and wet her pillow.
The shreds of hope that remained within her latched on to the letter.
It could distract her. Castien was good at that.
She crawled across her bed and leaned over the night table to strike a match and light the bedside candle.
Once it was burning, she positioned herself at the edge of the bed, feet tucked safely beneath her, and opened the letter.
Year 822, Week 36, Avisa
Dearest Wren,
I should like you to know that I have caught your letter just as I was leaving for dinner. However, I have decided to withhold my reply until late this evening so that you are forced to endure the same fate you sought to bestow upon me.
It is rather intriguing, your use of different color ink while writing, though not as interesting as your proclivity toward secrets. Do you find it difficult to keep so many, or does it come naturally to you?
Furthermore, you wrote that I could not afford your words, yet you share them so freely with me. Does that mean I have found favor in your eyes? Such news gives me hope that I will one day garner enough of your affection to earn a story from a Gifted writer.
Your pompous prince,
Castien
Castien’s letter was all the more accurate after their encounter at the Wall.
Wren should despise how he called out her secrecy, but she found it…
comforting. He asked questions, but did not force her to answer.
In fact, he seemed to find it entertaining when she didn’t.
As if they were playing a game of Tidesmark and she had played an unexpected hand.
Wren slipped out of her bed again. She was too afraid to sleep, so she would write instead.
If she had her journal, she might have chosen that, but it was gone, and she could not risk starting another.
All that she had was a letter to Castien.
She carried the candle from her bedside to her desk.
The flame illuminated the window in front of her and showed a haggard reflection.
The circumstances around her brother’s death were bleeding the life from her. She wasn’t sure how much longer she would be able to go on, but she had to try. Heron had protected her, had saved her from her mistakes. This was her penance.
Wren wiped her tears with the backs of her hands, then pulled a pot of purple ink toward her and wet her quill with it.
Year 822, Week 36, Avisa
My pompous prince,
It is not that I have inclination toward secrets so much as I have a disinclination toward trusting others. Given your cryptic answers during our meeting at the Wall, I am disposed to think you the same. Unless, that is, you plan to disclose your reasons in your next letter?
You are fond of logic and puzzles, so I will present an intriguing inquiry: What makes something a secret? If it is merely information not given to others, or only given to a select few, then I will admit to holding on to a great number.
But I have always thought secrets to be something more. Words that should be spoken, yet are held back. I could go about my days never telling anyone my favorite color is the rosy shade of the sky at dawn, or that my favorite flower is a peony, but are those secrets if there’s no risk? I think not.
By either definition, I must confess, I carry many with me. Do yours grow heavier by the day? Forgive me if I have become too somber. I am writing when I should be sleeping.
In secrecy,
Wren