1
Folded over, I turban the stiff towel around my head. It’s abrasive against my hands, like an exfoliation mitt, and I have the fleeting fear that it will damage my hair.
But I have bigger problems than that, so I dismiss the thought as quickly as it came.
Droplets of water roll over my face before I flip upright—and a wince shoots through me.
An ache in my back thrums, ice-cold.
I grip onto the edge of the stained basin.
Days of sleeping on floors, on the hard chairs at airports, sitting for too long in narrow seats on cheap flights, and the lumpy mattresses in these depressing motels—and my back is paying the price.
All these aches started with seventeen hours on a rocky boat… or maybe, it all started with an ass-whooping from Asta.
The remnants of her attack are all over me. The discoloured patches around my ribs and my belly, the scratches on my clavicle, the black and blue and purple stains on my face.
My scalp hurts, my face hurts, my wrist and my knee, my mouth, my belly, my back.
Everything hurts.
And there’s no witchdoctor to run to.
Just a soothing balm that has the texture of milk and that smells like eucalyptus. All it does is soothe. Not take the pain away. Not heal.
So I decide it’s absolutely useless and leave it on the edge of the bathtub.
My fatigue is turning to laziness.
But really, it’s all catching up to me.
The bad food, the anxiety, the battering from Asta, the backhand from Dray, and the ache in my chest.
I don’t feel so good.
The constant krum travel doesn’t help. It might weather me more than veils ever did.
And there’s a tickle at the back of my dry throat, so I might be getting sick, too.
I clear my throat, as though that’ll vanquish the tickle.
It doesn’t.
So I tackle the next pain.
I roll my shoulders once, twice, as though it will help ease the growing ache spreading over my back.
Another failure.
I need a massage. I need a physical therapist. I need a witchdoctor, lotions and balms only available to the witches of the world.
But all I have is peasantry.
The lingering steam fills the mouldy bathroom, despite that I turned off the shower a few minutes ago and that roaring ceiling fan is fighting for its life.
No ventilation, I guess.
My mouth twists with disgust. Mould is all around me, burrowed into the lines between the tiles and along the base of the toilet.
I need to get out of this steam den immediately.
But I’m not done.
The mirror is fogged over.
I wipe my hand down my reflection.
For a moment, I stare at myself. At the cuts on my lips, the discolouration around my eyes.
I force myself to look away.
The steam climbs back up the mirror above the sink.
Loosening a sigh, I grab the toothbrush perched delicately on the edge of the basin.
Without a reflection, I get started.
Might be better that I don’t see myself in the mirror. At least not until I’ve healed better.
My gaze drifts over the claustrophobic, tiled bathroom, from the black mould that’s dotted along the shower seals to the rotting windowsill.
I spit out the last of the toothpaste, then dab the soothing lotion all over my body. Changed my mind again. Guess it’s better to have eucalyptus lotion than to have nothing at all.
I rush it, and I’m left feeling as unclean as I did when I came into the bathroom.
I pack up my toiletries and escape the steam.
The motel room is a gust of cold, damp air.
I glance across the room. Red and brown, with just two narrow beds and a dated, bulky television on an old dresser.
Beyond the white lace drapes, the window is cracked open.
The lace dances in the breeze.
I hug the towel closer to my body.
Anyone passing by the motel room could look at the window and, if the breeze hits just right, catch a glimpse inside.
“Close the window,” I mutter, and maybe I should startle at the ragged sound of my voice, which is not unlike my vocal cords have been dragged over a grater.
I toss the toiletry bag onto my bed.
Serena was quick to claim the bed nearest the door when we staggered and lugged our way in here just a couple of hours ago. Said the draught from the window helps soothe her nausea.
Apparently she needs a lot more than a faint draught. She needs the window open, letting in all the cold air, and exposing me in my towel to the whole carpark out front.
I roll my tongue around the inside of my cheek, fighting back the quarrel brewing in me.
It’s been a long day.
A long few days.
Airplanes, boats, trains, buses, dirty motels.
That is all our escape has been so far.
The exhaustion wears on us both.
So worn-out that even the sight of this brown and rusty-red room didn’t deter us from the promise of food, beds, and a shower.
That’s what we stopped for.
That, and the next phase of Serena’s plan.
She’s still working on the details.
Ignoring my window request, she pores over a local map that’s spread out over the foot of her bed. Tucked under the map is an atlas that she’s been flicking through since we got here.
She is so focused, so determined, that I wonder if she even heard me complain about the window.
I think I could say anything at all right now, like ‘Changed my mind, I secretly love Dray Sinclair and need to run back into his arms now—’
And she wouldn’t even blink.
I change into a black loungewear set from my bag, then tug on a pair of bed socks.
The soft material gliding over my body is a relief, especially after the exfoliation of the rough towel that I let crumple to the carpet.
I drop onto the edge of the bed, then fold over myself. Another towel is wrapped around my head. I scrunch it against my scalp, soaking up as much of the wetness as I can—and it all feels so robotic.
My hair is damp when Serena moans, “I’m so bloated.”
My neck cranes as I glance at her.
Leaning back on her elbow, she’s forgotten about the map, and now rubs her hand around her stomach.
“I can’t eat anymore of this stuff,” she sighs.
My gaze cuts to the paper bags strewn about the dresser. Grease stains the white paper.
We ate all the fast food when we first got in, but the stale stench is pungent in the room.
The coffee cups still have some dregs left in them. They will start to smell soon if we don’t throw them out.
I straighten up and toss the towel onto the floor.
Serena shifts her weight off her elbow and drops onto the mattress.
Still cupping her suspiciously flat stomach, she thinks aloud, “We’ll get some sleep, then take the last train into the city just before midnight.”
“Then what?”
“We sell what we can. And maybe we can make the first flight out.”
The first flight out could go anywhere.
We have no direction just yet. More of a ‘first out’ situation while we’re still in Europe.
The plan was to get out of the UK, then Europe. Then make our way to Serena’s secret contact, the shield witch she’s told me nothing about.
Not like a lot of conversation has happened on the flights or the trains or the taxis, not with so many people around us.
And in the motels, we sleep mostly.
I give a nod, unenthused.
Unloading the bulk of our jewellery in one city is the better idea. It makes it harder for our families to track us once we’re off the continent.
If we hold onto the jewels and pawn them as we go, then we just leave a trail for them to follow.
I drape myself over the bed, cheek pressing into the lumpy pillow.
A frown starts to burrow into my face.
I focus my sight on the single black hair that tickles my nose—sprouting from the pillow.
I make an ick sound at the back of my throat, then pluck the hair off the pillow.
I hope it’s cat hair.
I let it drift down to the carpet.
For a long while, Serena stares up at the ceiling. She hasn’t said a whole lot since we left on the boat, and I’ve said even less.
I don’t want to talk.
There’s too much hurt in me.
She’s responsible for some of it.
The betrayal of luring me into a runaway scheme just to tell me after the fact that she’s pregnant, when I’m literally stuck on a boat with her?
It’s as serpentine as one can get.
I let the exhaustion pull down my eyelids.
I don’t just fall asleep, I’m plunged into it.
When I wake, the flashing red numbers on the alarm clock have only changed a little.
I slept for an hour.
My body needs more, but my mind is still too alert. Frazzled. Anxious.
A yawn splits me.
It lures in Serena’s gaze.
Now, she’s sat up against the headboard, her face buried in her drawn-up knees. She turns her cheek to her knees and watches me.
My tired murmur is hoarse, and my throat drier than Dubai air, “Aren’t you going to get some rest?”
We only have another three hours before we need to pack up and leave.
“I can’t sleep.”
My mouth flattens into a line.
I don’t pry. I don’t invite her conversation.
I shut my eyes, hoping to find my way back to sleep, but then Serena’s softly spoken words reach me, “I know why you left.”
A tired frown crumples my face.
I open my eyes. “What?”
“You left to get away from Dray—and your family.”
The frown loses strength.
Energy is withering in me.
I just blink at her.
She unfurls and shifts to face me. “I knew that if anyone was going to come with me, it would be you.”
My answer is a curt hum.
“I didn’t tell you the full truth, because I had to be sure you would run with me first. I had to be certain you wouldn’t change your mind and go back—with my secret.”
I bite back another yawn.
Lying on my side, the shrug I give is awkward and uncomfortable, and it sends pains shooting up my spine. I keep forgetting Asta left some marks on me. But they do make sure to remind me anytime I move the wrong way.
Serena stares at me for a long, hard moment. Then, her brows lift. “You don’t have anything to say?”
I scoff, bitter. “What do you expect me to say? You sold me on freedom, just to take it away. You’re no different to them, Serena. I can’t trust you.”
Slowly, her mouth purses—and then it holds, as though she bites down on the insides of her cheeks.