17. Petra #2
I blink, startled that I made it without injury, but there’s no time to dwell on it. I bolt across the courtyard, skirting the dog pens and praying they don’t catch my scent. It might be foolish, but I’m running on instinct now.
When I reach the gates—outside the gates—I freeze.
I made it.
And just for a moment, I think maybe fate is on my side tonight.
I’ve been walking for what feels like forever, and I’ve only just reached the town square. The streets are quiet tonight. A few pubs are still open, their windows glowing faintly, but there aren’t many people around. The ones I do pass, I avoid by keeping my head down, slipping by unnoticed.
I know the university lies at the far end of town, but I’ve never ventured that way before. I end up going in circles for a while before I finally find it—and I only recognize it by the sheer grandeur of the place. The building is majestic, its gothic architecture breathtaking, almost otherworldly.
Tall iron-wrought gates, twice my height, line the perimeter—dark and imposing, like sentinels guarding whatever lies within.
I got out of my house, yes. But now what? How am I supposed to scale these fences and get inside? And even if I do, then what? It’s the middle of the night. Would Sin even be there?
I don’t know. I won’t know . . . unless I try.
As I search for a way inside, perhaps a narrow nook or a gap in the fence, the mighty gates suddenly creak open before me, beckoning me in.
A little fearful, but resolute, I step through. The university gardens are just as breathtaking as the grand buildings themselves: meticulously groomed and now bursting with springtime blooms.
The air is sweet and fruity, almost intoxicating.
It strikes me as strange that a place so beautiful could be the site of such madness—at least, if my father and the rest of the villagers are to be believed.
They all say the same thing: that Sin and his mentor are wrapped up in blasphemous practices.
I walk through the gardens, eyes searching for a door, but the windows are dark. No lights, no signs of life. Perhaps this was a mistake. Maybe I should just leave him a note and go.
I’m just about to do that, slip a message by the door, when I hear something. My heart leaps. I swivel toward the sound, scanning the darkness, but no one’s there. Or is there? I can’t see a soul, and yet . . . someone is breathing.
Close. Too close. I turn again—and gasp.
I stumble back, nearly falling, but strong arms catch me, pulling me upright. Sin.
“Petra,” he says, voice low, a touch surprised. “What a surprise to see you here.”
“I—I must speak with you,” I manage.
“You’ve decided to accept my apology?” he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
“I . . . We need to talk. But not here. Is there somewhere more private?”
“Of course. Come in.”
He takes my hand and leads me to the main door, opening it with ease. Even in the darkness, I can tell it’s forged from the same heavy iron as the gates. Once we’re inside, the hallway bursts into light. I flinch.
“What—how did you do that?”
“This building runs on electricity,” he replies.
“Electricity?” I echo, stunned. “That’s unusual for a small town.”
He nods. “My mentor is well-connected. He ensured the university had access the moment it became available.”
“This mentor of yours—”
“Enough about him,” Sin interrupts gently. “Let’s go to my office. We’ll have all the time in the world to talk there.”
I nod, still dazed, and follow him through a maze of winding staircases until we reach a room on the third floor. It’s enormous. The moment he opens the door, I realize it’s more than an office; it’s where he lives.
“This is your study?” I ask in wonder.
He chuckles. “Ah, I’ve been caught. Yes, it is. And most nights, I sleep here, too. Can’t be too far from my research.”
“It is a nice room,” I murmur. And it is. Warm, lit, inviting.
“Come, make yourself comfortable. Would you like some tea?” he offers.
“Yes. Thank you. That’s . . . very thoughtful.”
For a moment, I forget everything—our strange history, the fact that he once sent me a piece of his flesh.
The word erupts in my mind.
Flesh.
I glance at him, scanning quickly. He’s turned away, sleeves rolled up as he prepares the tea. Something feels off.
Not just that he lives here, but that he greeted me as if he knew I was coming.
“Sin,” I call.
He half turns. “So now you can say my name.”
I look away. “It is your name. What else am I supposed to call you?”
A smile spreads across his face. “I may hate it, but hearing it from your lips . . . perhaps I could start loving it.”
“You shouldn’t say things like that,” I mumble.
“Things like what?”
“Like that. It’s not proper.”
“Maybe not,” he says, “but neither is you being here in the middle of the night. How did you get away?”
“I climbed out of my window,” I admit. “Ran across town to get here.”
“Without your veil,” he adds.
I reach for it instinctively, my fingers brushing bare skin.
“Yes,” I whisper. “I thought people would find it strange, a veiled figure walking alone at this hour.”
“You did good, Petra,” he says gently, bringing over the tea. “Very good indeed. Such a brave girl.”
I flush under his praise, ashamed to like it, but I do. I’m just about to tell him why I came when I notice his arm in the light.
His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, and there, just above his wrist, is a wound. Fresh. Healing. And the exact size of the flesh that had been sent to me.
I gasp.
“Is that . . . ?” I point.
He follows my gaze to the wound and smiles. “I gather you liked my present.”
“You’re insane,” I whisper. “Why would you do that to yourself? Why would you—”
“Yes,” he says simply, as if foreknowing my next words. “I hurt myself. I thought . . . only if I suffered as much as I hurt you, would you believe I meant what I said.”
“I . . .” My voice catches.
“Petra, I was out of line. I realize now I came across all wrong. It was never my intention to scare you. On the contrary. I don’t want you to see me as the monster they say I am. I want you to see me as someone who—”
“Someone who?” I echo.
He presses his lips together. “As me. Just myself.”
“Giving me a piece of your flesh—that’s not normal. That’s . . .”
“Perhaps I am insane. But are you not insane, too?”
“What do you mean?”
“You kept it. You didn’t throw it away.”
My breath hitches. “How would you know that?”
“I know everything about you, Petra. Just as I knew you’d come. Just as I knew you’d seek me out.”
“But . . . how?”
“You’ll understand. Maybe not now, but in time.”
He sits beside me, lifts the tea to his lips, and smiles—calmly, as if everything about this moment is perfectly ordinary.