THE POISONER
The dead flowers crumbled against the bedding, and the silence between us was just as fragile.
The tips of my fingers were no longer red, not like they used to be. The scratching of boar bristles pulled at my hair, then fingers gentle enough to weave through.
Phoebe sat behind me as my legs hung off the edge of the bed.
It was never awkward like this between us, but it seems more things had changed than expected. There were questions, I just wasn’t sure I wanted to hear the answers yet. The tension was palpable, unyielding.
“What . . .” I swallowed hard, the dryness returning. “What happened?”
Phoebe’s brushstroke caught, then continued again. “I think you need some time to come to it before I explain. Rest knowing you are safe, everyone is safe.”
The answer did not give me the ease she thought it would, but it clipped the urgency.
She stood and picked through a pile of clothing draped over the single chair.
“I know you prefer black, but it’s predicted to be the hottest week of the year. I figured green would be fine,” she rattled off, just not as excitedly as she may have before.
She placed a couple underthings and a corset onto the bed.
My eyes could only follow her, feeling worse since speaking.
She gave me a pitiful look. “I know, but getting dressed will help you feel better. Let the corset hold you straight for a while.” Her smile was kind, but it was because she thought I was delicate. Like reminding a sickly person to eat something of substance.
A sigh of defeat before I stood, dropping the nightgown from my shoulders.
It pooled at the floor over my feet, my body not how I remembered it. All my hard work from tending our farmhouse wasted away to bedrest, not much muscle left. The paleness was expected, as that’s how I was naturally, so my sickly state was nothing but ghostly.
No, it was the fine white line up my abdomen that gave me pause.
My fingers trembled as they ran over the raised edge. I plucked a couple stitches still yet to degrade.
“Don’t look at it.” Phoebe’s hands covered mine. “Alina.”
Reluctantly, my eyes met hers. They were glassy.
“How long,” I choked. “How long was I asleep?”
Phoebe’s lip trembled. “Six months.”
She forced the undergarments into my hands as she went back to work on my hair. Based on all the brushing she did, I assumed it was matted.
“My wounds were that severe?” I mumbled.
“You passed.”
“I passed,” I repeated. It was like the words echoed through my mind, becoming louder the more I thought on them. “Does that mean I am no longer—”
“I’m sorry,” she cut me off. No . . . this can’t be right.
The tears welled in my eyes, finding the last bits of moisture within me to expel them, to express no matter how dehydrated I was.
“Who did it?” I trembled, staring down at my hands.
She didn’t answer.
I raised my voice as I turned. “Who did it?”
She couldn’t even look at me.
If not for the clothing, my body could melt into a blob of gel, held in shape by the sage day dress and a ribbon around my throat.
The only thing keeping my form was the corset, squeezing my organs into their rightful place—which sounds unpleasant, but oddly, it helped me move with confidence that they wouldn’t spill onto the tulips along the walkway.
Unlike past suffering, I was too tired to fight it. The state of fragility was to be taken seriously, I knew this, but it brought me no ease or pleasure. All I could do was hope the feeling would go away after some time.
The migraine was subsiding the more fresh air I breathed.
Phoebe made me chew on ice chips, which satisfied the itch for now.
No matter the hunger, I told myself it was best to go slow, considering my injury may have very well reached some of my insides.
With every ache that went away, a new one was discovered. Small, but irritating.
The roof of my mouth was raw, metallic when I licked it. My mouth felt rough, like someone filed down the tissue with a coarse stone. My tongue was numb, split, and had yet to regain movement in the newly formed halves.
The vividness of the park strained my eyes, even if it was beautiful this time of year. Flowers of pinks and yellows, azaleas and roses. Most trees were their most illustrious shades of green. The mallards piddled in the pond, disturbing the algae film from the surface.
The people were just as colorful. The brightest dyes and fashions, their picnics diverse in summer-season produce, the sheep sneaking a bite of grass as they shared the meadow.
Some things never changed. Even after a near-death experience, Phoebe and I still committed to walking the park for breakfast. Well, it was noon. The concept still applied mostly.
Phoebe’s grip on my arm could bruise if she held on any longer. She wore a pleasant smile as easily as the jewels in her ears; wearing, not truly feeling. The anxiety was wafting like the heat off the pavement.
Along the path, she pulled me aside to an ice cream cart.
“I don’t really have the appetite for sweets right now,” I mumbled, watching her hold the glass cone up to my lips.
“It’s best you get this part over with early,” she sighed, a crease in her brow. “Let’s call this an experiment.”
I took it from her hand, dragging my tongue along the white cream. The raw skin of my tongue quivered at the cool sensation, but then a repulsive souring. The swallow was reluctant, but polite, as I handed it back to her.
It was like consuming a medicinal chalk, enough to make your tongue curl and your throat close.
Phoebe took the cone and flicked the cream into a bush, returning the cone to the attendant before we were back on the path.
“How was it?”
“Horrid.” I spat into the grass, covering my mouth as if to prevent something more from coming up. “I thought New York was known for food.”
“It is.” She hummed. “You just can’t taste it.”
“Will all food taste like that?”
“Yes, unless it is bitter, sour, burnt, or meat,” she listed off, like a giddy child reciting the rules of a game. At least she was in a lighter mood, “Oh, or alcoholic.”
There was a period of silence between us, lighter than the last. Just enjoying the serenity of the day, the warm weather and the plentiful flowers. As much as it was hard to get out of bed, she was right about an outing being a sufficient distraction.
“This is really happening,” I whispered.
“I know you have a lot of questions.” She stopped me, taking hold of my hand.
I looked down at them, our gloves a bright white against their surroundings. A glowing intertwining of silk.
“I don’t want you to feel as if things are being hidden from you,” she said quietly, squeezing my fingers between hers. Her eyes met mine, an earnestness in every inflection. “It is a lot to explain, but time is something we have now.”
“My body may be delicate, but my mind is not,” I said stubbornly.
“You have much to learn, and I am ready to teach.” A spritish grin peeled across her face, a small, excited squeal before she pulled me along. “I can’t wait to tell you all the delicious tricks. Much mischief to be had!”
“Phoebe?” I dug down on my heel, pulling her back. “Where is Silas?”
The minute his name left my lips, her shoulders tensed.
I caught a twitch of her fine brow, a quirk in her jaw that subsided once she covered it with a smile.
“He’s away. Tending to important matters, but will be returning soon, luckily.
” The last word was pulled taut, fighting to be perceived as anything except what it was—resentful.
“And that will be . . . ?” I let the sentence trail. “Can I telephone him?”
She shook her head. “He’s on a ship.” She cupped my hand in hers. “Let’s just surprise him when he arrives.”
“What about Luka?”
Every exhale from her was more violent than the last. “He is busy with whatever Silas has brought him to do.”
“What—” My words were cut short by a steadfast pain in my stomach. I nearly doubled over right there in the path.
“Alina.” Phoebe quickly looped her arm in mine, smiling at a pedestrian as she held me up.
“By God, does the pain ever go away?” I gasped, clutching my abdomen as I corrected my posture.
“You haven’t eaten.” Her voice wavered.
My vision began to pulse, dark spots encroaching on the edges. The colors were bright again, the pain in my temple straining with every blink. All at once, everything was too loud or too bright. A babe cried in a pram passing by, thunder trembled in my ear.
It took all my strength to breathe evenly. The world was slowing down, like a long-lost memory.
I turned to her. Phoebe’s eyes were wide and she pulled a bonnet over my head, tipping it down to obscure my forward view, like a carriage horse.
“Alina, calm down, they’ll see your eyes,” Phoebe whispered, but I was just staring down at her bodice. Her hand gripped my arm tighter.
Then, the thrumming. Easily mistaken for my own blood in my ear. No.
The artery on Phoebe’s neck pulsed in tandem with the pitter-patter. I saw it, that wasn’t abnormal. But I could also hear it. My mouth ached, teeth pulsing. Fantasizing about just one languid swallow.
“I want to go home,” I whispered, my mouth filling with saliva, almost unable to swallow fast enough before it might escape.
I grabbed her, weakly holding her at arm’s length.
Even under my hands, I felt like I could confuse my pulse for hers.
My body was not listening, my last desperate plea. “Please, Phoebe. Take me home.”