Chapter 5 #2
One door, shut, locked. One window, wide and arched and garbed in teal curtains, gusts of salted air swirling into the small space.
There is a simple wooden desk and chair.
Against the opposite wall, a narrow cot.
My trepidation deepens. Does this god expect me to live here now?
Will he confine me in this highest tower, a nightingale in a cage?
Something shifts to my right. Through the window, a vague form glides over the water.
I scurry to the other side of the room as fast as my wounds will allow, turning in time to witness the East Wind snap his wings closed mid-flight and drop through the open window, landing on silent feet.
When he straightens to his full height, the top of his hood nearly brushes the ceiling.
I sense, rather than observe, the weight of his gaze. Instinct dictates I look elsewhere, but I force myself to maintain eye contact. Steel in my shoulders, in my spine. He stole me from my home. I was only trying to help him.
Eventually, he swivels his head toward the table. “You didn’t touch your food.”
My molars grind together, a slow back and forth. If I were of a more courageous nature, I would strike low and quick. “For obvious r-r-reasons.”
A beat of silence passes. “You think it’s poisoned.”
“I’m n-not sure, but I’m certainly n-not going to find out.”
Eurus considers me for a time. It is impossible to know what he thinks of me. “Why would I go through the trouble of bringing you all the way here, only to kill you? I told you I have need of you.”
His question pokes holes in my nerve. I falter. “I-I-I don’t know. I-I-I imagine y-you have your reasons.”
He shakes his head, takes a step forward. When folded neatly along his spine, only the crowns of his wings are visible, slender bones and thin gray skin. “The food has not been tampered with.”
“Your w-word means nothing to me,” I snap. Where this sudden mettle has sprouted from, I’m not sure, but I embrace it eagerly. “You s-stole me from my home, locked me in this tower—”
“I did no such thing.”
My lungs hollow out, squeezed with an emotion so utterly unfamiliar it takes a moment for it to process: anger. “So n-now I’m a liar?”
“I presume you did not attempt to open the door.”
I open my mouth. It hangs there, soundless, then clamps shut. He is right. I assumed it was locked.
“Go on,” he says. “Try the handle, if you don’t believe me.”
My eyes flick between door and god. But—fine. I walk the short distance to the door and turn the handle. Unlocked, as he claimed.
I shake my head, unable to hide the pink warming my face. “This m-means nothing. I’m s-still your captive, aren’t I?”
His silence is not reassuring.
Moments later, my stomach gurgles. The East Wind huffs with impatience. Picking up the spoon, he slips it into the sauce, drawing the utensil into his hood. When he pulls the spoon away, it comes out clean. “Does that prove the food is safe to eat?”
The spoon vanishes. A fresh, clean utensil materializes beside the bowl. I frown. First the fire, and now this. Do this deity’s powers extend beyond those storms and winds he mentioned?
When I refuse to move, Eurus lifts the bowl and glides toward me.
His boots thud against the floorboards, and firelight glances off the scales of his wings, like oil on dark water.
I try to back away, but my injured shoulder hits the wall, making me wince.
He halts beside me and sets the meal on the desk. “You are hurt.”
It shouldn’t matter that he noticed. Lady Clarisse certainly never cared to. “The wounds w-will heal.” It is nothing I haven’t suffered before.
“And that is acceptable to you?” he demands.
This has nothing to do with whether or not it is acceptable. It is simply reality.
“I didn’t h-hear you deliver the food earlier,” I say, eager to shift the conversation in another direction.
He peers at me, perhaps noting my intention, but doesn’t mention it aloud. “I didn’t deliver the food.” He moves to shut the window. “The manor is enchanted to meet your every need.”
With the roar of waves muted behind glass, I am able to relax slightly. “Pardon?”
“The manor.” He gestures around the room. “Whatever you need, just ask, and it will procure it for you.”
Then it was the manor that lit the fire.
It must have also left the meal. Such a marvel could only belong to the divine.
“You have no servants, n-no attendants?” I question, at last reaching for the beef bourguignon.
I shove a spoonful of meat into my mouth and very nearly moan in pleasure.
Oh, that is delicious. Far better than Lady Clarisse’s crumbs.
Somehow, despite having sat out for many hours, the food is still hot.
“None,” Eurus says.
So, he lives alone on this barren rock.
“While I was gone,” he says calmly, “I returned to your village. My intention was to kill your employer.”
The rich broth coagulates into a paste plastered across my tongue. I swallow and return the spoon to the desk, my hunger evaporating. “And did y-you?” I whisper.
“Unfortunately, she evaded me.” He crosses his arms over his chest. “She seemed to have anticipated the attack. I assume this isn’t the first instance of an immortal escaping her? Or enacted revenge?”
It was long ago. One of the fair folk managed to slip away after stealing Lady Clarisse’s name, using it as leverage until she opened their cell door. Later, they returned, slinking into her bedroom while she slept. They would have pierced her heart, but she was ready. She pierced theirs first.
“If y-you had told her wh-wh-what she wanted to know,” I argue, “she might have let you w-walk free.” It sounds pitiful, even to my ears.
The East Wind’s laughter is one of roughened scorn. I flinch, for the sound is chilling, edged by sharp points.
“I’m constantly amazed by how blind you mortals are. You would rather stick your head in the sand than face the truth. That woman is evil.”
My face stings with rising heat. “That’s n-n-not true,” I say, though they are feeble, these words. If I am to have a home, if I am to remain close to Nan’s memory, then I must abide by her ladyship’s instructions. As she often touts, there is no room for compassion in the herbal arts.
“Shall I describe the hot coals shoved into my mouth, the branding on my bare back? Shall I describe,” he goes on, voice hardening, “the mutilation I endured, the severed fingers, their slow regeneration? Or how about the acid thrown in my eyes, the daily whippings, the blood pouring from my body in sheets? Shall I—”
“Stop!” I’m panting, a cold sweat beading along my hairline. I dab it with a shaking hand. “No m-more. Please.” What I feel is beyond illness. It is a rot that has taken root.
We stare at one other in silence. I cannot see his eyes, but I feel the rage vibrating off of him. He doesn’t understand. I am only doing what I can to survive.
“How l-l-long do you intend to keep me h-here?” I whisper hoarsely. Months? Years? Am I to live out the remainder of my days isolated in this highest tower above the sea?
My mind goes to all the things I will miss.
My weekly stroll into town. Master Alain’s kindness, gossip snatched from front stoops and open windows.
The churn of soil beneath my hands. Nan’s spirit, touching every overgrown grapevine in the garden.
Her ginger scent, which I swear I smell on particularly frigid mornings.
Freshly baked baguettes, which we would tear in two and slather with homemade blackberry jam.
All those memories, clouding the air of the estate, the place I love most. A home that will be sold, soon enough.
“You will never return to your old life,” the East Wind states.
“I suggest you forget about St. Laurent. From this moment on, you are under my employment. In return for your services, I will feed you, clothe you, provide a roof over your head. You may not find a home here, but you will not be mistreated.”
My breath comes short. Feast or famine, slap or caress. It is no choice at all. “We m-must have d-d-different definitions of m-mistreatment,” I dare say. “Everything you’ve done so f-f-far has been mistreatment.”
He considers me, this immortal. “Allow me to amend. I will never raise a hand to you. But should you decide to deceive me, you will quickly realize how dire the consequences can be.”
I cannot, will not, accept that. Somehow, I must return to St. Laurent. There might still be an opportunity to repair my blunder. Perhaps I might become the woman Nan always saw within me, hidden deep.
“Come,” says the East Wind, turning toward the doorway. “The day is long, and there is much to learn.”