26 LONNIE
ABOARD THE FORESIGHT
That night, I curled up in a ball on the floor and refused to speak to Ambrose Dullahan.
And so went the next day.
And the next.
Later, I would not be able to recall much of the aftermath of my conversation with the rebel leader. My mind was a jumbled mess of sound and color, not a single coherent thought breaking through the ever present screaming that seemed to echo in the silent room.
It felt as it had in those first days in the dungeon, when all I could think of was my sister. How I’d never speak to her again. Never see her, and how if the dungeon didn’t kill me, then the pain in my chest might.
One day blurred into another, and I was hardly aware of the ship moving or how long we’d sailed. Bargains and arbitrary rules ceased to hold meaning. I no longer cared to ask questions, or indeed to speak to anyone, and therefore refused to enter the dining room.
Finally, perhaps fearing I’d actually starve before speaking to him, Ambrose relented on his demand that I only eat while with him. “You need to eat something, love.”
I glanced at him with only my eyes, refusing to move my head at all. I was not even sure when he’d entered the room, and only now noticed he was standing before me, holding a heaping plate of stew.
“I thought you planned to starve me,”
I murmured, my voice scratchy with disuse.
He placed the plate on the desk near the bed, just out of my reach, and cast me a pained look. “No, you seem determined to starve yourself. Come to the dining room or don’t, but please eat something.”
He didn’t linger to see if I would touch the plate, and when he left the room again, I slowly raised my head to sniff the air. Roast stew, fresh bread, and strong, savory spices.
My stomach growled, and I looked down, almost surprised. I was hungry, I realized. Now thinking back, I’d really only had two meals in the last week, and the effects of that were beginning to show on my body and in the dull humming in the back of my mind.
Was Ambrose right, and I was trying to starve myself? I didn’t think so. It was more as if I couldn’t find the energy to do the things I needed. Eating, drinking, bathing—it all felt too hard. Too strenuous. I wished I didn’t have a body that felt things like pain and hunger and thirst. I wished not to feel anything at all.
Ambrose continued to bring food and water, and once some wine. Eventually I found the energy to eat.
My bones aching, I dragged myself off the floor, crawled over to the desk and reached for the plate. Stiffly, as if someone else were controlling my arms, I sat cross legged on the floor and spooned stew into my mouth, tasting nothing as I stared blankly out the window. To my dismay, my too-loud thoughts returned to Rosey.
I could hardly reconcile with myself that my sister had not only known she was going to die, but had planned to for my sake. She’d tried repeatedly to save my life, without ever mentioning it to me, and her final act had been to help me become the queen.
And so far, I’d all but squandered her sacrifice.
I didn’t rule anyone or anything. I’d let fear keep me from properly defending myself, or trying to learn to use my magic. I’d gone from being so overtly independent that I would allow no one to help me, to the other extreme of relying too much on others to protect me.
I looked down at the stew, realizing that my spoon was now scraping against an empty dish, and took a deep breath.
What would my sister think of that? What would she say if she could see me now, lying on the floor for days on end?
Certainly, she’d be horrified. She’d say I needed to stand up, dress, rejoin the world of the living.
I thought back to how in the palace, when I was laughed at and rejected by the other servants, she would quietly protect me. How when I could not seem to blend in as others did, I would pretend to be my quiet, capable sister, who always seemed to know the right thing to say. Even then, Rosey had always been the best of us. Always happier than me. Always more the optimist.
Perhaps now, I could pretend to be her once more.
The sun was shining brightly when I left the cabin, and found my way to the captain’s deck. Ambrose stood at the wheel, once again flanked by his tattooed male companion and the small, black haired woman. None of them looked at me as I approached, as if I were a startled deer and any movement might send me sprinting for cover.
“Morning,”
I ground out when I stood mere feet away.
Ambrose glanced over at me tentatively, but didn’t mention anything about the last several days. “Hello, love.”
I watched him carefully, trying to think what to say.
It was not his fault that Rosey died. If anything, it was mine, and now I would have to find a way to live with that. The realization painted the rebel leader in a slightly brighter light, and now I was not sure how to speak to him.
“I need something to do,”
I said stiffly.
“Something to do?”
Ambrose let go of the wheel, and gestured for his companion to take his place as he turned to face me. “What do you mean?”
I looked to the side, nervously. “You asked about pastimes, remember? Even a job would be fine, I just…”
I needed to get off the floor and out of the damned cabin, is what I meant to say, but couldn’t bring myself to actually utter those words. I needed, not just a distraction, but a purpose. Something to focus on beyond the unhappiness that threatened to consume me.
“You need something to do,”
Ambrose repeated, smiling. “Good. I’ll think of something.”
“Alright.”
“In the meantime,”
he said, almost nervously. “Will you be joining me for dinner tonight?”
I bit my lip, then sucked in a deep breath, and imagined what my sister would say. “Yes.”
We ate in near silence that night, Ambrose watching me like an overgrown hawk. Nothing went wrong, however, and after several hours and two courses, I left the table to return to the cabin.
When I pushed the door open, I froze, wondering for a second if I’d entered the correct room.
There, instead of the tiny single bed and the nest of clothing I’d made for myself in the corner, was a wide, comfortable looking mattress. It was more than big enough for two, and looked softer and more comfortable than anything I’d slept in since the four-poster in the obsidian tower.
Had he done this for me?
But why? Why do anything kind at all? Why bring me food, and answer all my questions? Why would he take me as a prisoner, but then treat me as a guest?
Perhaps, I had misunderstood Ambrose Dullahan.