Chapter 11 - The Scent of Something Wrong
She falls asleep against me so quietly that I do not notice the exact moment it happens.
One breath, she is speaking, her voice soft and thoughtful as she traces absent patterns against my chest, her fingers warm, her presence steady. Next, there is only silence.
I glance down.
Her head rests just below my collarbone, her cheek turned slightly into me as if she has chosen that place without realizing it.
Her lashes lie still against her skin, her breathing deepening in slow, even rhythms that do not belong to someone alert or guarded.
There is no tension in her shoulders, no hesitation in the way she leans into me.
She is... asleep.
The realization settles quietly.
There was a time when she would not have done this. Not here. Not with me. Not without waking at every shift, every movement, every breath that did not belong to her own.
Now...
She sleeps.
On me.
Because she trusts that nothing will happen to her while she does.
I exhale slowly, shifting just enough to ease her down onto the coat I had spread across the ground earlier. The fabric softens the uneven earth beneath her, and I take more care than necessary, adjusting it beneath her shoulders and back, ensuring nothing presses into her that should not.
She murmurs faintly when I move her.
Something incoherent.
Her fingers twitch once, brushing against my wrist before going still again.
I remain there longer than I should.
Longer than is practical.
Watching her.
The forest hums softly around us, the distant sound of water slipping over stone blending with the quiet rustle of leaves overhead. The air is cooling now, the warmth of the day slowly retreating as the sun lowers itself beyond the trees, shadows stretching longer across the ground.
I notice it.
The change in light.
The shift in temperature.
We stayed too long.
"Ophelia."
No response.
"Ophelia."
Her brow furrows faintly, her lashes fluttering, then her eyes open slowly, unfocused at first, sharpening as awareness returns.
Confusion touches her expression before recognition follows.
"...I fell asleep," she murmurs, her voice soft, thick with it.
"Yes."
Her gaze drifts for a moment, as if she is trying to gather herself, before she blinks again, more alert now.
"I'm sorry."
The apology comes instinctively.
I study her for a second.
"You do not need to apologize for sleeping." She blinks at me again, like the idea itself is still unfamiliar.
Then nods slowly, rubbing her face as she pushes herself upright. The movement is slower than it should be. There is a faint hesitation in it, a subtle delay between intention and action that does not belong to someone fully rested.
She reaches for her clothes, her fingers moving through the motions without their usual certainty.
There is a sluggishness to her now, her body resisting in small, almost imperceptible ways.
Her balance shifts slightly as she stands, and for half a second, her hand presses against the log beside her as if to steady herself.
It is brief.
Easy to miss.
But I do not miss things like that.
I turn away before she can see me watching too closely, pulling my own clothes back on quickly, my movements efficient, controlled, unaffected.
When I turn back, she is still dressing.
Still slower than she should be.
The difference between us feels... sharper.
I gather my bag, sliding the sketchbook inside before tucking her book in after it, my attention split between the task and her movements.
"Are you ready?" I ask.
She nods.
Then yawns.
It is not small.
Not restrained.
It escapes her fully, her shoulders lifting slightly with the motion, her eyes closing for a second longer than necessary.
Something tightens in my chest.
She is too tired.
I step toward her before she can take a step on her own.
And lift her.
Her reaction is immediate.
"I can walk," she protests, her hands pressing lightly against me as if she means to push herself away.
But there is no strength behind it. The words blur slightly at the edges, her voice softer than usual, less steady.
I do not stop.
She does not try again.
By the time I take my second step, her body has already begun to relax against me again, her head falling against my shoulder, her fingers loosening their grip on my shirt.
By the third
She is asleep.
Completely.
I adjust my hold on her slightly, ensuring she is secure before I begin the walk back.
The path is familiar enough that I do not need to think about it. My body moves through it without hesitation, stepping over roots, navigating the uneven ground with ease. My focus is elsewhere.
On her.
On the weight in my arms.
On the way, her breathing remains steady, even as the world shifts around us.
The manor comes into view just as the last light of the day disappears completely, the windows glowing softly against the darkening sky. Warmth spills outward from within, a stark contrast to the cool air settling over the forest.
I step inside.
And everything changes.
Her body tenses suddenly in my arms.
It is immediate.
Her face tightens, her features twisting into something sharp, something that does not belong to discomfort alone.
Disgust.
I stop.
"What is it?" I ask.
She pulls away from me quickly, and I lower her to the ground without resistance. The moment her feet touch the floor, she steps back, her expression tightening further as her hand lifts to cover her nose.
"Can you not smell that?" she asks, her voice strained, unsettled.
I frown.
"...smell what?"
"It's so strong," she says, her nose wrinkling as if the air itself is unbearable. "It's.."
She stops.
Steps back again.
Further this time.
Her body is reacting to something I cannot see.
Something I cannot sense.
I scan the room instinctively, my attention sharpening, my senses reaching for anything out of place.
There is nothing.
No visible threat.
No change in the air.
No reason for her reaction.
And that...
Is wrong.
Movement draws my attention.
Elias steps into view with the same ease he always carries, his presence loud even when he is doing nothing. He had insisted on joining us days ago, claiming boredom would kill him before responsibility ever could.
He looks entirely too pleased with himself.
As usual.
"Ophelia.." he begins, his grin already forming as he moves toward her.
She recoils immediately.
Her face pales further, her hand pressing harder against her mouth as she takes another step back, instinctively creating distance between herself and him.
I move without thinking.
My hand lifts.
Stopping him.
He freezes mid-step, his expression shifting from amusement to confusion.
"...what did I do?" he asks, glancing between us.
Veronica appears behind him, her presence quieter but no less commanding, her gaze sharpening instantly as she takes in the distance between them, the tension in Ophelia's posture, and the way I have positioned myself between them.
"What happened?" Veronica asks.
Her voice is too calm.
The kind of calm that is not the absence of emotion, but control over it. The kind that sharpens instead of softens, that prepares instead of reassures.
Ophelia looks between us, her gaze slower now, unfocused in a way that does not belong to her. There is confusion written across her features, but it is being overtaken by something else.
"...his scent is too strong," she says finally, her voice quieter than it should be, strained at the edges. "It smells..."
She doesn't finish.
Her face drains of color so quickly it feels unnatural, her lips parting as her breath catches in her throat. Her hand tightens over her mouth, her body leaning back instinctively as if distance alone might protect her from whatever she is sensing.
Elias blinks.
Confusion flickers across his face.
"...what are you talking about?" he asks, glancing down at himself like the answer might be written somewhere across his clothes. He lifts his sleeve, sniffing it with exaggerated confusion. "I don't smell like anything...I literally just bathed."
He frowns, clearly trying to understand.
"If anything, I smell better than usual," he says as he steps forward.
It is a small movement.
Careless.
Unaware.
But I see it before it fully happens. I see her body react before her mind catches up.
Ophelia's entire frame tightens.
Violently.
the sound tearing out of her before she can stop it as she empties her stomach on the floor.
The sound echoes far louder than it should in the quiet of the manor, breaking whatever illusion of normalcy existed seconds before.
Veronica moves first.
"Elias, stop...back up!"
Her voice cuts through the room like steel, sharp enough to leave no room for interpretation.
He freezes mid-step.
Then stumbles back quickly, his expression shifting from confusion to something far less certain.
"I didn't...what did I...?"
I don't hear the rest.
Because I'm already moving.
Everything else in the room fades into nothing the moment I reach her, my hand coming to her back as her body heaves again. She is shaking subtly, but enough that I feel it immediately, her frame tense and weak all at once as she uses my arm to steady herself.
"Ophelia," I say, my voice lower now, controlled in a way that feels like it's holding something far more dangerous beneath it.
She doesn't answer.
Another wave hits her.
She turns slightly, barely managing to catch herself before it comes again, weaker than before but no less violent. Her fingers are digging inside my skin, her body folding inward as if it cannot hold itself upright anymore.
Something cold settles deep in my chest.
It spreads quickly.
panic.
"What did you use ?" I ask. The words are not directed at her. They are directed at him.
Elias stands a few steps back now, his usual ease gone completely, his hands hovering uselessly at his sides as he tries to process what he is seeing.
"I didn't use anything new...i..," he says quickly, his voice losing its usual humor entirely. "I...i should smell the same..."
"Then why is she reacting to you like that?" My voice is quieter now. Lower. And far more threatening.
"I don't know," he admits, more carefully now.
Veronica steps forward, her attention sharp, calculated, moving between Ophelia and Elias with a precision that suggests she is already breaking the situation apart piece by piece.
"Go take a bath," she says.
Elias blinks.
"What?"
"Your scent," she snaps, irritation threading through her tone now. "Whatever oils, soaps, or nonsense you decided to use....go wash it off."
"I didn't use anything different..."
"Then use hers," I cut in, my voice sharper now, final. "Whatever you are wearing is making her sick."
The words land more heavily than they should.
Elias looks at me.
Then at her.
"...alright," he says quietly.
Another sound pulls my attention back.
Ophelia.
She sways.
It is slight.
Barely noticeable.
But I see it.
Before she can fall, my hand tightens against her, pulling her closer, holding her upright as my other hand comes up to her face, steadying it, forcing her gaze to meet mine.
"Look at me."
Her eyes struggle.
Focus slipping in and out before finally locking onto mine.
"...I'm fine," she murmurs.
The words are weak.
Unconvincing.
"You are not fine."
Another wave hits her, but this time she forces it down, her throat tightening as she swallows it back with visible effort. Her breathing remains uneven, her body still too tense, too fragile for my liking.