Chapter 55 Salome
Salome
Morning light streaks across the bedroom floor from behind the threadbare curtains. Particles of dust dance in the beams, never seeming to land anywhere no matter how long I watch. The persistent hum still drones from below the floor, but there’s a chill to air.
“Someone should really call Wiffle Ball about that heater.” Larkin chuckles.
I laugh without correcting her, holding my stomach and cringing from the ache in my muscles. Whatever happened last night, real or imagined, left its toll on my body. Larkin rubs circles over my back, reminding me I’m still here—she’s still here.
When we returned to the library last night from wherever Silvey had taken us, I immediately tossed the book of poems into the fire.
Larkin threw in the crystal distiller right after.
The glass shattered, sending alcohol-fueled flames up the chimney and carrying smoldering pieces of pages with it.
We didn’t say a word to each other as we went back to bed, walking hand in hand, neither of us wanting to let go of the other.
This morning, though, everything feels different. It’s lighter in some ways but heavier in many others. The snow covers everything outside in a thick blanket of white, but the wind is no longer howling. The sun has finally reappeared from behind days of endless clouds.
“Do you think she’s gone?” I whisper, bringing Larkin’s fingertips to my chest and holding them over my heart.
“I’m not sure,” she replies, hesitantly but honest. “I hope we don’t have to stick around much longer to find out, though.”
“We’re still snowed in,” I sigh, turning over in bed to face her.
Larkin pulls the blanket around me as I shiver, and I take the opportunity to snuggle closer.
The portrait looms behind her, and my eyes catch on it over her shoulder.
I scramble to sit up, rubbing my eyes to make sure I’m not imagining it. “Larkin, look!”
The painting has undeniably changed again.
Larkin’s jaw falls slack as she turns to look, confirming I’m not just seeing things.
There’s no longer a woman standing there—now, it’s just an empty set of train tracks crossing in front of the abandoned station.
A forgotten campfire smolders to the side, a hint of smoke rising from the ashes.
“Maybe she didn’t just save us,” Larkin says, leaning in to pepper my shoulder with kisses. “Maybe we saved her too.”