family, not my friends, not where I lived . . . I must know regladia from that time, but not steel. No one knows what steel is. Not in the Platts.”
“You forgot,” he says, quiet as the breeze.
I meet his eyes, still unable to determine their shade. I feel along the edges of that dark pit within my mind, searching for breaks, but it’s as sound as Allemas’s cellar.
Fyel is very somber, his lips a flat line, his eyelids droopy, his shoulders soft.
The only question I can put together is, “How?”
“You fell.”
“Fell?” Did I hit my head? But that wouldn’t explain the steel. No—that wouldn’t explain anything. Not that it matters; I know Fyel will not explain. The gooseflesh on my skin hardens into briars, and I tromp away from the regladia unevenly, passing the wall of trees, searching the woods for the path I took to get here.
Fyel follows me.
I turn on him, breathless. “You said I knew you. From before.”
He nods.
“When did I meet you? Can you tell me that much?” My eyes water again, and I scrub the back of my hand over them before any tears can fall.
His shoulders soften even more. All of him does. “I met you many years ago,” he says. “I have known you for a very long time.”
I wait for more, but he doesn’t give me anything. Nothing specific. Even when I murmur, “Please.”
He guides me wordlessly back to the dilapidated house. I’m grateful for the silence, for every part of my body is wound tight and ready to snap. My fingers itch and my mouth is dry. I don’t even notice the pain from my leg until I’m back at the half-finished gingerbread house, and all I want is to be alone on the bug-eaten bed with regladia leaves crushed between my teeth.
“Please trust me,” he says again. He’s faded into a white shadow.
I don’t say anything, only watch him disappear.
He asks me as though I have a choice.
Hurts.
CHAPTER 10
“Good heavens, child!” the woman cries as she spots me on the side of the road. Hers is the first real voice I’ve heard since . . . I don’t know. I must look terrible to her, all scrapes and mud- and tear-streaked cheeks. I try to piece together if I know her, if her face is familiar, but my thoughts hit a wall of shadow. I try to push past it, to feel around its edges, but it’s a spherical pit that won’t be breached.
My gaze shoots to the breadbasket in her hands. My stomach roars, shaking me down to my hips. I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry. When was my last meal? I can’t remember.
I meet her eyes, hopeful. There’s nothing around us but wild growth, and beyond that, farmland. A dirt road stretches through it. I’ve been following it, but I can’t remember why.
She crosses the wide lane to me, kicking up rust-colored soil as she goes. She kneels beside me, dirtying her skirt, and takes my face in her hands.
“Are you all right?” she asks, looking me over, tilting my head this way and that. “Are you running from someone?”
Am I? I touch one of the fading bruises on my body, this one below my ear.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”
Her face falls, yet her brow and eyes tighten. “This won’t do at all. Come with me. Can you walk?”
I eye her basket again and nod.
She notices. Without hesitation, she reaches for the top loaf, a beautifully baked bread with braided crust, and rips off the heel. When she hands the still-warm bread to me, I shove it into my mouth before I can think to thank her.
“Come on.” She takes me by the elbow and heaves me to my feet. “My house isn’t too far from here. Let’s clean you up and figure out what’s what. Come on, dear. What’s your name?”
“It’s . . .” What was it? Something like . . . “Maire.”
“My name is Arrice. Don’t worry; you’re safe now.”
I lie on the battered bed in the broken house, staring at the hole-ridden ceiling above me. I press against that darkness in my mind, sometimes tricking
“You forgot,” he says, quiet as the breeze.
I meet his eyes, still unable to determine their shade. I feel along the edges of that dark pit within my mind, searching for breaks, but it’s as sound as Allemas’s cellar.
Fyel is very somber, his lips a flat line, his eyelids droopy, his shoulders soft.
The only question I can put together is, “How?”
“You fell.”
“Fell?” Did I hit my head? But that wouldn’t explain the steel. No—that wouldn’t explain anything. Not that it matters; I know Fyel will not explain. The gooseflesh on my skin hardens into briars, and I tromp away from the regladia unevenly, passing the wall of trees, searching the woods for the path I took to get here.
Fyel follows me.
I turn on him, breathless. “You said I knew you. From before.”
He nods.
“When did I meet you? Can you tell me that much?” My eyes water again, and I scrub the back of my hand over them before any tears can fall.
His shoulders soften even more. All of him does. “I met you many years ago,” he says. “I have known you for a very long time.”
I wait for more, but he doesn’t give me anything. Nothing specific. Even when I murmur, “Please.”
He guides me wordlessly back to the dilapidated house. I’m grateful for the silence, for every part of my body is wound tight and ready to snap. My fingers itch and my mouth is dry. I don’t even notice the pain from my leg until I’m back at the half-finished gingerbread house, and all I want is to be alone on the bug-eaten bed with regladia leaves crushed between my teeth.
“Please trust me,” he says again. He’s faded into a white shadow.
I don’t say anything, only watch him disappear.
He asks me as though I have a choice.
Hurts.
CHAPTER 10
“Good heavens, child!” the woman cries as she spots me on the side of the road. Hers is the first real voice I’ve heard since . . . I don’t know. I must look terrible to her, all scrapes and mud- and tear-streaked cheeks. I try to piece together if I know her, if her face is familiar, but my thoughts hit a wall of shadow. I try to push past it, to feel around its edges, but it’s a spherical pit that won’t be breached.
My gaze shoots to the breadbasket in her hands. My stomach roars, shaking me down to my hips. I try to swallow, but my mouth is so dry. When was my last meal? I can’t remember.
I meet her eyes, hopeful. There’s nothing around us but wild growth, and beyond that, farmland. A dirt road stretches through it. I’ve been following it, but I can’t remember why.
She crosses the wide lane to me, kicking up rust-colored soil as she goes. She kneels beside me, dirtying her skirt, and takes my face in her hands.
“Are you all right?” she asks, looking me over, tilting my head this way and that. “Are you running from someone?”
Am I? I touch one of the fading bruises on my body, this one below my ear.
“I don’t know,” I whisper. “I don’t . . . I don’t remember.”
Her face falls, yet her brow and eyes tighten. “This won’t do at all. Come with me. Can you walk?”
I eye her basket again and nod.
She notices. Without hesitation, she reaches for the top loaf, a beautifully baked bread with braided crust, and rips off the heel. When she hands the still-warm bread to me, I shove it into my mouth before I can think to thank her.
“Come on.” She takes me by the elbow and heaves me to my feet. “My house isn’t too far from here. Let’s clean you up and figure out what’s what. Come on, dear. What’s your name?”
“It’s . . .” What was it? Something like . . . “Maire.”
“My name is Arrice. Don’t worry; you’re safe now.”
I lie on the battered bed in the broken house, staring at the hole-ridden ceiling above me. I press against that darkness in my mind, sometimes tricking
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