Finale (Caraval #3)(17)
Tella didn’t know how much time had passed while she’d been away. From all the rumpled festival streamers and the number of sweets melted in the streets, she’d wager she’d been gone for hours. Children who’d been running around with sun-shaped pinwheels earlier were now asleep in the arms of tired parents, young ladies who’d been wearing simple gowns had changed into sleeker sheaths, and a new round of merchants had taken over the streets. Celebrations were dying and starting up again, coming back to life for the endless night of festival sunshine.
Tella was beyond late to meet Scarlett.
Her steps slowed as she entered the aging boardinghouse. She didn’t want to see Scarlett’s disappointment. She felt terrible that she’d let her down and failed to keep her promise. But Tella didn’t regret following Legend—it was good for her to finally see him when he had no idea she was watching. She probably should have tracked him down in real life weeks ago, but she’d liked the dreams too much. He was so close to perfect in the dreams. And maybe that had been the point. In dreams, Legend was someone she wanted—someone she cared and worried about—but in real life, he was someone that no one should trust.
Tella eased the door open and slowly stepped into a room heated with trapped sunshine.
“Scar,” she tried, hesitant.
“Donatella … is that you?” The question was barely a whisper, so soft it felt closer to a thought, and yet the voice was unmistakable, familiar—even though Tella had only heard it once in the past seven years.
She ran into her mother’s room and immediately crashed to a halt at the sight of her mother sitting up in the bed.
The world stopped. The outside noises from the festival vanished. The shabby apartment faded.
Kisses on eyelids. Locked jewelry boxes. Giddy whispers. Exotic perfume bottles. Stories at night. Grins in daylight. Enchanted laughter. Lullabies. Cups of violet tea. Secretive smiles. Drawers full of letters. Unspoken good-byes. Fluttering curtains. The scent of plumerias.
A hundred misplaced memories resurfaced, and every single one appeared bloodless and insubstantial compared to the miraculous reality of Tella’s mother.
Paloma looked like a slightly older version of Scarlett, although her smile lacked Scarlett’s gentleness. When Paloma’s lips curved they were just as they had been in the Wanted poster Tella had seen for Paradise the Lost. It was the same enchanting and enigmatic smile that Tella remembered practicing when she was a little girl.
“Why am I not surprised that you look as if you just came out of a fight?” Paloma’s smile wavered but her voice was the sweetest sound that Tella had ever heard.
“It was only with a rosebush.” She flung herself toward the bed and pulled her mother into a hug. She didn’t smell the same way Tella remembered—the sweet scent of magic cleaved to Paloma—but Tella didn’t care. She pressed her head into her shoulder as she clung tightly to her mother’s softness, perhaps a little too ferocious.
Her mother returned the embrace, but only for a moment. Then she was sagging against the quilted headboard, breathing raggedly as her eyelids began to droop.
“I’m sorry.” Tella pulled back right away. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You could never hurt me with a hug. I’m just—” Her brow wrinkled beneath stray strands of dark mahogany hair, as if she were searching for a runaway thought. “I think I just need to eat, my little love. Can you fetch me some food?”
“I’ll ring for one of the maids.”
“I—I—think—” Paloma’s eyes fluttered all the way shut.
“Mother!”
“I’m fine.” Her eyes cracked open again. “I just feel so weak and hungry.”
“I’ll be right back with something to eat,” Tella promised.
She hated to leave her mother, but she didn’t want to make her wait for a maid to plod up and down the stairs. It was fortunate she didn’t wait, because as Tella raced to the kitchen, there didn’t appear to be any maids at all. They must have all taken off for the Sun Festival.
The cooking galley was abandoned. No one stopped Tella as she grabbed a tray and began piling food on top of it. She pilfered the best-looking fruits from a mound of plump peaches and sun-bright apricots. Then she took a hunk of hard cheese and half a loaf of sage bread. She munched on the food as she grabbed it, her appetite returning with excitement. Her mother was finally awake, and she was going to be fine as soon as she ate.
Tella thought about brewing some tea, but she didn’t want to wait for the water to boil. She searched for a bottle of wine instead. They never served alcohol here, but she was certain they had some. Tella located a bottle of burgundy in a cupboard and then she grabbed a couple of chocolate hand-pies for dessert.
She was proud of her feast as she carefully marched it up the steps.
She remembered closing the door behind her, but it seemed she’d left it cracked. Tella pushed it the rest of the way open with her elbow, losing a runaway peach in the process. It hit the ground with a dull thud as Tella stepped inside.
The room was colder than it had been when she left, and quiet. Too quiet. The only sound came from a fly buzzing toward the stolen feast in her hands.
“I’m back!” Tella tried not to be nervous at the lack of her mother’s response. Being anxious was her sister’s role. But Tella couldn’t stop her sense of growing unease.