Havenfall (Havenfall #1)(30)
I drag myself out of bed, blood and grave-dirt still clinging to my skin.
When I finally stumbled back into my room just before dawn, I was too exhausted to do anything but strip off my filthy clothes and fall into bed. Now I regret it. Some of the Solarian blood has gotten on me, and it dries black and sticky, like tar. It clots my hair, stains my pillowcase.
I spend too long in the shower—not even caring about the ice-cold water; I want to scrub every trace of last night from my body. I must have only slept for a couple of hours. Exhaustion still weighs down my sore limbs and makes my head fuzzy. But I’m weirdly glad for it. It makes it easy to think simple thoughts.
After everything happened, after I first moved in with Dad and I couldn’t eat or sleep or do anything at all for the crushing grief, Dad had a motto. How do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. I didn’t understand it at first, but it sank in a little every day, when Dad would coach me through the simplest tasks, cheer when I managed to do the littlest things—eat half a bowl of mac and cheese, brush my hair. I started thinking of the grief, the memories, as a huge shadowy elephant that stalked me through the day and sat on my chest at night. Whenever Dad said that, one bite at a time, I snapped my teeth at the imaginary elephant, imagining that I had fangs that could tear through smoke and shadow.
Now I know to think simple thoughts. I need to focus on one thing at a time. Otherwise everything that’s happened will crash back down and crush me.
So: wash my hair once, twice, three times, scrubbing the short strands with a vengeance. Get out and return in a bathrobe to my room to assess the damage. Strip the sheets off the bed and cram them into the laundry basket. Take the book of poems Brekken gave me and shove it deep into the back of my closet, in the secret compartment I found years ago behind a loose wall panel, where I won’t have to look at it. Still, I can’t help but be gentle with the book, brushing the floor clear of dust before laying it down.
That done, I pick yesterday’s outfit off the floor and lay it out, my favorite velvet riding pants and the beautiful Byrnisian jacket with scale sleeves. They’re ruined now. Not because of the wine, dirt, and bloodstains—even though those are extensive—but because I’ll never be able to put them on again without remembering too many things. The way Brekken’s eyes lit up when he saw me across the ballroom last night. The way he ran his hands carefully up the sleeves. I was so sure it was want I saw in his eyes. But want for what?
How is it only twelve hours ago I was walking down the stairs to the celebration, grinning for the joy just of being in Havenfall?
I shake my head hard, as if that will break the chain of impossible thoughts quickly spooling out. I have to figure out something to ward off any questions from the laundry team. Looking around the room, I zero in on my desk, the pens scattered on top. I grab a Bic, hold it over the pile of clothes, and snap the pen in two. Black ink flies over the sheets, the clothes, my hands. Carefully, I stick the broken pieces into the jacket breast pocket and then go to wash my hands. Hopefully, the pen’s presence will explain away the dark stains of Solarian blood. I pull on leggings and a hoodie and go down to the Innkeeper’s suite, feeling like a zombie.
Most people are still asleep, will be till breakfast, but I run into a few guests out and about. I hurry past them, head down. I’m pretty useless before coffee on my best days. But on the last flight of stairs, someone grabs my shoulder. Nessa, the Fiorden noblewoman I spoke to last night, dressed for a day of peacemaking in a sharp-cut silk suit.
“Madeline,” she says, eyes drilling into mine. “What was that commotion last night?”
I tug out of her grip, the worry in her voice bringing back the fear, the screams. “We’ll explain everything at breakfast,” I say, stalling, hoping that’ll put her off, and escape down the stairs before she can ask anything else.
When I knock on the door to Marcus’s suite, Willow is the one who answers. She’s more composed than she was last night, in a crisp blue blouse, her hair tied up with gold pins. But she still looks pale and drawn, with shadows under her eyes. She smiles when she sees me, but it’s small and lacks her usual warmth. She ushers me into the living room and closes the door.
The smell of coffee and fresh-baked bread hits my nose right away, settling deep in my chest and making me feel a little less like a zombie as hunger asserts itself. Graylin sits on the sofa, a tray of food on the coffee table before him. But he looks exhausted and worried, and the hope that poked its head out of the ground when I came in slithers back down. I go over and sit next to him, dread gathering in my chest. Willow draws up a chair across from us.
“He’s still the same,” Graylin tells me, his voice hoarse and scratchy. “He’ll take water, but nothing else.” Graylin looks down, shakes his head. “It’s strange. Not normal unconsciousness. It’s almost like Marcus is in stasis.”
“Is that usual, with …” My voice cracks; I take a breath and try again. “With Solarian attacks?”
“I’ve been reading up on it,” Willow offers. “I can’t find any instance of someone surviving a soul-stealing. So I’m not sure.”
She and Graylin exchange glances. It occurs to me that I’m the only person in the room who has direct experience with Solarian attacks. For a second I’m back in Mom’s bloodied kitchen; I flinch. Is this what happened to Nate?