* * *
Muffled voices in the dark wake me. I can’t make out the words, but it sounds like an argument.
My eyes flutter open; the square of light is less blurry. There’s a small window cut into the door. I see a man’s profile, talking to someone out of sight.
“Ravod?”
His delicate features are contorted with rage as he speaks to the other person, punctuating each unintelligible sentence with a pointed finger. When he finishes, he glances through the window and his eyes meet mine.
“Shae! Can you hear me?”
“I can hear you…” I try to reach for him, but my arm is too heavy to lift, and I find my eyes are still too heavy to keep open.
It must be a dream, because when my eyes flutter open again, he is not there—only a stretch of longing and grief so great, I fear it will swallow me whole. I dreamed about Ravod because I want so desperately to believe that he misses me. That he wants to be near me as badly as I want to be near him.
That must be it.
* * *
The fog does not abate for some time. Periodically it lessens, but my head still feels like it’s crammed with rocks and rubble, and when I try to rally the strength to move them aside, I remember the guilt that’s beneath them. I’d rather be buried alive than face how I feel. What I’ve done.
I don’t know how much time has passed when I hear the door open. Quiet footsteps pad over to me. I hear the clink of silverware on porcelain. My stomach churns audibly. I can’t remember the last time I had anything to eat.
“Are you hungry?” Imogen is perched at the edge of my bed with a bowl of steaming soup.
“Starving,” I reply, mustering what I hope is a smile.
“That’s a good sign! My ma always used to say a good meal is the best medicine.” Imogen stirs the soup before feeding me a spoonful, and I want to ask about her mother. I wonder if she was anything like mine.
But my voice is too weak.
Still, I notice with a budding sense of hope that she’s not as blurry today. But the room is still dark, too dark to see much more than the side of Imogen’s face and the soup. The only light comes from the window in the door, and it’s faint at best.
“What is this place?” I finally whisper.
Imogen hesitates, chewing her lower lip. “High House,” she replies finally.
“I gathered as much,” I reply, watching the young servant girl closely. Her normally chipper demeanor is replaced by apprehension. I phrase my next question carefully. “Imogen, where in High House?”
The bowl she’s holding is quivering, sending ripples over the broth. I worry she might drop it.
“I’m not supposed to say,” she answers quietly. “Please don’t ask me to.”
I drop the question and allow Imogen to finish feeding me. Like clockwork, as she gets up to leave, sleep takes hold of me once more.
* * *
When I open my eyes, I am surprised to see Cathal clearly. He’s seated on an armchair beside my bed, illuminated by the dawn sunlight beginning to peek in through an open window, its frame decorated with wildflowers. I can’t see what’s beyond the brightness of the window.
The room is small but cozy. Almost as if plucked out of a country cottage. The walls are whitewashed plaster with painted blue stencil tulips wreathing the chamber like a garland. It reminds me of something I might have embroidered back in Aster. The wooden door with a small window is painted a cheerful, contrasting red, like a barn. A few paintings depicting pleasant pastoral scenes decorate the walls in simple wooden frames. My bed is carved from pine like it was back home. It’s much nicer than anything in Aster.
“You seem to be feeling better today,” Cathal remarks.
I try my best to nod.
“Good. Because I need to speak to you about something.” Here it is. The punishment. The acknowledgment of what I’ve done.
“Of course,” I say nervously.
He sits forward slightly, his eyes growing serious. “Why did you run after the collapse of the tower?”
“I…” There’s no use lying. He’ll see through it. “I had a dream that there was a landslide, like back home.” I swallow the lump in my throat. “I awoke to the sounds of the collapse and its aftermath…” I go silent, letting Cathal make of it what he will.
He frowns. “You believed you were responsible?”
“Yes.” My voice wavers and cracks. My chest is a tangle of grief and guilt; I don’t know how to unspool it all.
“Set your mind at ease, Shae. You did no such thing,” Cathal replies. “I already know the identity of the culprit, and justice will be served.”
A deluge of relief washes over me. “Oh.”
“But I want you to promise me not to be so reckless in the future. You must consider your actions more carefully. Imagine what people would think, witnessing a Bard running loose in the streets, frantic, as if mad.”
“I promise,” I reply, feeling the weight of his implications. I am being spared, yes, but warned too. “I understand completely. Thank you, Cathal. For everything.”
“You need not thank me, I simply want to keep you safe.” His voice is quiet and earnest. “I like to think that if I had a daughter, she might be like you.” I find myself smiling as he rests a warm hand atop my head and rises from the armchair. “Get some sleep.” He stands, looming over me. “You have regained much of your strength, but not all. It will not be long before your formal training resumes. And you have much to do.”
“I haven’t forgotten about the Book of Days, I promise. I will find it, and the truth about my ma’s death,” I say.
Cathal nods. “All in good time. I brought you something. A gift.” He leans forward, placing a small rectangular box on my lap. It’s wrapped in beautiful green paper. “Go ahead and open it.” He prompts me with a grin. Whatever it is, he seems eager for me to see it. I smile back, gently unwrapping the paper, not wanting to damage it.
“I really appreciate it, but you didn’t have to get me anything—” I stop abruptly when a book falls into my lap and a familiar twisting dread grips my heart.
“You hate it. I know,” Cathal says. “But I was hoping to help you overcome your fear of the written word by teaching you to read while you convalesce. If nothing else, it will help pass the time.” He takes the book, showing me the cover. “That is, if it is all right with you.”
I peer at the cover, my gaze floating over the letters and the stylized icon of the Bard’s sigil. It’s an old book, handled many times, and well-loved. Cathal’s smile is gentle, and observing his comfort handling the book helps disarm my defensiveness. He raises his dark brows at me, expectantly.
“Read? Me?” The disjointed words come out in a whisper. This flies in the face of everything I was ever taught. He places the book in my hands, but they are trembling so violently holding the small, rectangular object that it drops into my lap. I instinctively recoil. The book feels like a crushing weight. I can’t speak, instead shaking my head mutely. “No, I can’t,” I finally tell him. “It’s too dangerous.”