The scratch of her pen pulls my attention back. She’s turned the paper over. My neck snaps back when I scan the next words.
Mother left you at 1 month old. Bard Fiach raised you.
My lips part, my breathing going shallow. I have no insight into the first part of that, and there’s no time to ask.
Not once during the whirlwind of last night’s recovered memories did I think about the fact that I must have a mother somewhere. There was only a void in my chest and mind, stuffed full of an old, dull pain like packing material.
My father and Illiam, however, were a constant preoccupation.
Part of me is reeling as much from remembering my father, Bard Fiach, as from realizing his identity! I don’t recall him directly, but I remember havingthoughtsof him.
I’m still trying to reconcile these thoughts with the man in the indigo cape who attended the lottery. I also know the green-caped man was Illiam’s father, Orum. The remorseless way theyboth looked at me from beyond the Waymark, meeting my eyes as I stood on the verge of my own possible demise, chills me anew.
Lydia’s next words appear, the ink running slightly in the steamy air.
That’shisstory. I know you’re not his real child.
Wait.I blink, the air collapsing from my lungs.“I’m not?” I draw back, staring at her.
She shakes her head, her pen scratching away at speed. So many rushed words materialize that I can’t keep up by reading over her shoulder. She steps back when she’s finished, watching me with somber brown eyes.
According to the Viper — my boss — Itissa is decoy.Imposter. No possible way could be BF’s child. Real daughter presumed returned to Boglands w/mother, long ago. Viper ismother’s brother. Kept this secret many years. Told only me.
My jaw hits the floor along with my stomach. There’s no doubt BF refers to Bard Fiach. The rest of it is too absurd to absorb all at once.
Decoy...
Imposter?!
A tremor goes through me, a sob strangling in my throat. Apparently this man Lydia worked for, the Viper, is my maternal uncle.
Except I’m most definitely not my father’s daughter, and it sounds like I’m not my mother’s child either!Who am I?
How has my limited concept of myself been turned on its head so many times in the last twenty-four hours? And Lydia isn’t finished:
You’re why I’m here.
Nausea hits, draining the blood from my face.
Everythingfeels too sharp, too acute all of a sudden. The humid air is suffocating. Even though the light in here isn’t all that bright, a deep-seated ache throbs behind my eyes. Combined with the cloying stench of violet hair wash, rose bath salts, and almond oil, it’s an assault on my newly mended demun senses.
The information circles my brain, jarring me like a bomb that won’t stop exploding. It’s all too much.
“Well?” I say, my voice a touch too shrill. “Who in the hell am I, Lydia?”
She bends over the stool again, her pen nib hovering, when noise explodes from somewhere down the hallway. We both start. The pen slashes a jagged, black streak across the paper. Both of us whirl toward the door.
Someone is yelling in the hallway.
Lydia issues a choked gurgle, her eyes flashing to mine.That cannot be good.
We’re both scrambling, immediately flying into action. I’m looking for some other exit I can use while she’s tearing the paper to pieces. The pen gets knocked to the floor. I swipe it up in a hurry, shoving it into my interior cloak pocket.
One by one, the doors lining the hallway are being ripped open and slammed closed again.Somebody is looking for something.Somebody is looking forme!
I throw open the corner cupboard to find shelves brimming with rolled towels, scented salts and oils, bars of soap, jars of flower petals.There’s nowhere to hide!
The sound of tearing fabric fills my ears, and I spin to find Lydia frantically yanking her clothes off.
