It’s still not enough tosee.
I need to getinthere.
The fire iron clangs on the floor as I rush toward the bathing room. It takes longer than it should to fill the pitcher Oraphia uses to wash my hair and streak back to the fireplace. Without much forethought, I perch myself on my knees and pour the water over the embers.
Of course, I’m assaulted by the immediate dark billow of ash and steam. Coughing, I continue to pour, smothering the embers in sheer spite. With the aid of the fire poker and an eternity of baited breath and careful sifting, I’m left covered in soot.
Yet again, no raven.
No bones, no feet, no feathers.
The damn thing isgone. As if it never existed.
Setting the fire iron aside, I wipe my grainy-feeling palms down the front of Ryc’s shirt, my mind flooding with questions.
The door opens.
“Oraphia—” My hands race to my mouth, clamping over the panicked sound.
These very well may be my last moments alive once she sees the state of this room. Were I the praying kind, I’d be asking for a final forgiveness.
The door halts, caught by the comforter, barely opening a sliver.
And Eve wedges her face into the room.
“Ves,” she calls, her tone wary. She lifts her pinched face from the sight of the comforter at her feet as I heave a sigh of relief.
I get to live.
For a few minutes longer.
Shoving her way into the room, she kicks the comforter aside before closing the door behind her.
“Tired of the—” She stops herself short as she turns and sees methenthe mess that is my quarters. “What in the nine hells?”
I should probablyattemptto explain this…
“Listen—”
“Oraphia is gonna have your a—”
“I’ve lost—”
“Your mind,” Eve bellows incredulously. “You’ve lost your godsdamned mind!”
I heave a defeated sigh. “Sanity is subjective,” I offer with a rather weak smile.
Glancing around the room, it’s easy to see how she’d arrive at such a conclusion. Couch cushions strewn about, bed torn apart with blankets on the floor, a disaster in the hearth and—I glance at my blackened hands.
Perhapsmessisn’t strong enough a word.
Catastrophe might be more suitable.
With a dry, disbelieving laugh, Eve ventures farther into the room, plucking one of the discarded couch cushions from the floor along the way.
“I’m not sure I want to be here when Oraphia arrives.” She slingsthe cushion toward the couch where it lands in a cockeyed fashion. “Youdid this.” She points at me. “Not me. I’m not taking the blame for this one. Not with Oraphia. You’re on your own in explaining…whateverthis is.” She gestures in a wild, ambiguous swing.
“Then you should leave,” I say, the grimace on my face plastered there as she pitches over the back of the couch, slapping the cushion into place. “Oraphia is due any minute.”
