He’s annoyingly patient, kind, and understanding. Not once did he raise his voice, despite me raising mine. Nor did he lash back, despite my antagonistic comments and colorful curses.
He never lost his temper.
I wish I could say the same.
Instead, he made me hispriority.
Despite me wanting to burn the world.
I don’t know how to handle that.
And now, only after the fact—after the realization—it leaves me humbled in a way I didn’t expect.
As I sink into the bath, the hot water seeps into every muscle, every bone, and perhaps even my essence. The tight tension and soreness melts away, turning me into nothing more than a limp mass. I will remain here until the water goes cold.
Hair thrown over the side of the tub, my head falls back, and I stare at the ceiling, heaving a heavily contented sigh. Oraphia skirts into the edges of my vision, giving me a small smile as she heads toward the shelving with the washcloths. She snags an amber glass bottle and returns tubside.
“Almond and rose oil, my lady,” she says, uncorking the thin bottle in her hands. She tips it, allowing three drops to plunge into the water. Immediately the warm, floral scent blooms, rising with the steam. “I’ve a fire going. The balcony doors are ajar to let in a touch of air before it gets too chill.”
Forever the mother hen.
“Thank you, Oraphia,” I grant quietly, keeping my stare upon the ceiling.
“Of course, Lady Ves,” she chimes.
She reaches for the streaming faucet, giving the silver handle a swift swivel. With a soft musical hum trailing in her wake, she retreats to the bedroom proper. It’s an unfamiliar melody, but it settles into the essence of my being as I close my eyes.
The call of sleep finds me.
And I listen.
The humming, the faint sounds of the fire, and the warmth of the water fade away as I teeter on the cusp of consciousness.
Sharp tapping upon metal has my eyes snapping open and swinging toward the source. The white raven sits on the ledge of the tub near my feet. It stares, assessing me with a tilted head.
Not possible.
It cannot be the same creature.
Straightening its head, it points its beak in my direction, revealing the missing eye.
Itisthe same creature.
Aliveand well.
“You died,” I whisper, sitting upright.
I glance over my shoulder, toward the door. The last thing I need is for Oraphia to return and find me talking to abird. I neither hear nor see Oraphia and turn back to the raven.
“I watched you die,” I add, giving the creature a narrow-eyed stare.
It lets out a low warble, bobbing its head.
Is it agreeing with me or is this coincidence?
“Where did you go?” I ask.
Silence.
