“Good. Father’s brave.” Elliot settled into his blankets, content. “And so are you.”
The unexpected praise landed like a rock in my chest. I wasn’t worthy of it.
“I don’t know about that,” I said, swallowing the rising lump in my throat. “If anyone’s brave, it’s you.”
Elliot laughed, pulling Chester under his chin. “Maybe you’re right. Because you don’t like bugs, I guess. Fish, too. You hate fish eyes. And baths. You mustreallyhate those, because you always smell like—”
“Since I’m clearly so flawed,” I began sarcastically, gesturing to the dim clearing beyond our window, “perhapsyoushould be helping Father instead of me.”
I expected Elliot to laugh or make another joke. Instead, he started to get up.
“Oh no, I was just kidding,” I said quickly, watching as Elliot’s face fell. The lump in my throat was becoming harder to ignore. If I stayed much longer, I’d succumb to it. “Keep warm in bed. I’ll be back soon.”
“All right,” he said. But he wasn’t looking at me; his gaze had fallen to his feet.
“Promise me.”
“I promise,” Elliot answered, crawling back into bed. “You’re the brave one, after all.”
“Sure,” I mumbled.
I left our room before he could see me cry.
Nothing about me was brave or admirable. A single tear slid down my face. I hastily wiped it away, willing the lump in my chest to shatterlike an egg. If Elliot knew what I’d done to Eden, would he still look at me the same?
Downstairs, I noted that our home was heavy with darkness. It roved through the air like a coat of thick, oily paint, spilling into the kitchen, the gathering room, and the hallway to both the apothecary and my parents’ bedroom. It curled around the furniture in wide, suffocating sweeps, turning our haphazardly packed trunks into wide-shouldered monsters that seemed to grow larger the second I looked away from them. Even the paintings appeared distorted; human subjects were suddenly headless or gape mouthed and screaming, and landscapes displayed pitch-black water and murk where forests should have been.
Focus, Esmer.
Boots. I needed to find my boots. They should have been just around the corner, but everything was indiscernible in this lighting. I reached forward, grasping for what I thought were my boots, but the dark shadow, once boot-like in shape, shifted away as if it were nothing but dust.
I turned another corner, but I was too hasty; my toe caught an uneven floorboard. My knees smacked against the ground, a corner of the wood snagging my nightgown and pressing a razor-sharp line into my skin. I hissed in pain, cursing lowly enough that my parents wouldn’t hear. I probed the wound, flinching when my fingers met something wet through a tear in the gown.
A dark, low chuckle sounded just behind my neck.
I spun around, heart racing, but there was no one there. I strained, listening intently for another laugh, but nothing came. Just silence and the sound of my own racing heart as I quickly found my boots, laced them tight, and headed outside.
Father was sitting on the porch in his favorite rocking chair, taut and straight-backed even while dozing. The wind was strong, coaxing the chair to sway and ringing the string of bells tied around our property. It was a miracle the chair had lasted through the years, splinteredas it was. I always thought it strange that the most trivial objects could last for decades while the people who owned them never had the same luxury. They grew sick, frail, and old while an object remained perpetually itself. Broken and faded, maybe, but never dead or dying.
I leaned against the house, considering. Father looked exhausted. He reminded me of a cracked, overburdened glass, leaking water when no one else was around. Maybe it was the row of torches circling our property, flickering under the strength of the wind and casting the lines in his face with deep shadows.
Shadows like the markings of a Corrupt.
Like Eden’s eyes—
I shook my head. No, there was my father. Warm brown eyes were underneath his lids. And though his expression was wretched and weak, he would wake with a smile, the smile he tried his best to give despite the burden of his labor and his duty as our shield. A wool blanket was fixed around his shoulders, and a small elixir vial stuck out of his shirt pocket—items of care left by Mother at some point in the night. Calloused hands rested atop the crossbow in his lap, and his work boots were filthy from walking the property to light the torches and scrutinize any late-night visitors.
Visitors desperate for our last elixir vials.
I moved to wake him, knowing he’d be upset at sleeping so heavily, but reconsidered. I had helped him before, during long nights such as these. Elliot had, too. I could wake him later, after I’d finished. I shivered, crossing my arms to ward off the chill in the air. Besides, it wasn’t as if I had much more time lefttohelp. If my recent visions meant I was close to Corruption, my time was short. Splintered. Blurry. It was impossible to be useful if my mind was half-rotted by a demon.
I scanned the surrounding clearing, noting the weak torchlight. The flames ran precariously low, struggling to fight against the encroaching dark. I quietly gathered the materials I needed into a bucket, its handle as worn and dented as the rocking chair, and positioned myself by thenearest torch. The flame surged to life under my care, smoldering, glowing, then rising to take a breath. It pierced into the night, defying the wind as its light filled the air.
I took a breath, too. Tried to squeeze all the darkness from my lungs.
Out of habit, my fingers threaded through the rising smoke. The warmth felt wonderful—cleansing, even. I eagerly stretched out my hands, closing my eyes as the smoke lapped against them.
Esmer.
