She might stay, a foolish voice whispers inside my skull.She wants you now. She could still want you once she learns the truth.
You are supposed to be dead, I remind the voice.You were supposed to die after the last time the villagers tortured me. You’re not supposedto allow me to hope.
And yet, Ihope.
I hope for a future where Winnie stays at Black Crag, where I make art and she whirls about with her terrible music, where everything smells of sunshine and strawberries and she lets me taste her whenever I desire, and we are happy …
My supernatural hearing alerts me to Winnie stirring in her bed on the other side of the castle. A low, pained moan escapes her lips.
She’s having one of her nightmares.
It takes me barely a heartbeat to find myself outside her room once more. This time, I push open the door and see her curled beneath the covers, a pained expression on her face. This close, her whimpers devastate me. I long to reach into her dream and pluck out the monster that’s hurting her, but I don’t have that power. Instead, I cross the room and gather her in my arms.
“Winnie, I’m with you. You’re safe.”
She jerks against me, her limbs flailing out to slap at her body. “Bugs … get them off me …” she whimpers, her eyes squeezed shut.
“There are no bugs.” I stroke her hair. I don’t know if I’m helping or making things worse.
But I remember something that helped me.
When I ran away to the Midnight Court with a skull filled with nightmares, a friend taught me to sing. I learned songs of hope and longing, songs of farewell to brothers at arms, songs of war and songs of love. I sing them to myself sometimes, when I need to remember, or when I long to forget.
I pluck one from the air and sing it for her now.
It’s an old Germanic folk song about slaying monsters, one that I have sung on the battlefield many times to stir my blood for the killing. I sing and soothe her until her limbs stop jerking and her body rests easy against the pillow. She returns to sleep. I watch her for hours, making sure that she doesn’t have another dream. Winnie wants me to be vulnerable. I’ve never felt more vulnerable than watching her suffer and knowing that there’s nothing I can do.
My fingers itch to sculpt this feeling,this helplessness.
It’s still a couple of hours until the sun sets, but if I keep the curtains drawn and don’t overexert myself, I can work.
Compared to the secret of my blood, this art project is but a tiny lie between us. When I reveal my final artwork to her, when I can finally show her how Itrulyfeel, she will not care that I have snuck around to make it happen.
I plant a gentle kiss on her hair and slip away, careful not to step into the shaft of sunlight streaming through the half-open curtains.
Winnie, what nightmares haunt you?
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
WINNIE
Iwake to cold moonlight streaming in through the gothic windows. I rub my eyes, casting my mind back to the violent dream that woke me, but I find nothing.
Huh?
Odd.
I always remember the nightmares of towering piles and scrambling rats and bugs. Why can’t I remember? Am I so sleep-deprived that I’m starting to lose my memory?
I sit upright and fumble around for my phone. 5.33 pm.
What? That can’t be right.
I slept until 5.33 pm. Buthow?
Did I not have the nightmare?
I focus on my body. My skin isn’t crawling. I can’t feel the bugs.
