Dai freezes over me.
“Attack!” an old man yells.
Though language doesn’t register with him. My words do.
Daddy, please!
They sink into his mind and penetrate that feral, inhuman subconscious. His lashes shudder, and his left eyebrow ticks. A breath is sucked in through his nose, slow and shallow.
And that’s the feeling. My heart implodes for my father. The feeling is dumped into my nerves, and a pair of phantom hands throws the door wide open to the Nightlung.
I hold this sensation of love for him so close, my nails draw blood into my palms. Tears don’t stop coming down my cheeks. I step into the tear in this reality the way one would step into a lake for a swim. But this time, as I enter its abyss, I tell it where I’m going.
I think of Niklaus in the Vexamen Prison.
I’m coming for you, my sweetheart.
66. Mark on History
Sapphire
I expect to see himthe moment I open my eyes and recognize these stained ruddy cathedral walls and acrobatic beams across the vast ceiling.
But I am wedged between the stadium seating during a regale hour, watching inmates interact down below during their scheduled recovery time.
My hand fiddles with the hem of my dress nervously looking for any sign of him—hem of my dress.I’m wearing a dress in prison.Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.
I crouch lower behind a rusted, sticky seat. I pull the silky rose-petal pink dress over my head, tossing it off the side. Heels off. Tights pulled free from my legs. Hair unwound from its tight bun. All that’s left is a lacy black slip as an undergarment.
It’s not the usual red, skimpy uniform, but better than a morning sunlight afternoon dress.
I study each inmate who shows me their face. None are Niklaus. I’m jittery with nerves to see him again, but there’s that daunting fear that he didn’t make it. That I’m too late. That I didn’t travel back far enough.
Three women converse a few rows below me. I pinpoint their lineage by the branded marks on their shoulders. The peak and stag of the East Vexello Mountains. Additionally, they are big-boned, hefty, husky, hewn from hardship.
I’ve learned about their people from Helga Bee and Gerta at our family dinners.
“Pssst!” I call to them.
They look around, finding me staring at them with one eye between the crack of the chairs. Their expressions contort into a confused laugh as they find humor in my hiding. Not at all threatened by my sudden appearance.
“What’re you hiding from, naked little dumpling?” the middle one asks.
I lift my eyes an inch over the seat.
“Get over here!” I whisper-shout.
The three women laugh. “Bossy dumpling!”
“…and I’m not naked. I’m wearing more clothes than you three are.”
They approach and begin inspecting my black silk slip, touching the fabric and lace.
“Oooooh, so soft!” one chimes.
“Mmm-hmm. Definitely naked.”
“Pretty, but naked.”
