As he closes the gray panels, I have a thought that as long as I stay where I am on this bed, he’ll stay with me.
But then I force my feet onto the floor. I was always going to have to go it alone at some point.
At the door, I take the latch and slowly slide it over. As the bolt locks into place, I whisper, “Goodbye.”
This is my journey, my life, after all.
Not ours.
Forty-OneA Problem Presents Itself.
“Sorrel. Open up.”
The voice weeds its way through my restless sleep, and I jerk awake. The first thing that registers is the rain. Before it was falling. Now, there are torrents of water hitting the roof over my head—
“Sorrel—”
There’s a thunderous rumble, more of the storm—no, it’s Merc, slamming his shoulder into the door, the latch nearly giving way from the impact.
“I’m coming! Don’t break it down!”
My legs are stiff and uncoordinated as I hit the floor and scramble over, and as soon as I throw the bolt, the panels rip open. The whiff of cooked meat and spice is very pleasant. The expression on Merc’s face is not. He’s tense and hostile as he comes in with a tray so laden with food and drink, I wonder if he hasn’t held up the kitchen with his broadsword.
“Close the door,” he orders as he sets his load down by the lamp.
I comply readily, because my stomach is very much interested in all he’s bought, even though my mind couldn’t care less.
“What happened?” I ask as I go back over to the bed.
“I got us a meal.” He picks up a bird leg and bites into it. “Come on, then. Don’t be shy.”
“Is the girl all right? She was supposed to bring it up.”
“You need food.” Merc walks across and gets my earlier plate, which I set on the floor by the cup that held the lemon drink. “And sleep. We both need sleep.”
Back by the tray, he puts the leg between his teeth, and the way he transfers bread, greens, and meat, it’s like he’s stabbing something with the fork. Whenthe tower starts to lean, his boots grind into the floorboards as he takes two steps over to me, and while the plate is shoved forward, I look up at him.
“Talk to me.”
“I have nothing to say,” he counters.
When I merely stare at him, he shrugs and takes what he’s gathered over to the window seat. He lowers himself down facing away from me, his knees bending so the length of his legs can be accommodated as he braces his boots on the opposite side. The orange lightning flashes. Thunder comes and goes.
“Days,” he mutters as he works his way through the meat. “No rain lasts that long.”
I want to remind him that he can leave anytime. But I’m afraid he’ll take it as an invitation.
“Are you all right then.” He doesn’t look over, and his tone is matter-of-fact. “Was that collapse really just about hunger and thirst? Or was it something else.”
I get up and go over to the tray on a surge. Serving myself, I murmur, “What else could it be?”
“You were looking at that girl. Right before… whatever that was happened.”
Abruptly, there’s no hunger anymore for me, but I put things in my mouth, chew and swallow, because he has a point. This interlude has to be about recuperation and planning for me, and I’ve never seen rain last days, either. I’m not going to feel as safe as I do with him, so I might as well take advantage of his presence while I have it.
“She reminds me of myself, back at the Gauntlet.” I’m back where I was again, and the food is good, even if the meat is greasy compared to the leanbalas. “Trying to survive in a hard place, all alone.”
“You’re still in that situation.”
