There’s a small—tiny, even—part of me that’s wondering if I should do something. What, I honestly don’t know. I mean I barely know whatthiseven is. Do I dislike Bayard so much that I’m reading into the situation, or is he actually terrorising Pepper?
Pepper’s look, her body language, spelled her emotions out clearly. It made it feel too much just being in the same room with such intensity.
Then I remembered what Abas told me last night—the things he can feel, the things he endured. Could he sense Pepper’s fear when she was in the kitchen? I don’t know how close Abas has to be to a person to feel their emotions, but if he could do it over the distance between here and his room…
I shake my head. It’s all too much. At least all the abuse is part of the past.
As I continue to peel seed after seed, images of yesterday burrow themselves deeper through my mind. Rough scars beneath my hands, the scent of spices. Pleading eyes and cold skin.
It’s all so new—shocking, yet thrilling. The possibility never crossed my mind before, but then, in the moment, it was as if something just took over. Something that felt so right. So whole.
I…feel…exhilarated. Intoxicated. Falling for Abas feels like I’m slowly poisoning myself. I never know if he’s going to scream in my face or pleasure me with those big hands.
But why did he confide in me? The vulnerability of the trauma, the horrors of his abilities, and the revelation of his age. I’m an insignificant man. Nothing. Barely even alive.
XVIII
When daylight finally fades into dusk, I return to my room, wash myself, and change into my pyjamas. I coil my hair into a bun at the nape of my neck, quickly slip my boots on, and close the door quietly behind me. Then I sneak through the hallway, trying to avoid Bayard’s detection.
When I turn the first corner, I bump straight into Abas’ chest. I nearly fall over from the impact, but he catches me with one large hand. I let out an embarrassing sound, halfway between a hiccup and a gasp.
“Shhh,” he whispers, grabbing my hand and quietly pulling me through the castle.
When we reach the root cellar, I understand where he’s taking me.
Today, the fire is already lit, and the room is comfortably toasty. Smoke drips thickly from the little cathedral. A comforting and now familiar scent greets my senses. Abas pulls me toward the hearth. Between the piles of books, furs and pillows are placed in a heap, a fruit and cheese-laden tray in the centre.
“Oh,” I gasp.
Abas shrugs and waves his hand like it’s nothing. He sits on one of the pillows, stretching his long legs across the furs. His feet are too close to the fire, and I wonder if it hurts. When he beckons me to join him, I arrange myself close by. He holds the tray up, his eyes filled with so much hope and fear, it makes my heart lurch.
“A-Abas, I…” I stammer.
But before I can finish, Abas’ face contorts as if he were struck and turns away. The tray nearly clatters to the floor, and the hope is sucked from the room quicker than it appeared.
“That is not my name,” he says through clenched teeth.
I can tell he’s trying not to shout at me. I observe, with quiet detachment, how my pulse swells and a faint wave of thrill and danger stirs deep inside.
“I didn’t know. Will you tell me?” I try to ask as gently as I can.
He’s staring into the fire again. Does it calm him—or is he hiding in the flames?
“I have never spoken my name aloud,” he says in a whisper.
“I don’t understand,” I say.
He rubs his hand over his face in frustration. “I do not know if I was named. As a boy, I mean. I have no memories,” he says quietly.
I put my hand right next to his on the floor, almost touching but not quite. He looks down at it.
“My…maker… he was known as Abas,” he explains. “That is what mortals called him millennia before he found me. He was so proud of it, the way they feared him. When he took me, he was called Sire Abas.”
“When was this?” I ask.
“I had no sense of time, no knowledge of any calendar. But I vividly remember shades of sand and, within, a golden glow. Sounds of joy and celebration, so loud—nearly too much. Theair was thick with food and spices. Colours…such vivid colours,” he replies. “I find it difficult to speak of what came before. The memories slip through my fingers. They wind into one another, a shadow…” he trails off.
I move my fingers over his thumb, caressing it slowly. “I think I understand.”
