Mirela
Mirelathoughtshewouldnever see Claire again after their last encounter. She felt so stupid about it. She was about to make a friend, and she had to open her mouth and ask her to leave. She had brought her a gift… because she wanted to, because she cared, and she had ruined it all by telling her to leave.
Of course she had her reasons. She wasn’t used to having her scars touched or even looked at. The only one who did that was Ferron, and even he always looked at her left eye when addressing her. She knew he was repulsed by it, although he never said it.
And yet, Claire had touched her without an ounce of disgust, the only one that had felt disgust in that interaction was Mirela…
Claire shouldn’t have to deal with a person with scars, she shouldn’t have to listen to pathetic sad stories of how she got them…
So that was it…
She sent her away in a very rude way, and now she was alone. Sleeping in her cot, surrounded by her drawings, struggling to sleep.
When tiredness won over her, she dreamt only of Claire.
It was pure torture knowing that if she woke up, she wouldn’t see Claire again.
When Mirela woke, the air in the tower felt wrong. Cold. Still. Too still.
Humidity stuck to her skin as a thin layer of sweat. She took in her surroundings, feeling the air around her before opening her eyes.
Groggy, the hairs along her arms prickled before she even turned her head. Her eyes widened as she foundhimsitting close to her.
Master Ferron sat beside her cot, the basket resting on his lap, his bony fingers tracing the edge of the empty cloth. The faint morning light caught the sweat on his temples, gleaming like oil. His mouth was down-turned, angry, but he definitely was not happy.
Mirela’s throat tightened. “Good morning, Master Ferr—“
“Where did you get this?” His voice was stern. His eyes darted from her to the basket. His upper lip twitched.
Mirela sat up slowly, her mind racing, grasping for something she could say that seemed believable to him. Whatever she said, she was sure he could see right through her, and yet she hoped this time he would believe whatever came out of her mouth.
“It was left… in the pews,” she whispered. “I—I thought it was for me.”
He didn’t believe her. She could see it in the way his jaw tensed, in the way his eyes searched her face. “Someoneleftit?“ His tone dripped with disbelief. “And you thought Heaven itself had decided to feed you, is that it?”
Mirela’s pulse pounded in her ears. “I did not know who it belonged to. I was hungry, Master, and…” She swallowed hard. “I did not mean to upset you, Master.”
His mouth tightened. “Your very existence upsets me.”
She stilled.
“When your mother died in the fire and I rescued you,” he continued calmly, “I believed gratitude would shape you into something… tolerable.” Sighing, he turned back to the basket and then inhaled sharply. “This…” he held the bottle of wine. “Is holy wine. The only way you could get this is if you set foot in the sacristy and youknowI have prohibited you from entering that place.”
“I know, Master. I—“
“You deliberately disobeyed me? When I am trying to keep you away from men that would hurt you, from people that will do horrible things to you.” He snarled before throwing the wine inside the basket. “Have you lost your senses, Mirela!? How many times do I have to tell you that you need to be careful? You must stay up here. Always. You have no business at the altar or at the sacristy. Your purpose is to toll the bells and pray for redemption. That is all that is required of you.”
“But I always go downstairs to clean,” Mirela said carefully. “It is one of my duties—“
Before she could finish, he moved.
Ferron’s hand shot out, fisting a handful of her hair and yanking her head back hard enough to make her gasp. The sudden pain shot down her spine, her breath catching in her throat.
“Why do you keep talking back to me? I made myself clear. There is nothing for you down there,” he hissed, his face inches from hers.
He let go abruptly, shoving her back. The basket slipped from his other hand and hit the floor with a crash, the bottle of wine shattering against the stone. Red liquid splattered across the floor like spilled blood. Mirela yelped, stumbling back.
Ferron straightened slowly, the fury in his eyes settling into something colder. The morning light streamingthrough the narrow window seemed to shrink away from him. He fixed his hair and inhaled deeply before focusing on her once more.
