I watched, stunned, my unspooling mind wandering in a dangerous direction—
I wondered then whether James could heal Clara.
I’d dismissed the thought by the time he stepped away from Leon. Someone had already called for the medics. We were swarmed. James, I reasoned, would never meet my sister. He’d no doubt be dead by the time I saw her again.
Meanwhile, Leon had fallen asleep.
“He passed out,” James explained to the responders, his hands slick with blood. “We have to get him into recovery as soon as possible, but he’ll be all right.”
Only after everyone had cleared out did James turn to look at me. He wiped his hands on a stack of napkins, the blood sticky, sticking; paper tearing. He sighed, shook his head.
“Rosabelle,” he’d said softly.
I swore I felt the earth move. His voice, low and steady, slid inside of me, circled my dead heart and squeezed, pumping blood to my veins with a force I’d never felt before. I couldn’t look away from him. I had no idea what he was about to say to me, how he might condemn me.
“Are you okay?” he said.
And I liquefied.
Are you okay?
Rosa, are you okay?
“Hey.” Agatha was snapping her fingers at me. “Did you hear what I said? What’s wrong with you?”
Rosa, what’s wrong?
Nothing, I’d said, scrubbing my hands in the sink. I was scrubbing them raw. They were red and stinging. My eyes were burning.
Why do you keep washing your hands?Clara asked.Why won’t you come read to me?
I have to wash them, Clara. I have to wash them first.
But you’ve been washing forever, Rosa.Aren’t they clean now?
No.
“Excuse me? Are you listening to me?”
The door slams open and I jerk up at the sound, my ears ringing.
James rushes into the room.
Rosabelle
Chapter 32
He looks like he ran here.
His face is pinker than normal, his bronze hair windswept, his eyes bright and arresting. Every time I see him it becomes more difficult to see him.
When our eyes meet, I hold my breath.
His absence is beginning to leave an impression on me. I can already feel my nervous system quieting in his presence, the screams of the world stamping out into soft noise. I don’t like this feeling. I don’t like that I look forward to seeing him, that I’ve been waiting for him to come back, that I’ve almost finished counting the scatter of freckles across the bridge of his nose.
Seven.
“Rosabelle,” he says, shaking his head. “What did you—”
