I cut myself off before I get lost in the endless number of questions. A few minutes, he said. No need to panic yet. Glancing down at my forearms, I find dark slits on my wrists beginning to seal and lighten. Slowly, I trudge around the pool of blood I’ve left and edge toward the window, peeking out to find a drop of at least ten stories, down to a stone-paved garden courtyard with a magnificent dragon fountain spouting water from its mouth. Trees with long, wispy branches float in a gentle breeze. Surrounding the courtyard are other buildings varying in height and architecture. And beyond the buildings is a blue sky and clouds scuttling across the expanse in a show of midday.
I press a hand to the pane, running through the options of how to get out. Sure, there’s a latch here. But as I test it, I only find it to be locked. That, or stuck. Besides which, my strength hasn’t completely returned yet. Scaling the side of a building, naked and covered in blood, wouldn’t be the smartest choice.
At least, not yet.
I toss a glance over my shoulder and head to the bathroom. A porcelain tub with golden clawed feet shines in the center of the room. Beyond it, a marbled counter adorned with brushes, soaps, lotions, oils, and hairpins. Above the counter sits three grand mirrors.
As I slip farther into the room, I find white towels folded on a tufted bench near the tub. I turn the knobs at the faucet. Running my hand through the water, I rinse off the blood and marvel at the warmth. Heated, running water.
I straighten and glance up at the mirrors, my curvaceous body now in perfect view. Jagged scars cut from my navel down across to my knee. A wound that should have been lethal.
My jaw drops open as I trail a bloody finger from the top to the bottom of one of the lined scars. Why can’t I remember what it’s from? And even worse…why can’t I rememberanything?
My pulse quickens as I realize I don’t recognize who’s in the mirror. What her name is. Where she’s from. The thick dark hair spilling down her back in waves isn’t familiar. Nor the brown eyes framed by thick eyebrows staring back at me.
Before I can spiral, I twist the faucet closed and the rush of water silences to a drip, then stops. Near frantic to scrub the blood off my skin, I slide myself into the tub. Working my fingers over myself until the water turns red.
A creaking sound catches my attention off in the bedroom, and three elderly women drop to the pool of blood I’ve left behind. They work on scraping the blood together and funneling it into glass jars, until all that’s left is smears on the ground. As they begin to clean the tiles with towels and soap, I hold my breath and dunk myself underneath the surface. Surrounded by my pulse and darkness as I squeeze my eyes shut and scratch the blood out of my scalp.
Each pound of my heart closes the gaps in my mind, beat by beat.
Marcella. My name is Marcella.
I burst out of the water with a gasp.
Two
- LYRA -
“Lyra?” a soft voice calls from behind me.
I’m sitting facing a wall, hunched over and hugging my arms to my chest. Squeezing my eyes shut as I rock back and forth.
“Lyra, it’s alright. It’s only your blood.”
My eyes flash open, and I stare at the dragon painting before me. A new spike of terror rips through me as I turn to the kind voice. Glancing over my shoulder, I stop at the man’s golden boots, not daring to look him in the eye.
“Is that…is that supposed to make me feel…better?” I say through trembling lips. “I don’t know who you are. I don’t know where I am.” I can’t keep the pathetic fear from shaking my voice. All I can manage is flicking my gaze up his boots, up the gold armor encasing his body. The only thing uncovered is his head. A light beard dusts his jawline, with his hair cut close to his skull.
“You’ll be alright…” He tilts his head to the side a tick, soft brown eyes pitying me. “You have nothing to fear.”
I turn away from him, my body shaking. I remember nothing. And until he called my name, I didn’t know that, either. Didn’t know where I was—still don’t. Nor why I’m naked and woke up in a puddle of my own blood with slit wrists.
“Drink the wine, and it’ll heal you,” he calls behind me. “I promise. Waking up can be a bit jarring, but you’ll come to once you drink it all and give it a moment to settle.”
“Can you…” I try to swallow back the thickness in my throat. “Can you look away?”
“Of course.” He closes the door gently. After I’ve checked over my shoulder, I crawl over to the table and lift the glass. The room spins atdizzying speeds, and my throat is tight with nausea. A sweat breaks out across my forehead, competing for my attention.
I dip a finger and test the liquid on my tongue.
Not poison.
I don’t know how I know that, but I do. So, I wash down the tightness in my throat with the wine and wait until it quiets my overwhelming sensations.
“Lyra?” the sound is muffled behind the door. “Did you drink it?”
“Yes.”
