"Stick to being a mountain, Daniel," she whispered. "No one can do Isobel. She has a gift for finding the secrets between the lines."
"She does," I admitted, a hint of professional respect in my rumble. "But if we get her, your readers won't just hear the story, they’ll live in it."
Tessa made a sound of approval from the other side of the door that turned into a whine of pain.
"She stood on the battlements, shivering not from the cold, but from the rage boiling in her marrow. They thought she was broken. They thought she was a porcelain doll to be shelved."
I paused, letting the silence hang for a beat, then filled it.
"They were wrong. Porcelain shatters. Iron just hardens."
I heard a slide. A click.
The heavy brass bolt snapped back.
The doorknob turned, and the door creaked open a few inches. I froze, listening to her footsteps retreating before I opened the door a little further.
The scent hit me instantly, blackberries and brine, sharp and acidic with pain. The room beyond was dim, lit only by the slate-grey light of the rainy afternoon.
Tessa was on the bed. She had kicked the duvet off, tangling her legs in the top sheet, and was still wearing that oversized grey t-shirt that hung off one shoulder, her skin flushed a feverish pink, sweat dampening her hairline. She was curled around a pillow, clutching it to her stomach, her knuckles white.
She looked at me with eyes that were glassy and wide.
"You have a good voice," she rasped.
"I know," I said gently.
I didn't stand up. I didn't loom. I stayed close to the floor, pivoting on my hip and scooting forward, crossing the threshold on my knees, dragging the tablet with me. I stopped three feet from the bed.
"Keep reading," she demanded, squeezing her eyes shut as another cramp seized her, her body bowing around the pillow. "Just... don't stop. Fill the air. Please. Make the silence go away."
I sat cross-legged on the rug, my back to the dresser, giving her space. I looked at the text, but I was aware of every breath she took.
"Charlotte turned from the edge," I read, pushing more air through my diaphragm, making the sound richer. "The vibration of the approaching army rattled the stones beneath her feet. Fear was a taste she knew well, metallic and cold. But she swallowed it."
"Ahhh..." Tessa whimpered, digging her heels into the mattress. She rolled onto her back, her knees falling open, abandoning modesty in the face of agony.
I kept reading. I read through her gasps, through the sound of her heels drumming against the sheets. I built a wall of sound around her, a fortress of words to keep the silence at bay.
But it wasn't enough.
Five minutes in, the cramps shifted. This wasn't just a muscle spasm; it was a biological riot.
Tessa let out a scream, a strangled, high-pitched sound that cut through my narration like a knife. She arched off the mattress, her hands clawing at her lower belly, trying to dig the pain out.
"It burns!" she sobbed, tears leaking from her squeezed-shut eyes. "It feels like... like barbed wire. Make it stop."
I dropped the tablet.
The "Unless you beg" rule died in my throat. This wasn't a power play. This was suffering.
"Tessa." I was up on my knees, moving to the side of the bed before I processed the decision.
"No hands!" she gasped, shrinking away from me even as her body twisted. "You promised! I can't... I can't take the weight."
"No hands," I agreed, my voice rough. "No weight."
I grabbed her ankle gently, just for a second, to anchor her. She kicked out, but the fight was weak.
