“Yeah,” he says softly. “Yeah, I’m sure they’re just delayed.”
I appreciate the lie.
Sometimes, it’s the lies we choose to believe that let us keep moving forward.
The tile is cold beneath my bare feet as I emerge from a long, hot bath. I pad over to the sofa, eager to continue my latest book about medical practices in Arbinj. My legs ache from long hours standing in the infirmary, and I quickly send a wave of healing energy through my calves.
I’ve barely settled into the plush pillows when I hear it.
A loud rumble of thunder.
Too loud.
My mouth goes dry.
There’ve been several storms since I arrived in Arbinj, but they all were brief and tame—usually during the day, either when I was with Zev or buried in the infirmary, deep enough inside the palace that the thunder barely reached me.
Another startling boom, even louder than before.
A soft whimper pulls from my trembling lips.
Rain sluices the windows, insistent and unforgiving.
My breath escapes in sharp pants.
A bolt of lightning rips across the sky.
Book forgotten, I crawl beneath the covers, yanking them over my head.
I’m safe. I’m safe. I’m safe.
It’s just a storm.
The thunder rumbles louder. Closer.
It pounds in my ears, in my heart.
Mama? Where are you?
The rain slams harder against the windows, each drop threatening to crack the glass.
Loud steps thudding on stairs, and I know. I just know.
It’s not Mama.
It will never be Mama again.
I can’t breathe. Frantic, shaky,uselessinhales. Not enough air. Is it possible to suffocate this way?
The storm doesn’t sound like a storm anymore.
It sounds like boots. Like shouting.
Like the night my life shattered.
Lightning flashes, illuminating the room even beneath the covers. I’m curled into a ball. An embarrassment. A sniveling excuse for a princess. My hands tremble where they’re locked around my knees.
My wooden reindeer’s antlers bite into my palm as I squeeze myself smaller.
