The thought of his name has my cheek turning to the flat pillow.
The blankets and quilt rustle as I slide my foot to the other side of the bed, and I move it around until I connect with him, his leg, his calf, his ankle, something.
But nothing, because he isn’t in bed with me.
Not anymore.
He’ll be in the house somewhere, nearby and around. I don’t doubt that I could call out his name and he would hear me—but that’s not my problem right now.
I’m not dressed, I need to use the bathroom, and I don’t have my torchlight to help me.
So I do it without the light.
Just means I move slow.
I find my backpack leaning against the door, and I know I didn’t leave it there. But I take it and shuffle my way to the bathroom.
There’s no doubt that the fae downstairs will hear the floorboards creaking and the doors opening and closing, but I’m left alone to do my business, wash my hands and face, then clumsily get dressed—while I’m sat on the same spot of the floor that Samick…
I throw the memory from my mind before it can take root, before it can even begin to haunt me.
It’s a skill of mine.
I can hold onto ropes of disconnect, separate my mind from the things I’m not ready to face.
And that isn’t something I want to think about right now.
My mind is a fortress of steel and fog as I feel my way along the corridor to the wisps of firelight climbing up the wainscoted walls.
I come down the staircase as quietly as I can manage with the old wood groaning under my weight.
Samick looks up.
His face doesn’t change from cold marble as he watches me descend the last of the stairs.
He sits on the rug by the fireplace, a leg hiked, and his spine resting on the edge of a metal chair.
At first glance, I think he’s just lounging by the warmth of the flames, that when he snuck out of the bedroom, he came down here to be with the fireplace—
But then I see the pot settled on the grate, flames curling and licking around it.
The scent of stew is thick in the air, but not leftovers. A fresh batch.
I stop at the bottom of the stairs.
My mouth floods. I swallow back the saliva and look over at the firm chaise.
Mika is awake.
The inky lines of poison on her pale flesh have faded. But her weakness hasn’t.
Elbows planted on her thighs, she’s slumped over herself, face buried in her hands.
She doesn’t look up as I wander in.
I drop my backpack before joining it on the rug. Close enough to the fireplace for the warmth to start cascading over my winter clothes.
The heat reaches me, threading through the knitted wool of my jumper. I keep my rain jacket in the bag for now, with my gloves.
