Page 151 of Queen of Nothing

Drink in hand, he watches the sun rising through the sheer curtains, glaring against the windows, and even glinting the amber liquid in the tumbler he nurses.

But he doesn’t take a sip.

Like he’s stuck in a daze.

He’s been in that daze with me since Oliver laid me down on the bed, and Father dismissed both him and Mr Younge, then dragged the chair to the edge of the bed, and sat down with a drink.

He hasn’t moved since.

Neither have I.

The tranquillity of the brew keeps me relaxed. But doesn’t make me sleep. So in this quiet between us, I just stare at my greatest traitor.

I turn over, onto my side.

The feathery quilt swishes under me, the pillows rustling, and it lures Father’s gaze to me.

He stares into my eyes.

He says nothing.

For the longest while, the silence continues between us.

The pinkish hue of dawn presses against the bedchamber windows, and warms the room.

The imps return, tend to the fireplace, then leave again.

And it’s only when the sun has risen, and the colours of dawn settle, that Father finally lifts the glass to his lips.

He downs the scotch in one thirsty gulp. Or anxious.

He gives a soft sigh, and he sets down the glass on the floor. Then, bringing his hands together, like in prayer, he leans forward.

His elbows press into his knees.

I hug the pillow under my head.

“I will be candid with you.” He lifts his bottle-green eyes to me—and they are raw, bloodshot with the silent tears he’s been shedding on and off for hours. “I never wanted you to learn the truth about the transfer.”

My brow furrows, snags on that word.

Transfer.

Not theft. Not violation.

Simply a transfer gone wrong.

But the brew keeps me placated.

Or the exhaustion numbs me.

The exhaustion of everything. Of being a deadblood and fighting through the days at Bluestone, the prejudices aimed at me, the push towards Dray Sinclair by my own family, the dismissals of my pain, the escape, the wretchedness of life out there, the work, the jobs, the motels, the shitty apartments, the motherhood I never asked for, the krum blood under the sky, the phone booths, the call I made, my betrayal of Serena and Sal, the cut that Dray slashed through my flesh, and now, this—

To learn that the weight I have carried with me for the past few years, the weight of learning that I am nothing more than a krum, was so much worse than that.

That this man who sits on the armchair in my room, whose face is taut with shame and despair, is responsible for my disability, that he took what was mine and gave it to my brother.

All of it has just… beaten me down.