53. Who?

Who?

Luella

My rooms are empty when I return. It’s a gracious word for the way they shove me into the chamber, the bag still in place, the only clue to my whereabouts the warmth spreading across my skin from the afternoon suns as I lie on the plush rugs. I remove the hood, but I don’t rise. The dirt on my skin and the salt on my cheeks just feed the rage inside of me. I debate going to Cassius and slitting his throat. I debate castrating the Emperor and shoving his pathetic member down his own throat.

I still might do that one.

I change into a clean shift, filling the pockets with Janus’ blessing stones and replacement vials. I don’t remove the shift in the bathing chambers of the Baths where Cassius took me before. I scrub around the material until my skin is pink beneath the white garment. I keep scouring my skin, the shift wet and sticking to the ground pumice coating me. Protecting me. I don’t stop until the pink turns to red and my skin screams in protest.

I will need to see Mia today to heal my injuries and check for infection, although shame urges me to stay away.

My chambers are still empty when I return, as are Cassius'. I change into a dress suitable for traveling, transfer my vials and my stones, and discard my wet shift.

Perhaps Mia will tell me ‘I told you so,’ and I can pretend this is another poor choice. I can pretend this is a learning opportunity, a plan I was attempting, a way to set the Emperor at ease around me so I could kill him next time.

Perhaps I can pretend I’m still in control.

The streets are busy, and the noise grates my nerves like fine cheese. I wrinkle my nose and take a deep breath, entering Mia’s clinic.

While I wait I pick my cuticles bloody and wonder if I will cry. Perhaps she will hold me, the way I know she does.

“Stones, Lue.” Mia enters and does just that. She doesn’t ask me anything, just folds me in a warm embrace. Her healing power spreads across my body, and I refuse to apologize for the great gulping breaths I take in her arms. Her power tells her enough that when I finally catch my breath she just asks, “Who was it?”

I don’t want to answer, don’t know if I can.

But Mia’s silence is gentle, and I finally set it free. The name that lives in me as a whisper, a secret, and a curse.

“Tristan.”