8. Niamh

CHAPTER 8

Niamh

I n front of me is a painting of a woman with hazel eyes. With her head partially turned, she gazes longingly at the viewer, her eyes wistful, soulful, and beautiful. How I wish to give her whatever it is she seeks so forlornly. It must be more precious to her than a visit to a museum or a wayward mother. Something she fears she may never find again.

I wish I could reach out and touch her cheek and tell her that all isn't lost. Sometimes dreams can be delivered in the darkest of places by the unlikeliest of deliverers.

And some dreams become dashed horribly by unforeseen circumstances.

I hear the cries of startled viewers around me, like a piercing siren. Someone shouts. Screams.

A man in blue storms forward, waving a blunt, black instrument toward the nearest exit. "Everyone! Attention, everyone! We're issuing an evacuation. Please file calmly and quietly out of the nearest exits?—"

Panic.

Pandemonium.

People scream. Women grab the hands of children and all rush to one of the doors with gleaming green words portraying the way to safety.

Safety. Because there is danger in this beautiful, sacred place. Distant shouts rise from the distance. "Move, move, move. West Gallery!"

Something is wrong.

But where is Caspian?

Reaching out, I expect him to appear from nowhere and take my hand. He doesn't. Neither is he over my shoulder, or anywhere nearby as I spin around.

"Miss?" The man in black waves his device menacingly in my direction. "Please, leave. This is an evacuation."

There is no argument. No discussion. The press of mortals around me swells and expands, jostling me among them toward the doorway. Out, only a busy street swarmed with masses of scared, terrified people.

Their emotions slam into me. Jar and disrupt.

I look for Caspian. I need to find him.

He isn't here. In his black hood, he stands out, even with his features obscured. With it down, he is undeniable: a star among stone. I look and look, trying my best to resist the flow and press of the crowd.

"Move!" Another guard points down the block. "Keep moving, please! An orderly line."

Orderly. Orderly.

But where is Caspian? The back of my neck prickles with sweat. My heart races. I spin around, craning my neck, looking, and looking. I see him nowhere.

I reach out and feel him nowhere.

Even in my head. It is empty, with only my own thoughts circling around.

"Caspian?" My voice rings out, swallowed by nearby murmurs and questions. I try again. Can't hear myself. I can't even hear myself think.

The museum is too far away, getting further with every forced step.

"Detour. Detour," someone mutters, another guard. They point and shout. Point and shout. The crowd thins and spreads. I need to go back. I try to, only to be shouted at and pushed back. Further away.

No.

I resist the press of the crowd. Try to slip to the outskirts, ducking around bodies. The only way out is through a darkened gap in between two buildings. There are no other people in there. No shouting, yelling, pushing. I race toward it and gasp once I'm finally free.

I can think again. Caspian. Caspian. Where is he? I try calling for him out loud. "Caspian? Cas…"

A noise sounds nearby, making me jump. A smattering of footsteps, quick and light. My heart lurches, hope surges. I rush toward it: a corner of the alley further in where the light doesn't reach. Makes sense for him to hide here. Lurk here.

It makes sense.

But the figure who detached themselves from the shadows—the figure I reach out for—isn't Caspian. They are too tall and willowy. Too cruel. Their skin reeks of cologne and sourness. I stagger back, out of their reach.

And right into the grasp of another figure I didn't even notice closing in on me from behind.

Their hot breath tickles my throat as they chuckle, "Gotcha."