33. Clara

CHAPTER 33

Clara

I don't know what time it is because the light in my room hasn't turned off, but I know I've been in this room for several hours at least.

The cell I'm put into is little more than a six foot by six foot closet made of whitewashed brick and freezing concrete. There's no bench to sleep or sit on, no sink to wash up with, no toilet, and no windows. The room's only feature is a drain in the middle of the floor.

But aside from the obvious discomforts I can't bear to sleep for an entirely different reason.

Thomas is walking into a trap, and I can't even warn him about it.

I should probably be more afraid for myself, but all I can think of is him. My plan might still be salvageable. But does Thomas have any idea what's coming for him? He's intelligent to an intimidating degree, but sometimes, he focuses too hard on the solution he believes is the correct one. He decided I was responsible for setting fire to Raleigh's house, and let that suspicion color his investigation until he was absolutely proven wrong. If he's decided Derrick is his ally, how long will it take him to find out that he's wrong?

Somehow, someway, I have to warn him.

As if he was summoned by my thoughts, Paul appears in the small window set in the door of my cell. The lock clicks, and he opens the door wide, unworried that I'll try to escape past his square frame. There's a cigarette between his lips, but he takes it out and flicks the butt back down the hallway before coming into my cell. In his other hand is an ice pack. When the door closes behind him, it doesn't lock again. He slouches back against the door, shoves his free hand in his pocket, and looks down at me sitting against the far wall.

He's here to interrogate me on Uncle's orders, I know. I've watched men be taken apart under Paul's steady hands. The blood that would spill over the office's floor would usually end up soaking the entire front of his clothes. But the reason men fear him is the same reason I've never been afraid in his presence.

When he causes pain, he does it without emotion.

Compare that to my uncle or Barnabas Harrow, who grin like hyenas when they spill other mens' blood. Paul follows orders, but there's no joy in his work.

I wonder what orders my uncle has given him today. I wonder if I should fear him now.

If only I could bring myself to be that pragmatic.

With a put-upon sigh, Paul steps towards me, kneels in front of me and gently presses the ice pack to my cheek. The cold is instantly soothing on the bruise I know is spreading over the side of my face. "You shouldn't have come back," Paul says, echoing his words from hours- days?- ago. "I can't help you now that you're here."

On the contrary, this was the only way I could talk to him in private once inside my uncle's house. Paul doesn't see it, but he's right where I need him to be .

I lean into the ice pack, letting all the unknowing and fear I've felt since walking back into this place show. "I thought that I…" I shake my head. "It was a stupid idea."

"Make sure the gun's loaded next time," Paul chides mildly. "And that you're actually ready to pull the trigger."

I look up at him. "And have you barge into the office and avenge your master five seconds later?" I ask.

Paul sighs and releases the ice pack into my hand, stepping back to the door. He fishes around in his pocket for another cigarette, realizes he doesn't want to trap me in this little room with the smoke, and settles for scratching at his stubbly jaw instead.

"That wouldn't happen."

"Because you definitely kept him from hurting me," I say, turning my face so the bruised side is facing him. Paul's jaw clenches, his crow's feet deepening as he grimaces.

"He wasn't-" he starts, but cuts himself off with a shake of his head.

I know what he wants to say. He thinks my uncle isn't likely to kill me just because my uncle saved his life. But even to Paul, that logic is too weak to entertain. Uncle needs him and his grizzly talents. I'm expendable, and deep down, we both know it.

Before he can decide what to say instead, I blurt, "Most debts are forgiven after death."

"For that to apply to this scenario, I'd have to be the one to die," Paul says, a little bemused. "You got another gun stowed somewhere? Remember the way I taught you to aim?"

I could never hurt Paul, but I don't think he's ever believed me when I told him that. "You know what I mean."

"I actually don't," Paul counters. "So tell me what your plan was."

This question came from my uncle, I know. He likely expected Paul to rough me up first, but he hasn't laid a finger on me, except to gently apply an icepack to my cheek. Maybe I don't have to be afraid after all.

"I told Uncle what I wanted," I say. "I want a truce."

"So you threatened him with an unloaded gun," Paul says, raising a bushy eyebrow.

"It was a bluff," I say, with a sheepishness I really feel. In order for it to work, my uncle would have had to be afraid of me, but that was always an impossibility. Even if I wanted to strike fear into another person, which I don't. "It just… didn't work."

Paul smiles, the crow's feet around his eyes deepening. "You were never meant for this kind of life, kid."

That stings, although I would've been the first to agree a few days ago. Paul is the only reason I survived this long after my mother died. He was the one who made sure I ate regular meals, went to bed at a decent hour, and had enough tampons and ibuprofen every month. He'd ruffle my hair when I cried, bring me new art supplies, and he let me call him Polly when I felt comfortable enough around him to be irreverent. He knows me better than any living person, save Raleigh.

Or at least, he did know me, before I met Thomas. Before I realized that running and hiding weren't viable options anymore. Before I heard those crucial words that changed the outcome of my life forever.

"I think… it would be a better use of my time to shape this world into what I want it to be, instead of just trying to leave it behind."

I see myself in the mirror of the boutique, dazzling in lavender and pearls, with Thomas at my back. That was the first time I felt like I could seize some of the power this world had to offer for myself. Thomas might have said those words in a bid to make me a more compliant tool of his own, but the sentiment is the same. The hope that sparked in my chest then still lingers now .

Paul crosses his arms, reevaluating me for a moment. When he asks, "What are you doing here, Clara?" I can tell he's asking for himself, not for Uncle.

This isn't the original reason I came here, but it's my priority now. "I need you to warn Thomas that Derrick Lindman is going to betray him."

"You know I can't," Paul says immediately. But I'm not giving up that easily.

"Please, Polly," I beg. He grimaces in pain, but doesn't look away from me. "Please, don't make me sit here while he's in danger."

Paul's pale eyes sharpen a little at that. "All that stuff you said at the banquet… that was true?" he asks dubiously.

I did lay it on a bit thick, but I'd been trying to convince strangers of my feelings for Thomas. It had been a performance. The core of what I said…

I say the only thing I know will cut through his doubts. "I owe him my life."

Paul's jaw tightens, and he does look away then. My heart aches. I've just taken his most sacredly held belief and thrown it back in his face. Now we're both immovable objects on opposite sides of a line. I can't sit idly by while the man I owe a life debt to is hurt- and he can't betray the man he owes his life debt to.

I don't know the specifics of how Uncle saved Paul's life. I know it happened before the schism, and sometimes I wonder if it's the only reason Paul is here instead of with the Warwicks. Sometimes I think there's someone he misses over there, though he's never talked about it.

When I was younger, he'd ask to take pictures of my drawings to send to a friend, like a proud parent even when I thought my work was terrible. One day he snapped a pic of an absolutely failed self portrait that he claimed to love, and when I tried to snatch the phone away to unsend the message, I caught a glimpse of the text thread he was using.

The last message, sent to a contact known only as ‘yours', said: someday this civil war will end .

Paul managed to grab his phone back before I saw anymore, but he hadn't been upset, only sad.

That… gives me an idea.

"I guess that's that," I say, backing down first. "I'm sorry Paul. I won't ask again. Can you… bring me some drawing supplies instead?"

Paul looks instantly suspicious, but this request, at least, he's never denied me. Perhaps more than anyone he understands how much of an escape drawing and painting are for me. In the days after my mother's death, painting was the only way I was capable of communicating. Now that I'm in great distress again, and worse, trapped in this cell, how can he say no?