Page 26 of Possession

“I’m guessing we’ve arrived?” I say and glance at her.

This time, her face is openly hostile. She sneers and doesn’t bother to respond, just cuts in front of me to push open the doors, revealing a familiar room.

At the disturbance, Silva immediately turns in his chair at the table and quickly stands to bow. “Good morning.”

“Um, morning,” I say.

The scene of breakfast is a mirror to the one from dinner. Like before, Ryan is in the corner. He has a few gauze pads taped on the side of his head, but they’ve bled through and should be changed. I’m impressed that he’s even standing. He seriously needs to go to a hospital.

That one won’t go down easy, Aris says with something almost like admiration.

I look back at Silva. Before him is like enough food to feed an army, but it’s nothing like the dried, packaged food soldiers see—the opposite, in fact. There is perfectly toasted bread separated by type of grain, fruit tarts arranged in slightly increased intervals of custard, and five pitchers containing different types of fresh juices. Each platter has a perfect presentation—various melons are carved into flamingos and scenic views, breakfast sausages are arranged in spirals and different shapes, and the eggs have orchids and violets placed outside of what is edible.

The only other place setting is at the end of the twelve-foot table, opposite to Silva, which makes me clueless as to how I’m meant to engage in conversation without shouting.

“This is great,” I say quietly, then turn to thank the maid for the speedy escort, only to find that she’s gone. Right, then.

I begin my walk across the long room. With each step, my sleeves fall lower on my shoulders, loose on my gaunt body. I awkwardly adjust them, trying to look at least somewhat presentable while in company, but by the time I’ve made it to what I assume is my seat, I’ve mostly given up. One thin, trumpet sleeve cascades down my arm, exposing my bare skin to the chilly air, and the other hangs on the edge of my shoulder.

No one objects when I take a seat, but no one speaks right away either. There is a heavy silence as we take each other in.

“We weren’t sure what you liked, so we prepared everything,” Silva finally says. “Is something missing? Would you like anything made special—an omelet, perhaps?”

I shake my head. After that painting, I’m not really all that hungry, but something tells me that the food will go to waste if I don’t eat it. These people don’t seem like the food bank donation type. Plus, Aris will be angry if I skip another meal.

He hums in approval. Eat, my Mary. I want to come out.

My hand, reaching for hash browns, suddenly goes still. Our company, and their peering, invasive eyes, analyzing my every move, rush my recovery. I pick up my fork to eat, feigning normalcy, but I’m still shaken.

We agreed to share, he says.

I didn’t agree to anything. Do you know how that felt for me? It was like I was being ripped away. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t feel anything properly.

You will get used to it.

I don’t want to get used to it!

Aris doesn’t respond, which is more worrying than him straight-up telling me off.

My breathing is harsh and angry as I shovel more on my plate, not even glancing at what I’m piling on. Do we really have to do this with an audience? I demand.

You refuse to speak of it otherwise. He sighs as I stab a strawberry and force it in my mouth, chewing ferociously. I’d rather you consent. Taking control would upset you.

What, and you care?

Not particularly, but you aren’t much fun when you’re pouting.

I’m well aware that I’m making a face as Silva asks, “Something to say, Mary?”

“No. Sorry.” I school my expression. Aris feels so present that I sometimes forget that others can’t hear him.

“Well,” says Silva, “in any case, there was something I wanted to discuss with the both of you.”

Aris perks up at that. My chest clenches in apprehension.

“Yes?” I say, stroking the edges of my amulet. A nervous habit—I don’t even realize I’m doing it until Silva narrows his eyes and, instinctively, my hand drops to my side.

“First and foremost, I wanted to say that I and the Following extend an eternal and heartfelt welcome. As the chapter leader of North America’s Following of the Forewarned, it has been my absolute honor hosting you. To witness the arrival of the Chaos Lord is…” Silva swallows, overcome with emotion, and I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes. It seems to take a true effort for him to compose himself, and his eyes glisten as he says, “It’s a dream.”

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