Page 99 of A Sin So Pure

I try to tune out her screams, but their song is carved into me like a record. Trace over the dips of my scars, and you’llhear her cries in harmony with mine. They are the same track, the same haunting melody.

As they bandage Josie, I stare at my hands.

I will never be able to wash the red from under my fingernails.

It’s always there, an invisible brand. No matter how many times I soap and scrub, it never disappears.

I toss and turn under sweat-dampened covers. Each wink of sleep is as restless as the last; behind my lids, hours pass, but for my body, it’s only minutes between each hellish memory.

At one point, I crack the window, hoping the mountain chill will soothe my heated skin and save me from my nightmares.

It doesn’t work.

There are no telephones here, so I bat away the brief thought to ring Imogen—she’d probably still be awake, closing out the Den at this time of night. I opt for the next best thing: a cigarette and a cup of tea. One soothes the body, and one soothes the soul.

The mountain is quiet as I pad through the halls, the smooth stone cold on my bare feet. My steps are near silent but still manage to echo against the rounded ceiling.

When I reach the kitchen door, I pause, hearing soft murmurs and laughs on the other side. Pressing my ear to the door, I try to make out the low mumblings, but their voices are muffled. I don’t wish to interrupt anyone, but itisnearly three in the morning.

If they wanted privacy, they could have retired to their rooms.

I push open the door and freeze.

The kitchen is small but still large enough to fit a long wooden prep table with two benches on either side. Silas and Wrath are huddled over two half-empty bottles of whiskey at the head of the table, drunk off their asses.

A wet stain on the wood shines under the warm candlelight, the evidence of one, or both, of them having spilled some of their drink.

They both turn towards me as the door hinges squeak shut; Silas’s cheeks are flushed pink, while Wrath’s neck flushes a deep tomato red.

I curse under my breath, more to myself than at them, but Silas hears me, his attention turning my way.

“Nora!” Silas says, far too loud for such a late hour. I flinch at the sound, turning my head to see Wrath wince.

Silas murmurs a sorry to Wrath.

I don’t linger in my frozen state, deciding it is better to get in and get out as fast as possible. I move towards the gas range stove and grab the kettle from its hook, refocusing on my task.

“I just wanted some tea,” I say, lifting the kettle for evidence.

The two men behind me volley back and forth, sounding like chirping birds in the morning.

“Do you want tea?”

“I could go for some tea. Doyouwant tea?”

“I think I want tea. Nora, can you also make us some tea?”

“Gods, help me,” I say under my breath. I don’t bother answering their request, simply adding more water to the kettle.

The gas stove ticks on, a small flame flickering into existence. I plop the kettle down on top of it, then I open the cabinets, searching for mugs. They’re all miss-matched, which is odd, given this is royal housing. Shouldn’t Silas have this stocked withporcelain dishes and matching enchanted cups like his castle in the city?

I go to the pantry, pulling three bags of tea. I drop one cloth bag of bundled leaves into each mug, while the two men behind me—boys, really—whisper to each other. My ears twitch to make out their slurred words.

With nothing left to do but stare at the kettle and wait for it to boil, I turn around and face Silas and Wrath.

Their whispers stop. They both stare at me with strange expressions.

Silas speaks first, eyes flicking over me quickly.

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