Page 10 of Sunder

But there were none.

It was a quiet day. The warmth would set families toward the water, to fly and dive and make use of the beaches for picnics and other frivolities.

The fear came first.

The anger came after.

Hotter and brighter, her teeth setting, her grip tightening as she turned back to face him. He suddenly felt very much her enemy rather than the friend who had comforted her only a moment before. “You dare to ask me that?”

He did not seem troubled by her anger. Dared to appear at ease as he sank his shoulder against the tree, allowing it to support him rather than stand properly on his own two feet.

He really was insufferable.

But he was kin, so what did she expect?

“I dare,” Lucian affirmed. “Because it is a poison eating away your insides, and you will not let it out.”

She took a step forward with no great thought of doing so. She was not one for violent outbursts—she retreated. Stewed. Until the hurt was covered over by something near a callous and it did not bother her unless it was poked at.

“Always so confident,” she bit out. “That everything shall work out in your favour.” It wasn’t like her. None of this was. But she couldn’t bear to hold that wretched book any longer, and she found herself tossing it away from her with something far too near to disgust. Not a toss. A throw. Which was a horrid thing, because it was part of a collection, and it had done no wrong, and yet still it was a victim of her ire. Lucian watched it go, brows raised as if he had never expected such a thing from her. She could not blame him—she hardly recognised herself.

“The last time I followed,” she continued, and there were no tears this time. Only a flare of energy that set her threads to shimmering, and she could not even enjoy it. They would dim soon enough, and with them, what remained of her strength for the day. “It led to the most horrible pain I could possibly imagine. And everyone is socertain.Now that I am older, it will be different. Everything will settle into place and I will be well again.”

She wished she had her book back. Wished she could chuck it at him instead. “No one knows that. I certainly don’t, and I canseethem.” Her hand turned to a fist, and she pushed it against her chest. “I am afraid.” It was more of an admission than she had meant to give, but she had intended none of this, had she? “No, I am terrified. And yet I have to also endure everyone’s pressure to simply get on with things.”

“Orma,” Lucian reached for her, and she shook her head firmly. She would not accept his comfort, not now. “That is...” He paused, allowed his hand to drop and at least he was not standing so casually against the tree any longer. “I did not intend it as pressure.”

She sniffed, although there were no tears to hold back. “Intended or not, I feel it.”

He frowned. “Then for that, I am very sorry.” She had expected him to argue for longer, so his quick acquiescence briefly stunted her tongue. “Can I suggest a compromise?”

It was not a nod she gave—more of the barest dip of her chin that might be taken for agreement. She hadn’t meant to be beastly to him. Or to the book even now he was stooping to retrieve. Wiped it off with his sleeve, but did not offer it back to her. Probably for the best, lest she use it as a weapon against him.

Her insides cringed just to think of what she’d done. What she’d said.

She’d meant it, but that made it worse. She could not claim a momentary lapse, full of apologies because it was all temper and nothing of truth.

“What if,” Lucian mused, thumbing through the book, presumably in search of damage. She might not forgive herself if there was any. “We find him. Just the two of us. I can order you a cart if you cannot fly the whole way.” She looked down atthe ground, horrified he might realise that would be part of the trouble. Had she truly grown so sickly?

A foolish question. She need only a glance at the looking glass to know she had.

“We judge his character from afar. And if we find him lacking, we leave again. And I douse you in so many tonics, you won’t have any hope of feeling anything at all—pain or otherwise.”

Orma swallowed. Hope flickered. Small, yet terrible.

“What if we are in disagreement?” she asked quietly. “Would you call out to him? Secure his attention and believe your judgement superior to mine?” Because if he knew, if he saw, it would be over. There would be no returning home, no nursing her wounds privately any longer. He’d be there, insistent and worried, as he peeled back the layers of her hurts and made her relive them all over again.

She hated the prospect of it.

Wanted to give a firm refusal and be done with it.

Then why wasn’t she?

Why did she stand, worrying at her skirts and imagining this ridiculous plan and all the ways it might go wrong?

Might go right.

She rubbed at her eyes, feeling the beginnings or a wretched headache settling behind them. “Why are you doing this to me?”

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