Page 12 of Sunder

Her relief was profound.

Her home loomed. A prison and a shelter all at once.

“Thank you,” she answered, pulling her hand away from his arm. “I can go the rest of the way. Unless you’re eager to see my mother.” His expression was answer enough, and she laughed lightly to herself. “I’m sorry for shouting at you,” she added, because it would plague her later if she did not say it now.

It was Lucian’s turn to chuckle. “That was hardly shouting,” Lucian soothed. “I am not certain you know how to raise your voice.”

Embarrassment flickered all the same. “It felt like it,” she insisted. “I was very cross with you.”

He hummed.

Handed her back the book so she might return it to the rest of its set. “Off you go,” he urged. “Think about my offer.”

Her throat hurt.

Everything hurt, actually.

“I will.”

And she meant it.

Even if she’d need quite a few tonics afterward, she would think about it all.

2. Brave

Orma abhorred decision making.

She hadn’t realised it. Not until Lucian had placed opportunity into her mind and heart and made her stew with it.

Well, perhaps that was unfair. The waiting was her own fault. She could have answered him immediately, either in the affirmative, or far more likely, the denial that settled on her tongue with far more ease than was comfortable.

Sleep left her. Which was nothing new, but every time she tossed and turned uncomfortably onto her wing, she would huff and curse and more often than not, it was Lucian’s name she was denouncing.

Then she’d feel sorry for it, and whisper a blessing, while tugging at her blankets and willing for a rest that refused to come.

Which led to fitful days, where she’d drift off at meals, only to be sharply awakened when her mother’s hand would settle on her shoulder, worried eyes looking over every bit of her while her father whispered about healers.

As if she couldn’t hear.

As if she wouldn’t insist she was fine, she was tired, that was all. She’d keep to her room, and surely it would be better in the morning.

Which it wasn’t. And their patience was waning, and she knew what would come next.

She chewed at her thumb until it bled.

Put salve and a bandage and told herself to simplydecide. She needn’t even speak to Lucian directly if she didn’t want to. A note passed along to one of the kitchen girls. They’d see it delivered, and it would be over.

Except she did not pen the note.

Lost herself in a cycle of imaginings. Of what ifs and all the subsequent possibilities until she was so sick she found herself sicking up what little she’d managed of her supper.

Her brow was damp with perspiration, and the thought of lying awake for another night was almost intolerable.

She looked to her table of tonics, wondering how sick she might be if she ignored the healers’ warnings and mixed a few of them together to increase their potency—since they seemed to do so little any longer.

She stilled.

Quieted.

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