Page 3 of Sunder

Orma’s eyes widened.

Her lips itched to smile. To call out to him. His back was turned, but he’d pause at her call, and then she’d rush forward and prattle on about colours and threads and wasn’t he just so happy to see her?

“Orma!”

She could not recall a time when her mother had screeched so loud or in quite that manner. Afraid. Angry. Either by Orma’s absence or because it had caused her to make such a scene at all.

It wasn’t necessary. Already she was descending, her hands coming to clutch at Orma and bring her back into an embrace. There was guilt, of course there was, but it was buried beneath an ancient sort of call, the one that spread and insisted as the threads pulled tight, made her keep her attention on the boy still walking away.

His head had canted slightly at the sound of her mother’s voice, but he had a companion. A father? Or perhaps an elder brother. He was older than her. She couldn’t tell why she knew, other than it was much the same as when the other children came to play in the courtyard. Height and manner of speech, followed by a swift declaration of just how many seasons they’d witnessed—which was usually met with nods of agreement, their assessments proven correct.

“Mama,” Orma placated, her eyes still fixed, her arms and legs beginning to struggle as her mother gripped her tighter. “I have to go.”

“Orma,” she chided sharply, hands coming to her shoulders as she urged Orma to look at her.

“Mama, Ihaveto.”

She could have said more. Could have told her about threads and pulls and a bond that was reaching out and urging and burrowing deep inside her chest and heart where it would stay for the rest of her days.

She could have.

But she didn’t need to.

Not when she finally looked at her mother. Saw the burgeoning horror that had settled there.

“We are going home,” her mother declared. And she seemed to forget that Orma wasn’t so young anymore, that she could fly and walk all on her own and did not need to be plucked up and settled on a hip, and certainly not hissed at not to say anything more until she could speak to her father.

Orma began to cry. Not just because she was sorry for leaving the courtyard. But mostly because she wasn’t. It was her person out there, and he would have been her dearest friend if Mama had only let her close the distance between them, if he’d seen her and smiled at her and...

She settled her hand over her chest where the bond ached. “I’m sorry, Mama,” she managed, because there was enough she was sorry about that it wasn’t a lie. Not all the way.

“I know,” Mama soothed, pressing a kiss to the top of her head while she flew them with far greater speed than was usual. Wasn’t elegant. Proper. Rushing was for people who did not manage their time efficiently. Orma did not want to grow up to be like that, now did she? “I know, dearest. But we’ll set it right.”

But her voice wavered, and Orma didn’t feel better, even as she nestled in as close as she could get, her tears soaking her mother’s bodice. She’d apologise for that, too. After she’d had something warm to drink so her throat and chest would stop hurting her so.

Mama talked to her father alone. She settled Orma in a chair with a thick blanket, kissed her again and said she’d send her something soothing from the kitchen.

Then ordered her to stay put.

And locked the door for good measure.

Which made Orma feel even worse, because that meant Mama couldn’t trust her any longer, and she supposed she’d earned that, leaving the courtyard as she had.

She rubbed at her face and pulled the blanket more tightly about her, the fabric tight in her fists as she pushed them against her chest, willing the achy feeling to go away.

Or... not go. Not when the threads shimmered so prettily, so much more brightly now that it was there.

For it to go would mean the boy would die, and she didn’t want that. But she would have liked it better if he might have held her hand while it ached, and he wasn’t there to do that.

Didn’t feel it with her.

Was that what it was to be lonely? She thought she’d known before, but it wasn’t like this. Bone-deep and crushing at her insides until her tears wetted the blanket, too.

The door unlatched.

A girl from the kitchen brought a cup of something warm, although the smell was unfamiliar. “Your mother says to drink this,” she urged, helping Orma to sit up. Held the cup until Orma could take it between hands that shook, threatening to slosh the liquid inside over the sides if she hadn’t helped to steady it.

It was bitter. They’d added something to help, something so sweet it was almost cloying, and at the first taste, Orma’s nose crinkled and she turned her head away.

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