Page 32 of Sore Throat, Slight Fever

She grabs the dark shape tightly, stuffing it down into the dirt, burying it as deeply as she can. It takes some time, as the memory keeps seeping out, like foul sewage bubbling up from underneath the ground. She is tamping down the soil with a flat palm, when the earth shifts and she finds her consciousness pulled out of her Mind’s Eye and back into the physical world. A thick line of blood oozes from her nose.

She presses a hand to her face. Hun’s growl reverberates against her temples. It’s a warning that she is pushing herself too far. Even the house agrees, as the lights above flicker in distress and an ominous creaking resounds through the walls.

She doesn’t even hear Rory’s footsteps but there he is, standing in front of her, hair mussed with the speed he used to get up the stairs. “What happened? What’s wrong?”

She holds the back of her hand to her nose. “Just a nosebleed.”

The line in between his eyebrows deepens as he provides her with a bandana from his back pocket. “I thought you were taking a break.”

She presses the bandana to her nose, inhaling the sweet smoke and vetiver smell that she’s readily accepted ashis. Her voice is muffled by the blood-soaked cloth when she speaks. “I just wanted to try something.”

He looks worried as he sits down next to her. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like this was urgent. You don’t have to master anything just yet. You still have a few more days here. And…” He runs a hand through his hair, averting his gaze. “You don’t have to leave after the two weeks are up, if you don’t want—if you’re not ready to.”

She lets his words sink in, but doesn’t reply. Isn’t sure how to, if she’s being honest. Her nosebleed has stopped, and she twists the cloth in between her fingers. “Do you know how to play piano?” she asks suddenly.

Rory’s eyebrows rise in surprise. “I know how. But knowing how to do something and being good at it are two different things,” he says mildly.

“Could you teach me?”

“Maybe later.” Her hesitant smile falls slightly. “I told Kane I’d walk the perimeter of the lake for him, to see if I can find any animal tracks that could help us identify our shadow-friend.”

“Oh, right. Of course.”

He stands and stuffs the bandana in his back pocket, where it hangs out like a grotesque flag. Rory doesn’t seem to mind, but she supposes he must be used to having blood-stained garments. She’s ruined at least two of his shirts so far and possibly a pair of jeans. “The house responds to you. Maybe you could ask it for something to do? Like a hobby.”

She smiles and nods at him, the corners of her mouth tucked neatly into her cheeks. It’s not an entirely disingenuous facial expression, but she’s sure he can tell that his suggestion didn’t quite ignite a fire in her. She softens the look with a nod.

She waits until she hears the back door open before she stands and looks out of the window, watching the top of Rory’s head as he trots down the steps to the shore of the lake. She walks over to her bookshelves and reads a handful of the titles. But she’s been knee-deep in Fiorentini’s words, and she doesn’t much feel like reading anymore. Instead, she takes Rory’s words to heart, and she turns to an empty section of wall, tracing the outline of a flower in the wallpaper pattern as she whispers, “What should I do with my time, do you think?”

But the house is silent, nary a creak or light flicker or even a slowly opening door. She frowns, fighting against a sense of rejection, before turning around and promptly tripping over an oddly shaped wood box.

She lands heavily on the floor, the rug doing little to cushion her fall. “That wasn’t very nice,” she saysout loud. The light above burns brighter, then recedes back to its normal output. She takes this as an apology and pats the floor in forgiveness.

Inspecting the wooden box, she realizes that it’s a portable easel. She opens it up and finds a selection of paint brushes and a few sticks of charcoal. There’s no paint, but there’s a large bottle of honey and a jar of gum arabic sitting next to the easel, which she takes to mean that the house wants her to make her own paints. Luckily, it’s something she used to do with her grandma when she was little, and she wonders if the house could tell, as if the tiny dust motes floating around have infiltrated her memories and are relaying information to the wood and brick and stone.

She’s not sure if that’s creepy or comforting.

Next to the easel is a small swath of canvas, enough for at least a dozen paintings, if she keeps them relatively small. She’ll need to make frames, of course, to stretch the fabric over. The window swings back and an unusually cool breeze from the lake wafts through the room.Outside it is,she thinks, gathering herself to her feet.

She finds a fallen tree branch just a few steps into the tree line that circles the house. It takes some effort to pull it out from the underbrush and to the small clearing by the lake. The axe, found leaning against the side of the house, is heavier than she realizes, and she lifts it with a grunt, only to have it snatched out of her hands so forcefully that she falls backward.

Rory’s strong grip steadies her, and she lets herself rest against his chest for a second, before straightening up. She turns, arms crossed. The manacles clink together in a way that sets her teeth on edge. “What was that for?”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” he says gruffly.

“Well maybe if I didn’t have to wear these cuffs, I wouldn’t even need the axe.” She holds them up for effect, but Rory remains unmoved. Her arms drop to her sides. “And won’t I just heal anyway?” she adds with a small shrug.

“If you cut yourself, yes.” He angles his head in thought, before adding, “Most likely, anyway. But I’d rather not test out whether you can regrow limbs.” He looks around her at the tree on the ground. “What are you trying to do anyway?”

“I want to make some canvases.” She motions toward the front porch, where her scraps of canvas fabric rest on the steps, their raggedly cut edges swaying gently in the breeze.

He shakes his head. “Go back inside the house—”

“No.”

His jaw clenches, then unclenches. He opens his mouth to say something, but Calliope can’t hear him. Her own indignation is like a fire roaring in her ears. Hun stands alert inside of her. Calliope’s skin feels warmer, the prickling heat traveling up her arms and across her scalp. “I’m not a prisoner,” she reminds him. “And you can’t stop me from—”

“From what? From hurting yourself? Isn’t that what we agreed? You stay for—”

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