Page 5 of The Mask Falling

“Some rooms,” he said at last, “are hard to leave.”

At least he was honest.

“I’m going to try to wash my hair,” I said. “I think I’m all right now.”

“Very well.”

He left me to it. With what little strength I had left, I dumped shampoo on my head and scrubbed my scalp until it stung, forcing myself to keep scouring and rinsing until all the blood and grime was gone. Only then did I let the water drain and slither out of the bath.

For a long while, I sat on the floor, shattered. It had taken somuchto do something that had once been effortless. Fatigue rushed over me. Almost drunk with it, I levered myself up on straw legs, hair dripping. A bead of blood welled between the stitches on my arm.

Only once, in the three weeks I had been detained, had I been allowed to clean my teeth. The bristles on the brush turned pink. When I had used about a pint of mouthwash, I towel-dried my hair and drew on the nightshirt, pulling the buttons through the wrong holes.

I was dead on my feet by the time I emerged. Warden led me into a darkened room with a high ceiling, where a double bed waited by a window, heaped with blankets and pillows.

“You ought to sleep.” He let go of me. “You will feel your injuries soon.”

The space between us was taut with the knowledge of what was to come. Not just the war beyond the window—a war that would not wait for me to heal—but the one my body was about to wage against me.

“I will bring you a heat pad,” Warden said. I pressed my ribs. “Do you need anything else?”

“No.” I looked up at him, so tired I could hardly focus. “Warden … I know Terebell must have only let you come with me because none of the other Ranthen wanted the job. And I know it must be embarrassing to be demoted to minding a human.” Speaking was starting to hurt. “It might take me a while to recover. I don’t know if I ever will.”

“It is no demotion. No dishonor,” he said. “And you will not rush your recovery on my account.”

The gentleness in his voice almost broke me. Too exhausted for restraint, I turned back to him and nestled against his chest. Just for a minute, I wanted to be held. I wanted to convince myself that he was really with me, and not a drug-induced illusion. His arms came around me.

“Forgive me, little dreamer.” His voice resonated through us both. “For letting them take you.”

I closed my eyes. “I gave you no choice.”

His hand was a reassuring weight between my shoulders. I listened to his steady heartbeat, and mine slowed.

At length, I sat on the bed. Droplets seeped past my collar. Before I could swallow my pride and ask, Warden left the room and returned with a comb and a blow-dryer.

“You don’t have to,” I murmured.

“I am aware.” Warden sat at my side. “Lean on me.”

I did. Heat gusted through my hair. I sat between his arms, heavy-eyed and leaden, until he switched off the blow-dryer and guided me to the pillows.

“Sleep this way if you can.” He used them to prop me up. “It will make breathing easier.”

I was too drowsy to so much as nod. My hair feathered warmly against my cheek.

For a long time, I waited for the trap to spring. It was too much to hope, or to believe, that I could be warm and clean and safe. The part of my brain where fear dwelled was telling me, even now, that this room was a figment of a desperate imagination—that I was alone and condemned, and the executioner was on his way.

No one came. Outside, Paris was awake, and birdsong fluttered through the window.

Before the pain could reach me, I was gone.

PART I

To Pay Thee Free

Oh yes, I’ve got some gold for thee,

Some money for to pay thee free;

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