Page 61 of The Narrow

I gasp, lunging forward on instinct, but she vanishes before she hits the water. Gone.

She didn’t just fall, I realize with horror. The way she jerked forward like that—she was pushed.

Someone was here. Someone killed her.

Guh, guh.

The choking is behind me. Water drips, too steadily and too strongly for the light mist of rain. I turn, swallowing hard.

Maeve’s crimson-stained eye stares into mine, her other eye concealed behind her lank, wet hair. Her broken fingers reach for me.

I brace myself, knowing the pain will come. And it does—skittering across my ribs, lancing through my arm. But as she touches me, her breath comes easier. Her eye clears.

“Do you remember who I am?” I ask.

“Eden,” she half sings. She presses her forehead to mine. Her skin is so cold. “I thought I dreamed you.”

“I’m real,” I promise her. She sounds so sorrowful. So lost.

She brushes a thumb across my lower lip. The skin breaks with a sharp slash of pain, and the taste of blood reaches my tongue.

“You’re hurting me,” I tell her, pain warping my voice.

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to. I can’t help it,” she says, shaking her head.

“I know. I know, but I—I—”

Her hand brushes through my hair. Fingernails against my scalp, and there’s apopunder the skin. A blaze like an emergency flare in my vision.

You’ve got a filthy mouth, Princess.

Fist against my teeth. Skull cracking against the floor. The next seconds—those were erased. Lost in the gap between when my head hit the ground and when I became aware of the weight on top of me, the crusty carpet against the side of my face.

“Eden!”

I jerk back, away from Maeve, but she’s already gone. My foot skids out from under me on a patch of mud, and I go down on my ass, the impact jarring all my reawakened injuries. I don’t have the breath to shout or scream, only managing a moaning wheeze. The flask falls from my pocket. The loose cap pops off, spilling Remi’s expensive liquor onto the ground.

Veronica strides down the path behind me. Zoya and Ruth are with her, lagging behind. I shove myself to my feet, fumbling to grab the flask. Nausea rolls in my gut, my head spinning. I remember this part. Feeling like the ground was pitching under my feet.

“Eden, are you okay?” Veronica demands.

“I’m fine,” I grind out. “Just—”

Then, quite abruptly, I’m not fine. Luckily, none of my not-fine gets on anyone’s shoes as I bend over, vomiting into the mud.

“Fuck!” Veronica yells, jumping back.

“Shit, are you drunk?” Ruth asks.

“Not drunk,” I mutter, but my words are slurring. When I finally get up, I’m confused, disoriented. Luke walked me back to my room, put me in my bed.

You’re not going to tell anyone, are you?

Veronica snatches the flask from my hand. She turns it upside down. A few drops shake out, and Veronica makes a disgusted face. “She’s wasted,” she says.

“No, I’m not,” I insist, and shake my head—but that only makes my head hurt and the world spin.

“Eden doesn’t get drunk,” Zoya says doubtfully.

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