Page 416 of Flirting with Darkness

But the ache in my chest is like a death. Like I’ve lost a loved one. Or another piece of myself.

I stay on the cellar ground weeping long enough my tears make a trail of mud in the dirt before I finally pick myself up and crawl back upstairs to face my fate.

I’ve been gone for enough meals equaling roughly two days. Which means it should be Monday.

Hopefully, I live long enough to tell Father I let the demon out and that it wasn’t a demon at all.

If the poison from those godsforsaken thorns will let me live that long.

And if I do, will Father be as shattered by the news as I was?

Silently closing the cellar hatch, I make my way through the still, dark pantry and kitchen. I glance out the window, trying to discern whether it’s early Monday morning or late Monday night.

But it’s impossible to tell. The sky looks just as it had when I left. As does the manor. The same dish towel still hangs over the sink, and I know for certain the cook changes it routinely every Sunday.

I tiptoe back to my room and ease the door closed behind me.

But I pause when my gaze falls to the rumpled bedclothes.

The housekeeper launders my sheets daily. Always. There’s no way she wouldn’t have laundered and remade the bed Saturday. Even if I wasn’t here.

I go to the wardrobe, pulling it open to see Friday’s dress still lying on the bottom. The housekeeper collects clothes for laundering on Sundays as well.

I sink to the unmade bed, idly rubbing the callus on my left wrist.

No, not idly. My wrist burns. I examine it, expecting to see a deep cut or blackened veins from the poison of that Hell forest. Instead, I find the glowing light of the binding magic the king first tied us with, fading into nothingness.

I rub at my wrist once more and the burning vanishes as well.

And I’m sad about that but I push that away and focus on the present.

Except I have no idea what “the present” is.

Could it still be Saturday night?

Perhaps time in the fae king’s realm is different. Maybe he has control over that too, like with the darkness.

I keep rubbing at the callus, letting my mind rifle through all the potential explanations, until eventually my weary body demands that I lie down.

I’m so overcome with drowsiness, likely from the poison, I don’t even take off the dress, though I do kick the muck boots to the ground.

I’m dozing in moments, dreams of a dark forest and glowing winged pixies and talking trees following me throughout the night.

When I wake—head under the covers and blocking all light—I hesitate to open my eyes.

I lie there, glad I survived the night, but terrified to open my eyes.

What am I afraid to find once I open them?

That it’s still dark and I’m still in that horrific wood?

Or that it’s perfectly bright outside and I’m not?

I risk a quick peek and slide open a single lid.

And to my surprise, my heart falls as daylight greets me.

Why? I don’t have the slightest clue. I am glad to be home. Glad to finally be out of that endless maze, marching to my death.

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