Page 167 of A Promise of Peridot
And above me, a pearl-covered chandelier. Glittering and elegant and seemingly floating in midair with no rope, chains, or cord. Another mystery that had occupied my mind when I grew tired of wondering how I survived the fall into Lazarus’s claw, who saved me, why I was tethered to this bed, and where in the world I was.
That was, of course, in between full emotional breakdowns not very fitting of the savior of the realms, orthe chosen one, as Beth had called me. Breakdowns during which I tried so hard to loose myself from my impossible restraints that I either panicked until I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion or sobbed until my eyes were swollen shut.
Or breakdowns during which I thought only of Kane.
Of how I had failed him. Failed Evendell, in killing Lazarus.
Of how, most likely, he believed I was dead. And that I had died in vain.
The thought echoed such misery through my body, I could hardly avoid convulsing against it. It didn’t help that I had no idea what time it was due to the closed curtains and lack of any clocks. My guess was that it had been at least fifteen hours, and when I thought about how long I might be kept like this, panic sluiced through my chest all over again.
I took a long, filtered breath through my nose and out of my mouth, waiting for my chest to untighten. The room smelled of rich sandalwood and apricot syrup and the medicinal scent of various antiseptics, balms, and salves from the marble bedside table.
Trying to find comfort despite the stitches that nearly bisected me, I tossed in the sheets, as fluid and rich as the fine red wine they shared their color with. Atop them, a dense scarlet duvet interwoven with glittering gold thread painting a pattern of flowers and leaves and little bees. The pillows I had been lying on for hoursnow were filled with heavy down, and I had enough around me for seven other people to fit beside me comfortably.
But despite the richness of the room, the undeniable beauty, the comfort of the lavish bed, there was something... sinister about it all.
Though, maybe that was just the restraints.
I tugged once again on the fabric. Despite its soft feel, the ribbon could not be torn, chewed through, or set on fire with the candle on my bedside—I had tried all three at least a dozen times.
Rather, they were deceptively thick and strong, and I wasn’t able to use any of my lighte no matter how—
Oh, Stones.
I was an idiot.
Lilium.
The ribbon must have been woven with lilium somehow. It would explain why I was healing so slowly, why I couldn’t summon my lighte, why I felt so weak and tired.
It wasn’t just the sewn-up wound across my stomach.
I was being drained.
Whoever was healing me must have somehow known I was Fae.
But who—
The slick marble doors opened and two women in identical black uniforms and nursing hats strolled in. Neither spoke a word to me as one brought in a tray with more surgical tools and the other began to make the bed around me.
“Who are you?”
Nothing.
“Where am I?”
Nothing.
“Why are you healing me? Why aren’t I—”
“Dead?”
I whipped my head to the doorway. The breath whirled from my lungs.
In a rich, rosy robe, holding a steaming bronze mug, stood Lazarus.
The picture of a cozy king on a frigid morning. And yet my heart was racing as if I beheld a monster.
