Page 45 of Even Angels fall
Today, I need the comfort of knowing Léandre is with me. I need to know I’m not alone.
I know, sad thoughts.
But who wouldn’t have sad thoughts when they know they’re going back to a life of misery?
At least in Notre Dame, I could do whatever pleased me.
Well, it’s not completely true. I love training, and I couldn’t even flex my muscles in fear of being discovered as anything other than a lovely doll.
And now?
What would be the point? I can’t even get out of my room-slash-prison.
The handle goes down, and I wait for the sound of the lock being opened, but nothing comes.
The door opens on Cassiopé, and I’m dumbstruck.
Was I never locked in?
I stayed in bed all day andassumedI was locked in after what happened yesterday, but I didn’t even try to open the door.
What the hell?
“I thought I would bring you dinner,” Cassiopé says before she crosses the distance between the door and my bed, without even fully closing the door. “I didn’t see you for breakfast and lunch and thought maybe you didn’t want to see anyone after your accident.”
My accident?
Does no one know that I attacked Elhyor?
I choke on my own saliva, trying to muster the will to ask about it, but the only thing I see in Cassiopé’s eyes is compassion, and I’d hate to kill it.
Still, I need to know what has been said about the attack.
“What did they say about my… accident?” I ask tentatively.
I hate lying, but isn’t it what I’ve been doing for almost a week?
A week. Tomorrow, it’ll be a week since I arrived here, and I’m nowhere near close to succeeding in my mission. I’m nowhere near close to freedom.
At my question, Cassiopé looks at me like she doesn’t know what to do with me.
I know it’s weird to ask what people would say about an accident, if it was, well, really an accident, but she doesn’t press.
“That you fell from the stairs and rolled to the bottom, breaking your wrist in the process.” She looks at my hands, and I’m not fast enough to hide the one that was wounded just hours ago, because there’s a flicker of recognition in her eyes that I don’t like. “It’s not what happened,” she adds, and what was probably supposed to be a question doesn’t sound like one at all.
“It’s not,” I answer truthfully. I don’t want to elaborate, though, because I don’t understand why Elhyor didn’t say anything to anyone.
I would expect him to feel at least a bit threatened—he said he couldn’t be killed, though—and make everyone in Notre Dame hate me, but no, and that doesn’t make any sense for me.
“Did they do something to you?” Cassiopé asks, the compassion back in her eyes, teaming up with a bit of rage.
Oh, god, no.
Does she think Elhyor hurt me on purpose?
If we want to be specific, he did, but I realize he could have done so much worse.
And I’m not even really treated as a prisoner in the aftermath of the attack.
