Page 244 of Alchemised
Her hands were stiff and trembling as she shoved the door closed. She focused first on lighting a fire in the portable stove using the discarded pile of kindling and old newspapers.
She was struggling to coax the fire to life, wishing her knowledge of pyromancy extended beyond the theoretical, when the door opened. She turned quickly, hoping it wasn’t Ivy, although a stranger might be worse.
It was Crowther who entered. He stopped short, irritation pinching his face.
Helena looked back to the fire.
“Are you injured?”
She shook her head. He nudged her out of the way.
With the snap of his fingers, there was fire, the wood igniting with a crackling roar. Helena held her hands out towards the flames, saying nothing. He went into the next room and returned with a towel. She took it wordlessly, scrubbing until water stopped trickling from her hair. She could feel him scrutinising her.
“Is it done, then?” he asked when she lowered it to her lap and reached towards the fire again.
Her throat caught. After a moment’s hesitation, she nodded. “Yes, I did it.”
He released a soft breath of relief, and his right hand briefly patted her shoulder. “You can give the talisman to Ilva.”
She kept staring at the fire. “He was being honest when he said he wanted to avenge his mother.”
Crowther sighed, but Helena kept speaking.
“Back when Atreus was arrested, Kaine was safe at the Institute, but his mother wasn’t. You know vivimancy for torture doesn’t always leave evidence behind. Kaine killed Principate Apollo because it was the only way to save her. But she never recovered from it. Certain kinds of stress for too long can damage the heart.”
There was a tense pause, and she could feel Crowther’s doubt permeating the air.
Helena didn’t look away from the fire. The heat singed her hands, but she didn’t draw them away. If her hands were scorched, maybe she wouldn’t feel the rest of her body.
“Atreus used to make Kaine swear he’d take care of his mother, because he blamed him for Enid being sickly afterwards. She wouldn’t leave Paladia, though, and eventually the torture caught up with her. She died at home, but there was nothing natural about it.”
There was no sound but the crackle of fire.
Perhaps Crowther already knew all that. She had no idea how much he and Ilva had lied to her, choosing to present Kaine’s motive as power because that was how they’d wanted Helena to perceive him.
She closed her eyes, wanting to sink into the floor. “He wants to know what you want. You and Ilva. What proof of loyalty you expect from him.”
The air shifted and then Crowther’s fingers grasped hold of Helena’s shoulder, pulling her to her feet and turning her to face him. His eyes swept from the top of her head and slowly down, catching on various points along the way.
“What did you do?” he finally said.
She met his eyes, lifting her chin. “I completed my mission. I made him loyal.”
She was used to Crowther being unfazed by nearly everything, but he looked as if he’d been struck by lightning. Then he pulled her over to the window where the light was strongest, pushing her cloak off with his right hand, so he could get a good look at her.
Her braids had been pulled loose, the sections hanging haphazardly. His fingers dropped down to her neck, brushing against a spot that made her flinch. Before she could stop him, he flipped the clasp on her cloak; heavy with rain, it slid off her shoulders and to the floor with a wet thud, revealing her torn clothes, and all the bruises from the training that she usually healed before she got back.
She recoiled, shrinking back towards the shadows. She wanted to say it wasn’t what it looked like, but she didn’t think he’d believe her.
“I’m fine,” she said, but her voice shook. “I only came here to clean up. You said not to go back to Headquarters if I wasn’t put together.”
Crowther’s mouth was pressed into a hard line, and he started to speak—but then his eyes swept over her again and he slowly let go.
Helena twisted free, shoulders hunching inward. There was a small bathroom through the next room. She locked the door and stared at the reflection in the mirror; she was so pale that she was nearly grey, but her lips were red and bruised. Her hair looked like a bird’s nest, only made worse by the rain.
She turned away, rummaging for a cloth, anything to clean herself up with. Stripping off her underclothes and trying to scrub them clean. The cold, stinging wet between her legs had her feeling almost hysterical.
Her hands were shaking as she threw the rag into a bin under the sink, barely steady enough to remove the hairpins tangled in her hair.
