Page 31 of A Court of Hearts and Hunger
When Opal leaves, I use the privy and then lie down beside Finias, stroking my fingertip over the freckles on his cheekbones.
Perhaps I shouldn’t dare to sleep in this house. But Opal seems truly interested in our safety. She’s not a threat to our lives, only our freedom. Which is possibly even worse.
I’m exhausted, so I lay my fears aside and snuggle against my poor drugged darling, with one arm curled around his body. It frightens me a little, seeing him so vulnerable.
No wonder he has trouble trusting anyone, when his friends do things like this.
“You need me, don’t you?” I whisper, stroking his cheek. “Poor sweet faerie. You need me to be the safe place for your heart.”
10
The cat-eared Fae brings me a plate of food and a pitcher of water, but he doesn’t stay to talk. He looks sulky. The Rabbit probably threatened him before leaving the two of us alone in the house—if it is a house. From what I’ve seen of the interior, it seems to be a narrow building, rather like the ones in town that are squashed together all in a row, with no space between them. I wish I knew what lay beyond the walls of this residence. Is it part of a larger whole, or does it stand alone?
Somewhere outside lies an entire realm—the realm of Faerie, a place I’ve only heard of in Pap’s stories. I like things I can touch and observe, to see how they move or change. The idea of Faerie and the concept of magic never seemed real until today, so I never took much interest in it.
I feel as if my mind has expanded, stretching wide and shooting skyward, exploding to a size I never thought possible. So many new concepts have been stuffed into my brain that it almost feels sore, desperately in need of rest. I think I’ll be able to sleep, even though I’m a prisoner facing death.
There’s a single glowing orb floating near the ceiling of my cell. By its dim light, I finish my meal and take the spellbook from the pocket of my apron.
I don’t feel anything from it. No subtle hum or vibration, and it does not glow or spark as it did when the Rabbit touched it. It feels like a normal book.
I wonder why it did not spark and zap me when I took it from the shelf in Drosselmeyer’s study. Perhaps because I don’t possess the active magic the Rabbit has.
I took the book because its small size fascinated me. If only I’d put it back quickly when Drosselmeyer came in, instead of hiding it in a fold of my skirt and then dropping it into my pocket. If only I’d left it somewhere else in the house for Drosselmeyer to find, instead of keeping it overnight. If I hadn’t tried to read it by the rosebush, I wouldn’t have spoken its name, or bled on it. The Rabbit wouldn’t have been alerted to its location, wouldn’t have found me in the garden, wouldn’t have needed to bring me along with him.
But I took the book. I kept it. And I accidently laid claim to it.
Which is a pity, since it’s useless to me. I have no magic. And though I struggle through a handful of words on one page, most of them are beyond my ability. Finally I give up, strip down to my chemise and panties, and curl up under the blankets on the cot.
I’m not sure how long I sleep, or what time it is when I wake. Morning, noon, and night are all the same in a room without windows. I don’t think I have ever gone this long without looking out a window and seeing something green and growing.
I hate it. I hate feeling hemmed in, crushed down, buried deep. With each passing moment, the stone walls seem to loom higher and darker, and the room feels smaller, though objectively I know it can’t have changed size—can it?
My heart is beginning to pound, and the urge to scream and hammer on the door rises higher in me with every frantic breath.
Banging on the door would be a silly, useless thing to do. So I sit on the cot with my knees tucked under my chin, and I close my eyes. I picture the vivid emerald hue of the garden back home, right after a good rain. I imagine the aroma of the rich, damp soil. I see the water beading on the green leaves.
I picture Saylie, one of my tiny sisters, with her yellow hair like fine corn-silk, and her sweaty, pudgy hand closed tight around a fistful of meadow flowers. She’s running up to me, holding them out. Saying she picked them for me.
I imagine the baby, all delicious chubby rolls and huge rosy cheeks and big blue eyes. I pretend I’m holding him, his sleeping weight draped warm against my shoulder and chest.
Those are the good memories. I try to stave off the other memories—the stench of soiled wraps that need changing, the coarse bark of my mother’s voice as she rebukes me for letting the little ones disturb her work. The constant heat of the stove, searing my face as I prepare food for everyone, three times a day. The long days when the little ones are ill, and I have to accomplish all my usual chores as well as theirs, while taking care of them because my mother can’t be bothered, because she always has something else to do.
“What did I birth you for, if not to help with the work?” I’ve heard those words from her a thousand times.
Truthfully I’m not sure why she birthed any of us. She never seemed to want us, not even Saylie, the most charming creature to ever walk under the sun. I tried to keep Saylie from making her tiny offerings of love to our mother, because those gifts would only be met with frustration and harsh words. I couldn’t bear to watch what Mam’s carelessness would do to that sweet soul.
Maybe that’s why my place at Master Drosselmeyer’s felt like a guilty sort of escape. Finally, a different kind of work. Some familiar tasks, but on a new scale, in a new place. And I wouldn’t have to watch the inevitable dimming of my baby sister’s inner light.
My panic is gone, but tears come in its place, flowing freely as I sob.
At last I crawl from the cot and drink the rest of the water in the pitcher. I’m hungry—I think I’ve skipped one or two meals, possibly more. No sign of either faerie.
I wait for hours. I know it’s hours because I pace my cell, counting the seconds and minutes, and even if my count is a little off, at least four hours pass, until I’m hungrier than ever, so hungry I can’t think about spellbooks, memories, or the terror of being in a cell underground.
Just as I’m about to try shouting for the Cat, a bang and a creak echo down the hallway, from the direction of the stairs. There’s a sort of choked gurgle—rasping breaths, heavy and slow. The sound of something being dragged—or dragging itself—along the corridor, until it halts outside my cell. But no eerily beautiful face appears at the window. Instead there’s a whirr of magic all around the edges of the door, and it pops open.
Cautiously I move toward it, still dressed only in my panties and chemise. They’re thin, but they cover me well enough; and as part of my uniform, they’re nicer than the underthings I would usually wear. If I’m somehow free, I’m going to take the chance and bolt, and not bother with getting dressed. The door might seal shut again.
