Of Caverns and Casters ✓ [TLRQ #1]

Chapter 27 - Leavi

When I wake up, I don't open my eyes. Faint light filters through my lids, and I pretend it's the Errelian street lamps reaching full brightness, announcing the new day. The boring beige walls that my mother never let me paint stare at me, willing me to wake up and go to university. The desk in the corner holds the two textbooks I'll need today—The Study of Class Aehrixi and The Physiology of Wings in Nature. Any minute now, my mother will yell from downstairs, "Eleaviara Riveirre, if you don't get yourself out this door in the next five minutes, the professor's going to lock you out!"—though I've never been tardy to a class in my life. Then the door will slam as she hurries out, always on the brink of running late herself. Dad will have already left for his lab, slipping out early to avoid my mother. If I'm lucky, though, he might have left me some hotcakes in the oven—

Maroon flower print greets my opening eyes and marks the death of my fantasy. I push up, throwing off the covers and dragging my bag onto the bed. I rifle through it, digging out my brush. "Skies, Leavi." The bristles tug my hair, yanking at the knots. "What, did you think you were going to wish your way back home? Get your head out of the clouds."

The hairbrush battles another knot, and this time, it loses, getting stuck in the tangles. Fed up, I extract the brush and toss it back in the bag. My involuntary soaking yesterday is the closest I've come to a chance to wash in at least a week. And wash might be an exaggeration considering I haven't seen soap since Karsix. I'm disgusting; I feel like my hair and skin are covered with an invisible layer of grime that paltry damp cloths and rain showers can't wash away. I need a wash, a proper wash. Steaming shower, real soap, warm towel. I want to scrub the last two months from my skin.

Grabbing my least dirty change of clothes, I head into the hallway. Past mine and Sean's rooms are two more pairs of parallel doors, with one more capping the hall. Guessing the others are more dormitories, I open the door to the last room.

The faint smell of urine mixes with the floral scent of wilting primroses in the vase atop a wooden stand. Neatly folded towels nestle in the stand's shelves. Beside it, a half-full basin rests on a narrow plinth, a wet washcloth draped over its side, a mirror hanging above. To the back of the room is a lime green, tin bathtub, an alternating ring of cats and flowers crudely painted along its side. A metal bucket with a lid sits in the corner.

That's it. No toilet. No sink. No faucets. It's more like a powder room sporting a confused tub than a bathroom. How in the world do they get water in here? I start to go to find someone to ask, but my reflection moves in the mirror and steals my attention.

I expect to see normal me. Me with the paper-white skin from a life spent underground. Me with the clean face and clean hands, pristine hair, pressed clothes. Me with the slightly rounded-out cheeks, the arched eyebrows, the clear brown eyes, the smooth, pink lips shining from a touch of gloss.

Instead, I'm greeted by a travel-worn stranger. Her skin's mostly the same tone, but faded streaks spot her once polished complexion. Her cheeks are thinned out, bones sharper. There's something darker in her eyes: a quiet sadness, tiredness maybe. Or perhaps the new angles of her face simply make them seem like that.