hold not the wolf by the ears

hear not the secrets we keep

The ticking is causing Macon to careen towards insanity.

There's an itch in the back of his head, an irk, that the insistent pendulum hardly aids with. The children wouldn't mind its absence. Boo dozes by its feet, but the addition of another chair would remedy that soon enough. If the Sheers-a noticeable tremor shakes Macon's hands-feel the need to get involved, he doubts the swinging of a metal disk is their sole complaint. In fact, the only soul who cares is the cause behind the rushing of water beside him and the fact he's currently homing himself in his bathroom next to his catatonic sister instead of in his bed.

Given, he should have realized what would have happened. How she would have reacted, how childish habits would return. He's seen it enough times in Lena-from the tantrums to the thunderstorms-to know when these fits come about. Disappearing for months after that god-awful day in February, being buried in the same prison their mother had fled, not being there to wipe her tears, and appearing back before the summer could close wasn't in his itinerary, despite what the silence beside him suggested.

Instead of realizing, of course, he had planted his feet in the sand on that island and stood against Abraham while his heart beat referendum against his ribs. Instead of consoling, he had endangered not only himself but also his family. Instead of helping, he placed a target on his newly delicate body. Instead of catching up with his sister, she had retreated into the bathroom.

Which is how he finds himself here, leaning his head against the wall, locking himself in a bathroom with his newly mute sister.

The bathroom hasn't changed since he last saw it. The window is still sending fragmented prisms of light across the floor; admittedly, that was twenty years ago and his eyes were looking for Dark Caster marks, Cubi signals, not splits in windowpanes. The sink is still a relic of when Jonas-Silas's father, not Abraham's brother, Jonah-wandered the halls in his insomnia-induced haze, chipped and stained. If the bath had been converted to a shower, he wouldn't have been surprised, but Barclay was never too keen on changing much more than the angle Macon's sparse pictures were tilted at, which was why the tub had remained simply that. Delphine claimed the manor made her head spin-too many ghosts, she would mutter, too many memories, and Macon was hard-pressed to deny he didn't feel the same pressure in his bones-and the children were more tied up with their impending fate than the state of fixtures. The tiles are still the same worn color of bone, but the grout has darkened tremendously around the hexagonal tiles since they were first laid. The cabinets in front of him had been adorned with deep gauges and crooked hinges, still are. Although, sometime during his time here, Macon has spent a night unscrewing them and later setting them ablaze, confident the house seemed less claustrophobic without them.

The door, in particular, could easily be unlocked, if Leah had the inclination to test Macon's feeble attempts at a cast. The water is running in the sink, yes, but Leah's fully clothed in her worn-down overcoat with missing buttons on the pockets and dyed denim. He can't imagine her with her hair up; she's already cramped for space in that basin without the discomfort of arching her neck to keep the tie from digging into her skull. He hasn't had the courage to look at her yet, knowing he'd find dark eyes staring back at him.

The clock chimes. Macon's head falls against his knees. He covers his ears, sighs. His cheek twitches; his jaw tightens. He inhales slowly and run the tips of his fingers through his hair. He raises his head, leans it against the hard tile of the wall. His hands fall from his hair. His tongue weighs heavy, checks the back of his teeth. His eyes close.