St. Văduva's School for Prestigious Girls

𝕮𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖙𝖊𝖗 𝕿𝖜𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞-𝕾𝖎𝖝

Toward the edge of the property lay a log cabin. It stood far away from the university and sat in a blind spot that would render it invisible to the students within. It was small, but cozy-looking, as golden light spilled from stained glass windows onto the cold, black soil. There was no path leading up to the front door to speak of, only wild grasses and smatterings of flowers cropped low to the ground. Mircea led her by the shoulders to the front door, opening up the door and allowing her entry.

The inside was quaint — a small, neatly made bed; a kitchen that made her dorm kitchenette look like a mansion, a lively hearth with high, dancing flames; and a small door straight ahead that likely lead to a bathroom. The walls, the rafters, and the floor were all comprised of the same wood that built up the outside, but the inside was polished and clean, unlike the rough texture of the outer logs.

Everything was rather dull in color, except for the ornate Romanian-style red rug that blessed the floor. But it made no difference — she could not take in the beauty of anything. Her bones shuddered in her body, eyes wide and haunted. She gripped the jacket on her shoulders like a lifeline. She was a killer, with no recollection of the events. Even in her weakened state, she was still capable of murder.

Mircea shut the door and sat her on a chair beside the fire, adjusting the jacket on her shoulders while he took a poker and prodded the flame-riddled wood. He handed her the folded-up handkerchief in his breast pocket and handed it to her. Had she been thinking a little more clearly, she would have felt bad about cleaning off the sick and blood from her chin, but at this moment, she did not think twice about it.

"What do you remember?" he asked, voice low beneath the roaring fire.

Temperance numbly shook her head. The fire was hot, pinkening her skin, but she paid no mind. Even as the heat began to itch, she just sat there, watching the flames twist and curl like her innards.

Mircea hummed, rising from the fireplace, and removed his shined shoes, placing them neatly by the front door. He turned and began busying himself in the kitchen. "Are you hungry?"

Her mind wandered from the carnage and to the state of her stomach. Not only did she vomit up her lunch remnants, but any bile remaining also had left her mouth, spilling into the grass by the dead body. Her tongue still ached from where she bit into it. Her headache was unrelenting torture. But she was hungry.

She dipped her head, so minuscule in its actions that if Mircea had not been eyeing her like a hawk, he would have missed it. Behind her, he set to work. She could hear the gentle sound of Mircea meandering around — the sound of pots and pans being ushered out of the way, the fridge popping open, the cabinets opening and shutting, the ticking of the gas stove clicking to life. She breathed in the scent of the smoke that trickled up through the chimney, and reveled in the domestic sounds behind her. It reminded her of home. Ruth MacKenzie cooking an evening stew while Temperance and Constance chopped vegetables. And then as they grew, Constance became the cook, while Temperance struggled to boil water.

Lulled by the sounds, she only realized she had dozed off when Mircea crouched down beside her. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes as he handed her a bowl of steaming vegetables. She took it gently, feeling the heat tingle her skin as she held the bowl in her palm.

Her throat felt thick, but she still tried to talk. She squawked, but it was still intelligible. "Is this my last meal before you call the police?"

Mircea shook his head. "No. There will be no phoning the police."

Temperance, had she not been so shellshocked, probably would have asked more questions, but instead, she sipped at the broth. A familiar taste coated her throbbing tongue — smoke and char and bitter and spicy all merging together in a sea of pleasant savory vegetables.