There are no quiet places left in the world. We destroyed them long ago, and I helped. A choice I've long since come to regret. Even now, as I shed my clothes to bathe, my head hums with factors I haven't accounted for, gentle nudges from a mother who knows better than to let me rest.
Perhaps I should've built a silent stone bathtub.
Son.
The tub fills the air with steam and white noise, rippling as I dip my toes. The water chills, on the verge of solidifying before I draw back. I've forgotten how cold I've let my body become.
Cold numbs. Cold kills. Cold–
"Keeps people from getting too close," I mutter. I've known this for years, ever since Thomas turned to ash beneath my fingertips. If only Mare were so easy to kill.
There's nothing stopping you.
A bitter laugh escapes as I force my skin to a boil, bubbles drowning out any lecture I might've endured. Tomorrow, I will be married.
Tomorrow, I will have a wife.
But today is not tomorrow. Today I can pretend tomorrow will never come, that I may kiss a bridesmaid instead of the bride, soak myself in sorrow until the dread threatens to drag me under.
Foolish.
Perhaps.
There's a knock at the door, a sentinel reckless enough to startle me from my haze. He clears his throat. "Mare Barrow requests your presence."
At this hour? The nerve.
Send her back.
"Let her in."
Court taught me what it means to be beautiful. What it means to cloak yourself in silk, to deem jewels worthy of hanging from your neck. Beauty is strength. Beauty is power. Beauty is clean, refined, cultivated through discipline and centuries of fine breeding. It is not something we are trained to look for in Reds.
Yet I cannot stop staring as she makes her way forward, shutting the door behind her. Her clothes are casual, an insult. I drink them in like a man starved. "I'm busy."
She stares back. "You didn't have to let me in."
"Yes I did." Mother begs to differ. "What do you need?"
Mare pauses. "Evangeline dragged me here." I don't miss the snarl she attempts, feeble and half-hearted. "I don't want anything from you."
Of course. "Evangeline." I tip my head back, chuckling. "My sentinels are cowards."
I should tell her to leave. Let her whither in her room where I'll never see her again, not even as a corpse. "She brought you here to convince me."
"Convince you?"
"Marry Iris, don't marry Iris." My grip tightens to a vice. "She certainly didn't bring you here for a tea party."
Mare shrugs. "No." The word is a sigh, meant for someone I can't be.
"She thinks what I feel for you can cloud my judgment. Foolish." I keep myself cold so no one will touch me. Mare is no exception.
She flinches, and my mind goes white, reminds me I am poison, poison, poison, unlovable but through eternal deceit. Yell at me, I want to scream. Hit me, curse me, stab me–anything but that.
But I have more sense than that. Sense enough to not come closer, to refrain from comfort I have always failed to deliver. "Heard you started smashing things again."
