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WHAT FOLLY HAD MOVED HER TO ABANDON the sanctuary of her bed for something as trivial as a stroll?
Her steps were sluggish, labored; she could barely endure the chill veiling the hallway, yet she embraced it over the stifling confinement of her room. A sickness she did not choose already made her suffer, so it must be justifiable that for once she, on her own terms, chose a few of the sufferings she would willfully consent to endure.
Earlier that afternoon, before drawing the curtains and whispering about supper, the nurses had pressed a cup into her hands. It tasted bitter upon the tip of her tongue, with a sweetness that bloomed slowly after the swallow. It softened the edges of her breath and dulled the aches at the base of her spine and behind her eyes.
It also made her drowsy.
There was an uncanny, weightless lucidity to it. She could never entirely recall what she contemplated after taking it, only that her thoughts drifted like mist or like the shifting patterns on her bedroom ceiling that stirred where nothing should have moved. She harboured a quiet suspicion that the medicine did more than merely soothe the pain.
At the waning edge of daylight, the grand estate slumbered in a pall of muted tone. Beyond the frost-laced windows, snow blanketed the world in thick, soundless folds, while the sky hung heavy with the coming dusk. At five, a tall clock groaned its solemn chime. It was late afternoon, and soon the nurses would find her missing.
The country estate itself loomed vast and labyrinthine, its wide hallways echoing with the absence of footsteps —a silence that brought, in her chest, a fleeting relief. Heavy tapestries swayed slightly in draughts, and portraits in golden gilded frames watched with solemn eyes. A still lamps lined on the wall offered only the illusion of warmth, its light failing to dispel shadows that crept like languid fingers across the carpeted ground.
She clutched the book to her chest with her left, holding it tightly against the fluttering rise of her breath. Her hand was numb and tingling at the fingertips, pressed to the wall for support. Each movement forward took effort; her knees barely obeyed, and her balance faltered with every uncertain step. Her throat burned, and each breath stung as if lined with thorns.
She had a destination—the library. Of all the privileges afforded her, this was the one she cherished most: access to the thoughts of strangers long gone, stories carved from longing and wonder. Having finished one book, she yearned for another.
It was oppressive, always needing someone else to choose for her. But this once, she wanted to choose her own story. A reprimand might come later but what was that compared to freedom?
At the threshold, she raised a trembling hand to the handle. The wood felt cold beneath her palm. With a shallow breath, she pulled and the door resisted. Her legs tensed, and her shoulder leaning into the motion. It'd barely moved when the door groaned open, just wide enough for her to slip through. The exertion left her dizzier than she expected. Her chest ached.
