Sea Glass: Marie and Lauryn

Chapter 40

The light outside was still pale gold when Marie stepped out of the shower. She had taken a long one, letting the slightly-too-hot water cascade over her in soothing waves. She couldn't entirely ease her mind, but her body was something she could manage for the most part. Once she had dried herself off with a thick towel, she sat on the bed and settled back against the headboard, slid her glasses onto her nose, and opened her book. 

The room was quiet in that soft, suspended way late afternoon sometimes carried, neither day nor evening yet, the world holding its breath. Lauryn slept on her side facing Marie, knees drawn up tightly, one hand curled near her mouth. The lavender colored pacifier had fallen from her mouth, and Felix was held tightly. She began to read, but a part of her attention never left the slow rise and fall of Lauryn's back beneath the blankets. Her rest was one of exhaustion, not relaxation. 

Marie looked down just as Lauryn's brow furrowed. Her fingers twitched, brushing the duvet as if searching for something that wasn't there. Then she whimpered, thin, broken, unmistakably little.

Marie closed the book at once and set it aside.

"It's alright," she said softly, already shifting closer, "Mama's here."

Lauryn stirred more fully now, eyes fluttering open but unfocused, glassy with sleep. She made another faint whimpering noise and turned her face into the pillow, curling in tightly like she was trying to fold herself smaller.

Marie slid down from the headboard and onto her side, bringing herself level with her.

"Ssh, sweetheart," she said softly, brushing hair away from Lauryn's forehead, "You're safe."

Lauryn's eyes opened again, wide this time, pupils dilated and frightened, clearly not seeing the inn or the bed or Marie as she was now. Her lip trembled and she reached out blindly, fingers catching in the fabric of Marie's shirt and gripping hard.

I really had hoped we had left the orphanage behind for good, but healing takes so much time. Time I wouldn't change for anything. 

Marie gathered her in without question, pulling Lauryn against her chest, one arm firm around her back, the other cradling her head.

"We are in our inn in Kilkenny," she said, "You're alright. You fell asleep, that's all. You're safe here with mama and Felix."

Lauryn pressed her face into Marie's collarbone, breath hitching, a small, broken sound escaping her throat again. Sliding her hand beneath the duvet, Marie began to pat her bottom, knowing it soothed her more than almost anything else when she was this little. 

"There you are," she whispered, "That's my pretty girl."

One of her hands crept up and fisted in Marie's shirt again, knuckles pale. Her other thumb she tucked into her mouth, suckling hard.

Marie shifted just enough to reach over to the pillow, never loosening her hold, and retrieved the lavender pacifier. With slow, careful fingers, she removed Lauryn's thumb and guided the pacifier gently between her lips. The change was visible, almost immediate, her shoulders lowering, her breath evening out, her body melting more fully into Marie's. A soft, rhythmic suckling sound filled the quiet room. 

"That's it," Marie said softly, kissing the crown of her head, "You don't have to be anything but mama's good little girl."

Lauryn's eyes fluttered closed again, not asleep, but deep in that small, sheltered place. She shifted until she was tucked perfectly against Marie's torso, knees pressed into her stomach, head under her chin. She fit there like she always did, like this was the shape she had been made for.