Agatine (Terres book II)

Chapter Eleven

Phina tapped her long fingers on the writing desk as Wren stared intently at the paper. The numbers blended together in her brain as if someone had soaked the page. She'd neglected to mention she'd never run numbers before, not for real. She'd seen her mother scrawl them across the ledgers, add and subtract them in a way that made sense, but here they bunched together in a language that may as well have not been hers.

Her hand clenched around her quill until it dug into her palm as Phina let out a disgruntled sigh. She flopped down in the chair next to her, jade green wings resting gracefully over the back. Wren could feel her eyes boring into the back of her skull. One day was not enough to adjust, let alone add numbers on someone else's ledger paper, and it made her head hurt.

Wren pictured her mother's back stooped over their markeshift desk. How her face furrowed in concentration as the writing instrument danced across the page. Wren hoped it might help, but instead it just filled her chest with sadness.

"I thought you said you know how to do this," Phina said. Wren's eyebrows furrowed and her eyes grew daggers until they almost pierced the page.

"I said I know how to read," Wren said quietly as she tried harder to get the numbers to magically appear on the page, but nothing happened. She shook her head. The scent of the oil lamp made her dizzy as it burned away in the tiny room. This place was still too strange and too odd and Phina was entirely too overbearing and presumptuous and it made her want to scream.

"I want to go outside," she said as she placed the quill down just gently enough to not damage it. Phina rolled her shoulders and stood up.

"Finally," she said. "I thought you were going to keep trying forever."

Wren opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. She pushed Phina out of the way as she walked out into the hallway, neither knowing nor caring where she was going.

"Wait," Phina's voice called behind her. Wren bristled and wondered when Phina had appointed herself her babysitter. She wanted desperately for the girl to turn around and leave and let Wren find her own way, since she'd scarcely gotten time to breathe on her own since they'd left the caravan. Wren let out an intentionally loud sigh and turned around. Phina pointed down one of the hallways.

"There's a staircase to the roof, I'm trying to show you," she said, and she pushed past Wren like she expected her to follow. Not as if Wren had much choice. She walked behind her, down the narrow encasement of stone until it disappeared into the wall and began to spiral upward. Wren squeezed herself into the narrow space after Phina, heart pounding in her chest as they pressed down around her.

They plunged into darkness, and Phina threw her shoulder against something heavy at the end of the staircase. The wooden door opened with a creak and moonlight spilled through the opening and down the stairs. Wren blinked. How long had she been here? The sun hadn't risen when Ittra had insisted they make way, before people awoke and saw her.

She stepped out into the darkness. The gritty feeling of the stone was strange under her feet--she'd scarcely remembered she threw them off at some point during the day when she'd gotten tired and her eyes begged her for a nap that never came between the conversations with Marion and tea with Ittra and endless trials of all the things there were to do inside what was essentially a glorified whorehouse. The thought of the other things that went on inside still made Wren shudder. She wondered how many people had walked in, but not out.

Phina shut the door behind them and wandered over to the ledge, then sat and kicked her feet over the edge. Wren looked down and her head spun. She took a step back and looked toward the doorway.

"You do realize you have wings," Phina said. "And you aren't going to fall. At least, not while I'm watching. If Marion finds me up here she'll make me scrub the floors for a week."

Wren's face burned. She closed her eyes and leaned her back against the support poles for a water tank, then waited for her stomach to stop rolling before she opened them again. She kept one hand on the support post to make sure she wouldn't fall off.

"Why are you telling me, then?" she asked.

"You're lonely and probably a bit scared and for that reason I know you're not going to tell anyone," Phina replied. A sly smirk creeped across her face. Wren wanted the words to squash it, if it meant she would stop staring at her as if she were a child.

"Maybe I should tell her," she muttered.

Phina laughed and folded her arms, wingtips balanced artfully on the ledge, as if she couldn't think of anything she'd rather do than jump off and fly away. "You won't. You're too desperate for a friend."

Wren had a sudden urge to stand up and stomp off back down the stairs and outside until she never saw Phina's stupid face again, except she was too afraid of how far off the ground they were to move.

"Why do you keep saying things like this?" Wren asked.

"It's easy," Phina replied.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Phina shrugged and fished something out from the waistband of her skirt. The shiny metal of a flask glinted off her eyes in the moonlight. Wren eyed it warily. She remembered drunk men crashing through the caravan at night, scarcely stopping to breathe, and the sickness that came with it. She'd never seen a woman with one before.

"Everyone's like you, at first. Not used to how they feel when you sleep, or when someone tries to hold you. Or how they bump into doorways. Or how people look at you." Phina's eyes grew dark for a second as she uncapped the flask and tipped some of it into her mouth. Wren watched her, eyes locked on every move. There was a long moment of silence before Phina shoved it into Wren's hand. She gasped and held tighter to the support post, momentarily thrown off balance.

She uncapped the flask with her teeth and took a sniff. It smelled like antiseptic, like medicine, and she wrinkled her nose. Phina gave her an expectant look and she took a sip. It burned on the way down like fire. She coughed and handed it back.

"How do you drink this?" 

"You get used to it," Phina replied dryly. She took a few more gulps and handed it back to Wren. She hesitated, then tipped it down her throat as fast as she could, so she wouldn't have to taste it. 

"Do you really sleep with men for money?" Wren asked, though what she really wanted to ask was if she really killed for money. If the feeling of a knife sinking into flesh and the hiss as the air escaped their lungs bothered Phina as much as it bothered her. She placed the flask down behind her and let go of the support pole. She felt much woozier but somehow it didn't bother her as much.

"Yes," Phina replied. "When I said no one would judge you if you didn't, I was being honest. No one will--" She sighed deeply. "There are terrible men. Sometimes I learn things about them. Sometimes, when I'm lucky, I get to kill them."

 Wren shuddered as Phina looked over at her, eyes suddenly dark in a way that made her feel distinctly uncomfortable. 

"People will leave you. They won't see you the same as before you got wings. It's best...to find something that makes you feel wanted."

 Wren hugged her arms around her waist. How many people had left, now? Her father. Armand. Her mother. They'd all left, like she was just a toy they'd outgrown. Until she didn't help them or wasn't what they wanted or wouldn't let them touch her. Or until she couldn't get back in time. Now all she had was Rannok and Elyn, and she was sure they'd leave too, eventually. Her eyes watered and she shut them and willed them to stop.

"I had a friend that said they would stay," she said. "And a mother that died."

Phina's eyes softened and she handed the flask back to Wren. She uncapped it again and drained the remainder of its contents. It landed heavy in her stomach, like lead, and spread outward to her limbs like fire. She tossed it away behind them, not caring as it clattered loudly over the exposed brick.

"You'll get used to it," Phina said, as if she hadn't noticed Wren had thrown her flask. For some reason she didn't feel like crying. Instead a fire burned in the pit of her stomach she wasn't sure she could quell.