Nada's Escape

41- Ribbons.

I unceremoniously drop a pile of new used clothes to the floor of Finley's bathroom and whip out the list I'd stolen from the archive centre earlier that day. More like a Christmas card list than an attendance roll, it only resorts to family names where no other differentiating feature can be found. Dates, names and coded posting labels blur before my eyes, just one familiar name jumping out again and again: Finley. The rest is gibberish to me since my sense of time has become just a foggy sequence of days after so long in Seven.

Folding the list into a tiny package, I frown, what would Amy do with this kind of information? The answer swirls up to me from my consciousness, find a calendar. I change with relief into the worn shorts and shirt Finley had produced. The softness of the clean cotton and the snap a hair elastic straight from the packet make me feel more ferocious than ever.

Exiting the bathroom into the common area of the bungalow I see Finley watching the microwave heating up a mountain frozen nuggets. My stomach growls at the thought of food, even after the mountain I'd scoffed earlier this afternoon.

On the wall by the fridge I zone in on a poster calendar with a tulip motif down one side and start examining the crossed-out boxes.

"Is this accurate?" I ask.

"Ahhh yep," Finley replies, twisting halfway around to affirm what I'm looking at. My head starts to feel like its floating a little above my body. It's February? In my mind the events of the last few months start condensing like a train crushing itself against a steel wall. I suck in a deep breath and start sorting through the debris of time, vaguely aware of Finley pulling packet salads from the fridge.

Extraordinarily, staring at the little squares arranged into months and years boxes time up too neatly. Every day the same size, regardless of the amount of pain or danger contained within each one. I remember the first date on the page, half a week or so ago. So I seem to have lucked out in snagging a recent posting schedule.

The angry beep of the microwave pulls me out of my analysis, the scent of food intoxicating as Finley opens the little door. Sitting across from him I eat hungrily, resisting the social nicety to look up at him over the meal. I'm not sure if I can still be enthralled. Finley's father didn't seem to be able to, but that had been before the symbol on my hand.

And then there had been the telepathic connection Finley and I had shared. Whilst it had been as easy as breathing to communicate when I woke, able to feel as well as hear his voice, I had to concentrate more and more as the day wore on. Finally when I'd met him in the hedge paths the connection was lost. Perhaps I'm still at risk from enthralment, but only from Finley. Is Finley still trying to control me, though? I don't want to believe so, especially as I've trusted him this far.

Trust and distrust war within me as I watch him disappear into the next room in my periphery. Keep your guard up, I remind myself as I scrape the last of the nuggets through a sparse smear of sauce.

"Shall we test the new ribbons?" Finley asks, re-entering. I clamber up from my chair as he places a small brown suitcase on the table, snapping open the catches. He swivels it towards me and I see wads of ribbons of every colour and shape held down with buckles next to loops of twine and thin rope. Nestled around the edges are tiny brown bottles and an old table top lighter, the whole array meticulously organised as if taken straight from a craft store catalogue.

Finley presses down on the silver buckle holding down a wad of thin green ribbons, "These are the new ones. We have fifteen, more than enough for the ceremony."

I nod, suppressing a shiver at the Huntsmen's version of shackles. Finley undoes the buckle and extracts a ribbon, running it through his hand. As he does, a silvery shimmer races along the ribbon behind.

"Right... So how can we test them?" I say, feeling like an idiot for asking.

"Make an inconsequential promise, one we can easily test, and we'll see if you can break it." He casts his gaze about pensively. My nails tap on the tabletop as I lean over it to snatch the ribbon from Finley.

"Fine," I huff, my face screwing up with distaste for the task ahead. The cushions stacked up beside the couch give me an idea, "I promise I won't punch that pillow."

"Good, but you should be a little more specific. Try saying you won't punch any of the pillows in my house." I fist my hand, palm up, on the ribbon and copy Finley's suggestion. With care Finley, circles my wrist with the ribbon's ends, never brushing my skin with his. The knot is a perfect loose bow, seemingly too pretty to hold a present closed, let alone entrap an unknowing girl.

Then Finley selects a square bottle from the brown case, its cut crystal surface might be as much for grip as for aesthetics. He shakes three gleaming amber drops exactly onto the knot and as I glare as they sink into the fabric, with no outward sign of the magic at work.

"That's it?" I ask as Finley returns the bottle and walks over to the cushion stack.

"That's it," he confirms, "Intention over drama. Ordinarily the knot would tighten the more anyone tried to undo it. The band will weave itself back together if cut." Finley lazes back on the couch, reaching over the arm and launches a pillow at me. Immediately I spread my feet for balance and meet the cushion's centre with my fist. The ribbon slides all over the place around my arm and by the time the pillow hits the ground the ribbon is limp seaweed hanging from my fist. I blink.

"Too easy." I whisper, "And we stop this-" I shake the dangling ribbon, "- from happening by gluing the ribbons later, right?" I ask, putting the genius of this plan into focus in my mind. I catch a sweet smile on Finley's lips before I turn sharply, deciding to cut this conversation short with a decisive yawn. Finley hops up then, setting up the futon in his spare room. I feel awkward not helping but I again I resist social niceties by reminding myself of the day by the meadow when he'd enthralled me simply by touch.

I stretch out on the futon in the dark when Finley has left, tired but unable to quiet my mind. So much has happened today and more has to happen tomorrow. As if planning escape isn't hard enough this tension with Finley is sapping my concentration and energy.

A memory rises out of my mind then of my strange dream of the Warrior Mage hiding a woman's voice and a man's hands beneath her cloak. She'd tried to "tether" me to Finley and then the telepathy had begun. This seems evidence enough that the dream had somehow been real. Is it possible that Finley had had the same dream? I decide to try and ask him about it tomorrow.

Paranoid that some piece of Finley's consciousness is still lodged in my mind, I try to concentrate, listening for the static that had rested at the edge of my consciousness this morning. There is only my own thoughts interrupting me with concerns about the council and the girls I'm trying to protect. After a many minutes I become satisfied that it is not still inside me and roll over to sleep instead.