Tainted

Chapter Thirty-Five

"You missed my story," Prof says as I sit down at the table across from him the next morning. I pull the mug of coffee close to me, feeling the heat against my face.

"I know, and I'm sorry. What did you talk about?" I ask. I take a bite of the breakfast bun. It tastes less sweet this morning.

"Well I didn't feel comfortable sharing something about history since Tanymede got in my head, so I went with a classic legend and talked about Íras."

"Mmm," I say around a mouthful of bun.

"But I added in some intrigue, you know, for the kids." Prof smiles, the little dimples forming at the edges of his mouth.

"How do you add intrigue to the legend of Íras?" I ask. It's the story of the sun. Íras was the firstborn child of Gaia and Pontus and he was so distraught when the Lord of Shadows came to kill his parents, that he begged the Goddess of Evernight to help him, only to discover it was the Lord of Everdark himself in disguise. Which is why when the sun is at its highest point in the sky, the shadows are gone. But as the sun starts to sneak away into the night, the shadows creep back.

"There's already intrigue enough," I say. I take a swig of coffee.

"I added in some sword fights," Prof says. He mimes jabbing forward.

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Have you ever actually been in a sword fight?" I ask.

Prof holds his hand over his heart. "Are you mocking my sword fighting skills?"

"Mocking? No," I say. "Heavily criticizing, yes."

Just then, the stench of rose and lavender fills my nose. I turn around on the stool. Rogue is standing directly behind me. I haven't seen him since yesterday. I don't know if he came home last night, and frankly I don't want to know.

"Hello," I say coolly.

"Hello." Rogue nods at both Prof and I. He's wearing the blue velvet tunic we washed last night. Its silver thread sparkles in the sunlight.

"Thief," Rogue begins.

I'm back to "Thief" now. My heart sinks.

"Since you are healing well, it no longer seems that you're in need of my intimate care. I figured this morning might be a good time to search for a new tent space for you. I believe as least three are available. Their residents have since moved back from whence they came."

Rogue's formality seems awkward. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Prof looking curiously between the two of us.

"Alright," I say, slipping off the stool.

I leave my coffee on the table and follow Rogue as he leads me away from the dining area. His posture is impeccable and his boots move together through the sand at a regimented pace. There's nothing of the vulnerable boy I saw by the wash basin, and it hurts to have that memory juxtaposed with the way he's acting now.

I trudge along in Rogue's wake. While it will be nice to have my own space, I can't help but feel like I'm being kicked out. Rogue no longer wants to see me on a daily basis. I'm going to miss having Sailor nearby and hearing James's snores while I fall asleep. It felt comfortable to have them there. And now, they'll be gone. It's been a long time since I've slept in a space by myself. I don't know if it'll feel freeing, or lonely.

"How is the plot to free the Ill-Fated from the prison going?" I ask.

"I don't think that's any of your concern since you've chosen not to partake in that scheme," Rogue snaps back over his shoulder.

I nod. "Alright then," I say under my breath.

We fall into a subdued silence. Rogue takes me down a path I haven't yet been. Braxos looks up from where he's tugging a boot on over his foot. I give him a half-wave. He grits his teeth in some sort of smile.

"Here," Rogue says, stopping abruptly.

The tent is smaller than Rogue's which is fine, but it's plain. Clean, white linen makes up the walls and roof. I step inside. It's empty. I'll have to decorate it with my own things.

But you don't have any things, I think. I could get some, but what's the use? I'm still planning to head home in about a week. If I'm only going to be a temporary resident here, then there's not really much I need.

"How do this fare?" Rogue asks. He's looking around the inside of the tent. Every now and then I think his eyes dart over to me, but then I wonder if I'm being too hopeful, and if he's actually not looking at me at all.

"It's fine," I answer.

"There's another I can show you," Rogue offers.

"I'd like that."

I follow him back outside. We take another turn through an unfamiliar path. This one is lined with tents that have been made from multicolored strips of cloth. I eye each one, seriously trying to imagine myself making this kind of tent my own. It might be possible.

"There's this one," Rogue says, stopping before a tent patterned in red and blue, but another tent has already caught my eye. It's kitty corner from where we're standing, and while the exterior seems to be made of plain, white linen, when the door flaps breeze open I can see the entire interior is covered in paint.

I move toward it.

I can't see anyone inside, nor is there anyone standing around outside. I pull aside the flap, and peer inside.

The walls are covered in brilliant painted landscapes and portraits, coating the space in color and light. It's like stepping into a dream of ochre and vermillion, chartreuse and sunflower. I step forward and reach out a hand to touch the fabric. I can almost feel the brush of grass against my fingers, the ripple of water. Each depiction is more real than the next.

"I know this," I whisper.

"What?"

Rogue's so close behind me it makes me startle.

"I know this art," I say. "I recognize it."

A wounded sound escapes Rogue's throat. "What do you mean you know this art?" he asks, desperation coating his words.

"There was someone at the prison who would draw like this." I picture her frail hand holding the rock as she tried to carve a flower into the stone wall. I remember the sound the rock made as it fell over and over again, tears leaking from Binks's eyes.

I trace a finger around a realistic flower blooming forth from a meadow of green. "We called her Ezzi."

Rogue draws a sharp intake of breath.

"You knew her?" he asks.

"A little bit," I say, still touching the walls of the tent. "She was only there for a couple months. She died of infection, but I think she'd had it before being imprisoned."

Rogue moans. I turn to him. His face is streaked with tears. His arms are crossed tightly over his chest.

"Rogue," I say, reaching out to touch his shoulder instead. "What's wrong?"

"This was my sister's tent," he says, the words ragged. "She lived here before she was imprisoned. And that's where she died."

All the blood drains from my face. Ice forms in my gut. The ground sways.

Ezzi. Esmeralda.

She was Rogue's sister. And I watched her die.