The Traitor's Stain (wattys 2019)

Chapter Thirty-Three: New York, New York

Ophelia woke up to the sun shining on her face from the bedroom window.

For a few minutes, she simply lay there, the quilt wrapped around her. The sunlight felt like a spit to the face: too calm, too cheery for what had happened the other night. Her entire body felt heavy, as if she were still soaked up with rain. She still felt some of the chill of the wet night biting into her skin, but she wasn't shaking, anymore. But, she was still cold. Cold in a way that went deeper than skin. And the way she felt, she wasn't sure that she'd ever quite feel warm, again.

She wrapped the blanket tighter around herself and closed her eyes, again. Memories of what had happened flashed before her eyes: the gunshot, the stabbing, the rain, the running, the cold. The fear. The not knowing just what had happened; the just knowing that she had to get out of there, before something happened to her. There were moments in her mind that were crystal clear, as if they were happening right in front of her, again, but then there were others that were just... blank. She didn't remember getting to Robert's. She didn't remember changing into her nightgown. All she remembered was the look on Otetiani's face as Abraham stabbed him, and the blinding flash of the muzzle in the night.

Part of Ophelia didn't want to get up. Part of her wanted to stay right there until she and the world forgot about what happened, that night. But, she knew she couldn't: as painful as it might end up being, she had to see which one of them had been shot. And she had to see if they were still alive.

Finally, she stood up. She could hear people talking in the kitchen beneath her feet. Two men. It was either Robert with Hercules or Abraham, or it was Robert with a British soldier there about her. Either way, she needed to know what they were talking about.

She slowly walked down the stairs, praying that she wouldn't make a loose floorboard creak.

Once she got to the middle of the stairs, she could hear the conversation more clearly:

"I don't know what to tell you: we had no idea he was going to have a gun," a man said.

"And why didn't you have a gun?" That voice was definitely Robert. "Why did you stab him when you could've shot him."

The man sighed. "We were trying to keep a low profile. We didn't want anyone else to know what was happening."

"So, you stabbed a man, only to have your friend shot and the entirety of New York City know what happened." Ophelia could practically hear Robert shaking his head. "You should've planned this out more carefully. If you had, that Indian fellow would be dead, and Abraham wouldn't be clinging to life as we speak."

Ophelia felt like she'd been shot, herself when she heard that.

She didn't care if anyone heard her, then: obviously, everyone downstairs was a friend to the cause. She rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping over herself, and ran into the kitchen, where Robert and Hercules were sitting.

Both of them stood up when they saw her.

"Ophelia-" Robert began.

"Is Abraham going to make it?" She blurted out.

Robert and Hercules gave each other a nervous look.

"What aren't you telling me?" Ophelia demanded. "It's a simple question: is Abraham going to live?"

More silence. It was so quiet, it practically rang in her ears.

"Just because the question is simple doesn't mean the answer is simple," Robert said. "Abraham's safe, and he's being taken care of. The rest, I'm afraid, is in the Lord's hands."

Ophelia didn't know what to do. She felt like the entire world was collapsing around her. What if Abraham ended up dying because of this? Would she be able to live with herself? Live with the fact that she'd run off instead of helped?