Into The Crucible

CHAPTER III: Solitude

LUCIAN

THE sound of the ticking of the wall clock faded with time. Even with the plush comfort of the bed, I couldn't find sleep. I pulled away from underneath the covers and glanced at the time with bleary eyes. 4:58 A.M.

I sat up, propping myself on one elbow. My eyes itched. Only vague contours of the room's furnishings could be seen in the light, filtered through the gauzy gray drapes. My head pounded. It had been nothing but tossing and turning. There would always be something chafing against me that kept rest at bay. I stared at the window. How long until sunrise?

The night before had been somber. Lilia . . . she wandered along the corridors and rooms like a spectre, impassive and indifferent. Hadn't spoken a word. Hadn't done anything. Anything at all. Cecil had tended to us—cooked and served—but I ate alone. She'd retired to her bedroom early, not even past nine in the evening. The whole floor was to myself by then, and I'd done the same as she did. Hide behind a door.

It kept me awake.

Each word of the headline had etched itself deep into the back of my mind. Daughter of art magnate . . . hospitalized after attempted shooting.

My stomach felt hollow, even when I had settled to sleep. It built upon it, the emptiness keeping me awake, the wakefulness maintaining the wringing in my stomach. It wasn't hunger. No. Something else.

Hospitalized after attempted shooting.

It felt cramped here. Stuffy. A gnawing ache crawled across my back, sparking again in my limbs with every minute move. I swung my legs out of the bed from beneath the covers. The rush of standing up so suddenly made my head spin. My eyesight swam as I peered through the drapes. No sunlight yet from the outside. Just the dull, oddly lambent ink-blue of a sky far from dawn.

Daughter of art magnate. . .

There's no point in trying now. I threw on a loose beige jacket and padded towards the door. The sound of my footsteps echoed in the silence. I yawned as I reached the end of the short, empty corridor.

The pounding in my head pulsated again the moment I flipped the lights on. It stung to look at anywhere bright. I rubbed the grit from the corner of my eyes, shaking away the cobwebs. The kitchen was empty. All blue and grey, from the cerulean tiles to the wainscoting. Sleek metallic equipment. No sound. No noise. Cecil would have been awake by now. No sign of him. No sign of anyone. I fixed myself a cup of coffee as best as I could. As the silver percolator whirred, I leaned on the island counter, my head in my hands, fingers running through my hair.

I didn't want to imagine. The picture on the newspaper seemed so visceral. It flashed across my mind, a photograph that manifested as fast as it faded.

Vague, shadowed figures in blue. Yellow tape.

Shards of glass.

Blood on the floor.

Oh, God. I wanted to retch. My heart was in my throat, matching the pounding in the back of my head. A cold draft passed, making the hairs of my arms stand on end. I didn't bother reading the article in its entirety. I didn't think I could.

I tilted my head high as steam wisped from the percolator, forcing myself to heave in a heavy breath. The scent of the brew had filtered into the air now. I put the coffee together haphazardly, not bothering to wipe clean a spill on the counter.

The den was dark. I found the switch, and as the lights illuminated the space, I found her waiting.

Lilia.