And now it was falling.
“Sora, the switches,” his father said softly. Sora nodded, slipping from the room without another word. Shaw turned to them. “Remember when I mentioned that the long-lasting effects—”
“We don’t have time for this. Show us,” Jin said.I don’t trust you, was what he wanted to say.
As if he heard the unspoken words, his father looked at him, resigned and empty.
Just like Jin.
26FLICK
Flick was in a chair. Her wrists ached more than she would have liked, but that was fine. Eyes ate more than mouths ever did, and the feast before her was delightful. The chair was quite comfortable, the round table before her laden with some of her favorite things: a slender vase full of happy sunflowers, a spread of sandwiches with cucumbers and cream—a rarity, for cucumbers were expensive and hard to come by. She could smell the tea brewing in a dainty cup.
Royal Rouge. Her favorite Spindrift blend, with rose petals and caramel. If the papers ever came to interview her at the Linden Estate and asked her to describe herself, she would say Royal Rouge. It was Flick in a teacup.
And she wasn’t alone, for Flick loved companionship more than anything else.
“You look lovely today, Mother,” she said. Where Lady Linden’s gown brought out her remarkable blue eyes, Flick’s dress didn’t really complement her skin or hair or the color of her eyes, but she didn’t find herself concerned, because they matched. It meant her mother liked her enough to dress alike.
“Thank you, dear. Have you tried the tea?” Lady Linden asked. “I know it’s your favorite.”
Flick’s smile slipped before she mentally pinched herself and tacked it back on. How did her mother know her favorite tea? She’d been fartoo occupied with everything else to even take Flick to Spindrift, let alone learn what she liked there.
Still, Flick was always a gracious, obedient daughter. She widened her smile and reached for her cup. But her arm kept…going. She stretched and stretched, and when her fingers finally closed around the handle of the teacup, she was dreadfully tired. When she pulled the cup closer, the smell of it began to change. The sweet caramel turned sharper, spicier, and when she brought it to her lips, she saw that it wasn’t tea that was brewing.
It was a steeping of blood. Her hand shook, causing it to splash and scald her chest.
Flick gasped, and the teacup faded away, as did the spread of food and her gown and her mother. Shefeltherself awaken—she felt herself lurching back into her body, her senses rousing from darkness, every excruciating inch of her screaming with pain. It thumped through her veins, sending echoing waves of weakness washing through her with every other breath.
The Ram was before her, cloaked in shadows, and Flick was still hanging from the ceiling, her wrists bound. In that moment, she wished she was horribly, terribly alone.
Because this was worse.
The Ram assessed Flick through her mask that was as ugly as her soul. Beside her was a tiny stool with a wicked blade resting in wait. It was long with sharp, serrated teeth. Terror shot through Flick’s veins, warring with the pain.
She was supposed to find out more about the Ram’s plans for the tribute. She was supposed to forge invitations and figure out what those pill-shaped sketches represented. Was she really at the location of the coordinates and had somehow gotten them wrong? Or was her mother mocking her as she tended to do?
“Enjoying yourself?” she rasped. A familiar scent tickled her nose: that spritz of lavender perfume her mother sprayed every morning. She was methodical with it, so that it never mixed poorly with her evening fragrances.
A day had passed. Or was it two? Flick had been hanging for a day. She ought to be proud of herself, but she could barely think from the pain leaching through her.
“I don’t like your tone,” the Ram said.
Flick laughed. It was more of a wheeze, but the Ram had lived with her long enough to know what it was meant to be. “I don’t like your methods, so I suppose we’re equal,Mother.”
Flick decided then and there that she enjoyed sarcasm. Not only did it sound exquisite to her ears, but when she visualized the word, it was a lovely italicized stream of disdain that was quite joyful.
The Old Roaring Tower tolled, marking the hour, and Flick wished her head wasn’t throbbing. Three bells clanged across the city. Why did it sound so far above her? Was it three at night or in the afternoon? There wasn’t a window in here to tell. Years might have passed for all she knew. She couldn’t remembernotbeing in pain.
“Don’t you have a tribute to plan?” Flick asked in another rasp. She could barely get the words out. She wriggled her fingers. They were numbed to the bone. She stifled a sob.
The Ram noticed. She strode forward and kicked the crate beneath Flick.
Flick only needed to lift her feet onto it, and she would feel relief. Her mother would feel satisfaction.Don’t do it, don’t.
Flick lifted her feet.
It was a struggle, but she did it, one after the other, touching them to the surface of the crate. Her feet felt as though they would snap as she straightened them. She couldn’t hold back her sob this time. Itracked through her, and the pain was almost worse as feeling slowly eked back into her limbs.
