Page 36 of Caging Darling

There’s a story John used to tell about a man who fled battle. He hadn’t wanted to kill the soldier chasing him, had warned him to turn back alone, leave him in peace. But the man had refused to relent. So the fleeing man had taken the blunt pommel of his sword and sent it through the pursuing man’s gut.

He’d bled out, not even on the battlefield, with a man who hadn’t wanted to kill him standing over him.

Hadn’t wanted to, but that hadn’t stopped him from going through with it in the end.

It’s as if I can feel the pommel, not slicing through my organs. No, nothing so clean as that, but butchering them, bursting them. It hurts.

I grasp my stomach, like I need to keep my entrails from spilling out. My other hand grasps at the damp stone wall, as if that will steady me. My finger scrapes against a nail, and I gasp as it draws blood.

But nothing hurts like this.

He’s not coming, he’s not coming.

All those days I waited. Every glance I took toward the sky. Not coming.

Every time I scanned a crowd. Not coming.

He was never coming.

TIMELINE

Day284365 of Choosing Peter

CHAPTER 13

I’m drenched by the time Peter gets me back to the inn.

It rained on our way home, masking the fact that I was sweating.

I’d hid the signs of my meltdown well enough before I left the bathroom. My eyes had been bloodshot from crying, but all I had to do was tell Peter I was feeling ill, and he hadn’t asked questions.

He’d carried me back the entire way. Up the stairs. Into the bathroom. He’d helped me strip out of my clothes, his gaze lingering on my form. When I’d asked for privacy to bathe, he’d protested, but eventually conceded.

I’d considered drowning myself in the tub, but only as a fantasy. I still have Michael to think about, and I won’t be the second sibling to leave him.

So I’d watched the water in the tub slosh around me, and I’d thought of the ocean. The one that stretches out further and further between me and Astor.

I would cry more, but my tears are all spent. When I finish, my skin is a deep pink from the water I’d asked Peter to prepare as steaming as possible. I’d thought I could sear away my pain.

When I’m done, I face the cold, dank air, dry myself, and slip into my evening clothes. They’re silk, probably stolen from nearby. Maybe a tailor’s. Maybe an aristocrat’s house. I don’t really care, either way.

Not coming. He’s not coming. He’s never been coming.

These words are the anthem matching the sound of my footsteps as I pad back into the room and offer Peter what must look like a pitiful smile.

“Feeling any better?” He’s perched on the edge of the bed, back rigid, wings tucked behind him. Ears perked. Like he’s been listening to me the entire time I’ve been in the washroom.

Like he’s been prepared to launch himself in at any signs or sounds that I might be drowning myself.

“Some,” I say weakly, which is true.

Though I still feel like death, the pain has settled from a piercing jolt to more of a stable ache. I’ll carry it with me always. Like a joint that flares up at the first signs of a cold front or an oncoming storm.

I run my hands through my wet hair, pulling the top half of it back with a blue ribbon Peter left on top of my folded clothes. He seems to like blue. I wonder if it has anything to do with my eyes.

As I pull my hair back, Peter watches, his face pensive. He looks boyish again, abashed but slightly hopeful.

“What is it?” I ask.

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