Page 101 of Cursed Shadows 5

Letters finished, prayers ended, I stand at the window, and watch the gods pass me by.

Painted parchment statues of them are paraded through the vibrant streets of Kithe. Painted fae dance and sing and wave torches and throw chalk-bombs into the air. Bursts of pinks and blues and purples and yellows erupt all over the faces of homes,staining them for phases to come. But I see not a single frown of disproval on the faces on the street below. I see only joy—and anguish. Joy in the songs and the waving of torches, anguish in the harrowing, hollowed calls to the dead.

I draw back from the window, out of sight from those down there in the street, and start to peel off my clothes. I strip down to nakedness, then snatch the slip-skirt from the foot of the bed.

I’m climbing into it when Eamon shoulders lazily into the closed-over door and drags his withered self into the bedroom.

He falls onto his own bed. “That was a torture I could have lived without.”

I fix the waistband of the flimsy cream skirt and glance over my shoulder at him.

His dull stare is reddened and fixed up at the mould on the ceiling.

I snatch the matching strappy top from the bed, right next to Hedda who has taken to chewing up the leftover parchment.

Eamon sighs the question, “Did you get it done?”

Tugging the top over my head, I jerk my chin in a gesture to the windowsill, where I left the folded parchment letter for Aleana—and a second, smaller letter addressed to Taroh.

Eamon heaves himself off the bed with a grunt. He steals the letters into his fist before he strips down to his slacks, then kicks off his boots.

The Sabbat is for nudity or flimsy, small clothes. The paint should stain the flesh, mar the complexions for phases to come, drench our hair and change our faces.

Father never let me go nude. He said that nakedness was those without propriety, without civility, like the woodlanders or the crude ones who live too remote.

So I wear little, but I do wear something. My cotton set is accompanied by basic safety—the strap of a belt around my thigh, where I gently thread a small knife until it is secure.

Eamon does too. Shirtless, he tucks a knife into his wrist brace, the folded letters bitten between his teeth as he moves for the lounge.

I follow him through the doorway and march for the hearth.

Hedda’s frantic gallop chases me to the flames.

Eamon hands me the letters, reluctant almost. I don’t understand that, the caution of his pain slowing him down; it is a lovely thing to talk to the dead.

I have no hesitance.

I lift the thicker parchment fold. I reach out for the burning hearth—and I toss the letter into the flames.

“I miss you,” I whisper as the parchment burns to ash.

And I hope Aleana hears me.

I wait.

I wait for every last bit of the paper to sear away to nothing before I lift the second letter.

My eyes narrow on this one. My mouth purses and I suddenly doubt why I wrote it at all.

It’s a simple message.

‘Burn for all eternity, suffer as you made me suffer, and die every phase henceforth.’

I throw it into the fire.

Eamon doesn’t pry on the second, mystery letter of mine that is now being consumed by the flames.

He has one of his own.

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