Page 126 of Cursed Shadows 5

For him.

This is all for him.

It brings me no joy to live alone in the flat above a tavern that feels like a graveyard to me; it puts no smile on my face to walk the streets of Kithe, the town I was meant to live in with my beloved Eamon; the silence that follows me through my phases, it offers no comfort, only a constant sense of loneliness.

I have indulged.

I have entertained the fleeting thoughts of foolery—to return to Licht, start my new life there, away from here…

But in Licht, I won’t escape the reminder of Eamon.

And I know, I cannot return to Licht, even if I wanted to. I am not welcome there.

The Midlands is where I belong, now.

But I was meant to belong with him…

Now, I pick through his things, tossed into a box, and I fold his blouses and smooth out his leather wristbands and delicately deposit his golden braid clasps on one pile that I mean to store at the back of the wardrobe, because I will never rid myself of them.

It is a small dwelling, and storage spaces are few. It is one room, merely sectioned apart. The washtub sits by the wall close to the hearth; the bed is doubled and pushed against the wall; the kitchen area is small, but the one in the tavern just downstairs is nothing to complain about.

This dwelling would be much larger if it weren’t for the room next door; the barrel chamber, teeming with wooden drums of aged wines and flavoured ales. The trap door at the centre of the room opens into the bar, and the contraption that lowers barrels down one at a time saves a lot of labour.

But I can’t exactly store Eamon’s things in there.

Perhaps I’ll pry up some more floorboards under the bed or in the small kitchen.

But first, the boxes.

I fold most of Eamon’s clothes into a nice, organised pile, and soon that box is almost empty.

Hedda has turned her attention to it, leaving behind her scraps and shrapnel.

The sigh I exhale is small, and I reach into the box to scrape my fingertips along the bottom, making sure there is nothing left before Hedda destroys it.

My fingertips brush something crisp.

And my heart stops.

For a beat, I am motionless, frozen, hand stuffed into a cardboard box, a grim twist to my face—because I know what is touching my fingertips.

Crisp like the thickest of dried leaves… or, rather, crisp like cotton soaked in blood, then left on floorboards for a phase or two to dry out, then kicked under a bed with other abandoned clothes…

I swallow, thick, then fist my grip.

I draw the bundle out of the box, arm straight, and stare at my nightmare.

The flimsy skirt and top that I wore on the Sabbat. It was a creamy tone when that phase started, not quite white. Now, it is brown.

Eamon’s hybrid blood stains most threads, not black, not crimson, somewhere in between.

The crumpled set is firm in my grip.

Hedda seizes her opportunity.

She lunges for the box and yanks her head to the side, stealing it away from me.

I flinch.

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