Page 24 of The Witch's Heart
Consciousness is within reach, but I reject it, welcoming the easy floating of my own mind if only for a little while.
When I come to, I blink against the harsh lights glaring down from directly above me.
Disoriented, I look right and left, tensing when I realize I’m no longer in the art room. Instead, I’m in some sort of cubicle. The only thing shut inside the drawn curtain is the cot I’m sitting on and a small metal tray on wheels standing against the wall. The others are all gone, including Sir, and relief ribbons through me when I realize he isn’t standing over me, waiting to punish whatever wrong I’ve done.
My memory flashes with the sight of red paint splattering his clothes. I have a feeling he’s going to make me pay for that later.
I sit up, using the wall for support as my head swims.
The room tilts then settles again, and my stomach cramps painfully.
I wince, placing my hand over it until it passes.
“You’re not well.”
The sound of Dr. Livingstone’s voice jars me.
I look up and spot him in the entry, the curtain pulled aside just enough to let him pass. He lets the curtain fall back as he steps inside the space and approaches me.
A scream builds on my lips.
In the trauma of the last couple of hours, the impossibility of seeing him here terrifies me.
“Celeste?”
At the sight of my panic, he reaches for my hand and, just like with Declan, his touch soothes me. When I finally realize it’s really him and not some specter haunting my tortured mind, I exhale.
“You’re alive,” I whisper.
He cocks his head curiously but doesn’t reply.
The cramps in my stomach return, and I concentrate on deep breathing. He pulls his hand from where it covered mine.
“When was the last time you ate?” he asks.
I glance up at him. “I don’t know.”
He curses under his breath.
“You can’t starve yourself, Celeste. It won’t help—”
“I would gladly eat if given the opportunity,” I snap at him, furious at his ridiculous assumptions. At this entire macabre joke they’ve obviously played on me.
He frowns.
“Are you telling me you haven’t been fed?”
“I’m telling you what you already know. That I’m a prisoner. Kept here against my will. Thirsty. Hungry. Cold. And abused. You can hardly be surprised that I passed out.”
His eyes narrow a fraction and he straightens. “One moment.”
He disappears around the curtain that’s been drawn around my bed. Through the dull roar ringing in my ears, I hear him speaking in low tones in a language I don’t understand. There’s a scrape of a chair and hurried footsteps that recede quickly.
When he returns, his expression is strained.
“Food will arrive shortly,” he says.
I muster the energy to glare at him. “Do you want a thank you for not starving me?”
