Page 67 of Goldrage
“I’ll help you to your room.” She’s already rising, napkin discarded beside her plate.
“That’s unnecessary.”
“Nonsense. What kind of wife would I be if?—”
“Bianca.” Julian’s tone leaves no room for argument. “Sit.”
She sits. The flush creeping up herneck speaks to embarrassment or anger or both, but she obeys. In this house, Julian’s word is law.
I stand, gripping the table edge until the momentary dizziness passes. Finally, I manage to straighten.
I catch Aurelia’s gaze and she looks concerned. I dip my chin, hoping she understands my silent response:“I’m okay. Just tired.”
“Good night.” The words encompass the table without focusing on anyone in particular. I don’t trust myself to look at Aurelia as I say it. I don’t trust my expression to remain neutral when every cell in my body screams to go to her.
The walk to my room feels endless. Each step requires more concentration than it should, my thoughts swimming through thick fog. Behind me, Bianca’s heels click. Of course she ignored Julian’s implicit command to stay put.
“Adrian, wait?—”
I don’t wait. Can’t wait. My body craves horizontal surfaces and darkness and silence. The door to my room appears and I reach for it.
“Let me at least check that you have fresh water,” she insists, hovering at the threshold and holding the pitcher off the table. “And your medications. Did you take them with dinner? I didn’t see?—”
“Everything’s fine. Good night.” My tone is a little harsh, but I really need distance from her.
Her mouth opens for another protest, but something in my expression must finally penetrate. She deflates, shoulders sagging. “Good night, hubby. Sleep well.”
The door closes between us. I lean against it,breathing deep in the sudden quiet. My head swims, thoughts scattering. Too much stimulation. Too much pretending. Too much of everything except what I actually need.
Aurelia.
I lean heavily on my cane as I cross the room to the bed. I collapse onto the mattress fully clothed, not bothering with the curtains or covers or any other nighttime rituals.
I’m simply exhausted. So exhausted in fact, I worry that I might be coming down with an illness. This kind of deep, internal fatigue doesn’t feel normal.
But I can’t hold the thought. The ceiling spins lazy circles above me. An odd sensation, like being drunk without alcohol’s pleasant blur.
My eyelids grow heavy. Between one blink and the next, darkness swallows me whole.
The night shifts and moves, time melting and pooling in strange corners of the room. I drift in and out of consciousness, an odd half-sleep like my body won’t let me rest. Sometimes I surface, gasping, with the taste of iron on my tongue; sometimes I sink, clutching at formless shapes that dissolve before I can assemble them into meaning. A buzzing, high and insistent, sets up residence in my inner ear.
I don’t remember fully falling asleep, but when I open my eyes the room is as it was—dark, silent, thegarden lights leaking through the windows. Except I’m not alone.
She stands at the foot of my bed.
“Aurelia?” I croak, or try to, but the word doesn’t come out right. My tongue is thick and uncooperative. I struggle to focus. The outline of her hair—red, impossibly vibrant even in darkness—flares like a wound against the gray.
Her eyes, green as absinthe, pulse with concern. She moves closer, so fluid she must be floating. Her scent—vanilla—hollows me out.
I try to sit up, but gravity keeps me pinned. My muscles are feeble and I can’t move. She sits at my side, the mattress dipping beneath her weight. I blink, trying to clear the haze from my vision, but it only erases more details. Her hands are on me—one at my brow, cool and careful, the other stroking my forearm in small, concentric circles. I sigh at the comfort.
“I was worried,” she says, voice syrupy and slow. “You seemed so tired at dinner.”
I try to respond but her palm cups my cheek and she hushes me with a thumb pressed to my lips.
“Don’t talk. Let me take care of you.” She leans close, and for a moment, the shadow at her temple seems wrong—too sharp, too linear, but then her lips are at my ear and that’s all I can think about.
She whispers nonsense syllables, little gasps and fragments of comfort. I want to reach for her, but my hands don’t obey. When I try to move, she hushes me again, nails raking softly at my scalp.
