Page 11 of The Ordeals
‘What?’ I ask, confused, just as I taste the first of it. The smoke lingers on the tip of my tongue, all spun sugar laced with a cloying bitterness before slithering unbidden down my throat. My whole body begins to turn numb and I lean against the wall beside the window, feet skidding on the floor. I cough, just like he did, but somehow, I can’t shake the quick effects of this poison. I try to move my feet, try to inch my body towards the door, but it’s like my very bones are falling asleep.
He’s right, it is a damn immobilant.
‘That’s why,’ he mutters, thrusting his suit jacket at me. ‘Cover your nose and mouth with this.’
I do as he says, panic setting in, mentally leafing through my options and realising I’m out of them.
He stuffs the shredded petals and a single leaf into the hip flask, frowning as he holds it. For a heartbeat, I’m sure it glows before he downs a mouthful and shoves it under my nose. I back away, narrowing my eyes, even as I sink slowly to the ground. I no longer have any feeling in my feet, my legs tingling and losing strength inch by inch. The whole parlour is drenched in the smoke now. I can barely see across to the fireplace and those unnatural flames. If only I could get back to the door, maybe I could pick the lock, or if I could reach that grate, I could cover it with his jacket. That immobilant is botanist-made. Has to be. Something to disarm us, to make it harder for us tomove—
‘Drink this or you’re going to die,’ he says, shaking the hip flask in my face. ‘I’m not messing around. That immobilant will soon stop you from being able to draw a breath. Get it down you.’
My voice comes out half-strangled, tongue thick behind my teeth as though I’m losing control of that too. ‘How do I know … how do I …can I trust you?’
His eyes glitter as he drops to his knees beside me. ‘Of course you can’t trust me, and it’s very clear I can’t trust you either. But if you die now, where will the fun be in beating you?’
I gasp as his fingers rip the suit jacket from where I’m holding it against my mouth and clamp around my chin. ‘It’s … poison.’ I whisper. ‘I’m a … rival.Yourrival.’
‘Or my partner. They might have placed us both in here for a reason,’ he says quietly. ‘Look, you’re already poisoned, and it’s anantidote,’ he says impatiently, holding the hip flask to my lips. ‘I’ve just altered the properties of the liquid in the hip flask with my magic. I’m a botanist and if you die on me in here, it would really ruin my day. Could even ruin my chances in the Crucible. Now you know my secret, you know what I wield, so drink this like you’re knocking back velvane.’
I watch him, pinning my gaze to his. His eyes really are brown when they’re not darkened with desire. A deep, swirling mahogany with hints of burnt caramel.
‘Drink,’ he says again, as my arms fall slack at my sides.
I close my eyes briefly, wondering if these will be my final moments. Wondering if I’ll die staring into this beautiful stranger’s eyes and fail before I’ve evenstartedthe bloody Crucible. Die before even getting to Killmarth College, before crossing through those gates and tasting the first sip of true freedom as the contract’s grip shatters. That’s all I want. My desire, no myneedfor freedom envelops me, my need for power over my own life, a choice, a chance to fully realise who I am,whatI am … Ihaveto get through the Crucible. I have to trust this man, this stranger, and go against every inch of my training in order to get past this and trulylive. I have totake the risk and hope I’m not wrong. Dolly would have wanted this for me. She would have wanted me to live.
A small sob escapes me, the thought of her gone, gone forever suddenly so real, so immediate that I can barely breathe. The man, this stranger, seems to soften, his grip on my chin loosening. ‘Whatever happened to you tonight after we met, don’t make it the last thing that happened.’
I nod to him, focusing on his eyes, softer now, like somehow he can see beyond my fear, see beyond the masks and armour I must wear. And I wonder if just maybe, I can trust him. I open my mouth, tilting back my chin—
And down it.
Then choke on the liquid within. The room swirls to darkness as my eyes fall closed and in that moment, I curse myself for a fool. For trusting this stranger, this man I met in a bar, with my entire future, my hope. The Collector wouldn’t have, I’m sure of it, and he’s trained me, moulded me to operate like him. I can almost hear him tutting, shaking his head at how easily I have failed, features darkening and pinching.
‘How utterly pathetic,’ I mutter.
‘Oh good, you’re alive then,’ a voice responds in the dark.
My eyes fly open as I take a startled breath, scrambling away from his arms. My heart is a wild thing in my chest, leaping too hard, too fast.
‘What did you give me?’ I gasp.
He pushes off from the floor to stand, brushing off his immaculate shirt with a smirk, before shrugging back into his suit jacket. I wonder if I imagined how his eyes softened, how his voice held a note of compassion, of care before I downed that concoction. ‘An antidote, like I said. Now you owe me.’
I snort, pulling myself up by gripping the wall. My limbs are stillweak and quivering, but I hide it as best I can as I lean against the back of an armchair, folding my arms across my chest. I lock it all away, the horror at how close to death I have danced not once, but twice tonight. ‘There’s still the small matter of actually escaping this room. And by my count …’ I glance at the clock on the mantelpiece, gathering myself back together, as it marks each passing second with a firm tick. ‘We have two minutes, twenty-three seconds.’
The man’s smirk evaporates and he turns to the window. Tapping along the wall around the frame, he says from the corner of his mouth, ‘Then we better get on with it. Don’t let me regret saving you.’
I bite back a retort, realising I might possibly need him again as I take the opposite wall, tapping and feeling for seams in the wallpaper once more. It feels like a pointless exercise; I’ve already covered this option as a means of escape, but all the while, my mind is whirring, clutching then discarding possibilities. I drop to the floor, reaching my fingertips under the furniture, searching for the possibility of a trapdoor. ‘Can you check the ceiling? I can’t reach.’
‘Neither can I. Get on my shoulders,’ he says, bending low. And mindful of the ticking clock, the urgency, I quickly climb up, thrusting aside any thoughts about him gripping my thighs, the closeness of his body as I examine the ceiling through the clearing smoke.
‘Nothing,’ I say, already reaching down to drop from his shoulders.
He turns, assessing the room critically, eyes meeting mine. ‘Unless you can sense illusions …’ he laughs dispassionately ‘… we’ve got just over a minute to figure this out, or we’re done.’
Do I show my hand? I bite my lip, ticking every potential escape route off in my mind. There’s little choice. ‘Actually …’
His eyes widen with a mixture of surprise and something akin to respect as he shuffles back, waving a hand as though to give me the floor. ‘Be my guest.’
