Page 17 of Xantera
You don’t ask the right questions, that voice in my head claimed last night.Well,I want to scream back,look what happens when I try to!Since Diggory isn’t around to give me answers, I wanted to pay a visit to his assigned partner, but I can’t do that if I don’t even know who she is.
Gaia lets out a grumbling sigh and gives my shoulder a half-squeeze. “This is the first patient you’ve lost, Saskia. It’s normal to feel emotional about it.”
I freeze in place.The first patient I’ve lost.As if Diggory is already dead.
And what if he is? What if the Guardians already threw him over the Wall and the Monster tore into his flesh as soon as his body hit the ground? I can practically hear the crack of bones, the tearing of skin and sinew, the gurgle of blood and—oh, I’m going to be sick.
“Right, I’m only emotional. I’ll be fine tomorrow. Have a good sleep, Gaia,” I intone, my words a bit sharper than I intended in an effort to hold back the tears stinging the back of my nose.
“Saskia, wait—”
I’m already out the door.
I pull back the curtain around my young patient’s room, and she turns over at the sound of the metal hooks scraping along the rod.
“Odette,” I smile. “How are you feeling today?”
“I feel fine,” she insists, sighing into her pillow. “There’s nothing wrong with me.”
I nod empathetically as I approach her bedside. “Of course, but passing out can be scary. We want to make sure everything is okay before we release you.” I muster up a lighthearted tone to mask my impatience. “You’ll be back to your regular routine in no time.”
Staring at her chart only makes me blink harder, faster. There are no answers. Only the same questions. We’ve already pestered her with all the standard medical questions that might point us toward a resolution. Are you eating all of your designated meal portions? Have you ever felt faint before now? What were you doing before you passed out? But so far, no part of her daily routine seems abnormal, and her scans are normal and her blood cell counts have all come back within normal range since then, even if they’re a bit on the lower end.
As hard as I’ve tried to turn off every bit of greed and curiosity and selfishness that has been festering in me throughout the day, my mind wanders again for the millionth time to jewelry and mirrors and questions that shouldn’t be asked.
Like the one I can’t help but voice aloud now out of annoyance because no other questions have given me answers.
“Do you ever dream?”
Odette’s head jerks up, and a grin splits her face wide open.
“Yes! All the time. Is that strange?”
“No, I don’t think so,” I answer honestly, and cock my head at her. Before I can second-guess myself, I sit on the lip of her hospital bed. “Tell me about them. Are they happy? Scary?”
My frustration over Diggory and the Choosing and the mysterious voice from last night is bleeding through cracks that have slowly but surely began fissuring inside me. It feels like I’m losing control of all poise and restraint, but the girl isn’t so well-trained in manners yet, so she doesn’t appear to be offended by my request. In fact, she lights up as if delighted and props herself up on the pillows.
“Oh, both. I have all sorts of dreams.”
“Which one is your favorite?” I ask.
“Sometimes I dream that I have wings and all my schoolmates laugh at me because they don’t believe that I can fly, but then I start flapping and ha! You should see their faces when I take off.”
I laugh. “It would be fun to fly. What’s another happy one?”
“Well, I know the whole thing aboutbeware its eyes, resist its howl, stay within the stoneand all that, but I’ve dreamt that I climb up the Wall and stand there at the very tippy top.”
“On top of the spikes?” I ask curiously.
“Well, in my dream, they don’t hurt me, and when I look down, I find a whole field of rainbows on the other side.”
I fold my lips into a smile. I wish that were the truth, what would be waiting for us if the Wall ever fell.
“Or sometimes,” Odette continues, unable to hide her newfound excitement, “I dream that I’m the first person in the world who can defeat the Monster because my fingernails can actually turn into sharp knives that stab him to death!”
I raise my eyebrows as she continues, finding myself enjoying the visuals she describes despite the impossibility of them, before she drops her eyes and fidgets with her fingers.
“If only my own dreams were so freeing,” I encourage her. “I might be more excited to go to sleep at night.”
