Page 65 of Ocean of Ink
Wren said nothing. Castien held out the letter to her. She stared at it for a moment, then snatched it from him. He almost smiled, and had to go back to calculating to stop himself.
“I’ll take my leave, I suppose. Try not to get caught by someone worse than me,” Castien smirked.
“Is there someone worse?” Wren shot back.
Castien shrugged off the insult and turned away from her, though it pained him. He wanted to throw her over his shoulder and carry her to her chambers where he’d place a guard outside. Or better yet, himself. He shook his head. He was going mad. Finn always said that he would one day. Perhaps he had finally snapped.
“Why did you stop me?” Wren called out when he was a few paces away. “You could have let me get killed. Why go to the trouble?”
Castien slowly turned around. Wren’s hood had fallen off during their encounter. Her pale hair looked white beneath the moon. With her pink cloak wrapped around her, she looked like a rare flower that only bloomed at night. He wondered how someone who had been through all she had remained soft.
“Regardless of what you proclaim, Lady Kalyxi, you are an enigma. And I’d rather like to figure you out. Your death would make that more difficult.”
She rolled her eyes. “What a ridiculous notion. I’ve told you before, people are not logic problems to be solved.”
“So I’m beginning to discover,” Castien murmured too low to be heard, then louder, “Goodnight, Kalyxi.”
No reply came, but Castien glanced over his shoulder once he was farther away and saw her making her way back to House of Adira. He breathed easier knowing she was returning, but it didn’t stop his mind from racing. Wren had discovered something only the Order was supposed to know about. And if she had found one thing, she was liable to uncover more.
Wren stumbled into her chambers on shaking legs. Her clothes felt too tight on her skin and her face was burning in spite of the chilled air she had just walked through. She scratched her neck as she worked to untie her cloak. It slid off her shoulders to the ground, but still she struggled to breathe. She threw Castien’s letter onto her bed then attempted to remove her uniform.
Wren’s fingers were numb from the cold night, causing them to be less than nimble when working to loose the ties at her back. She let out a frustrated growl as she contorted her body to reach them.
After she was finally able to get out of her dress, she left it on the floor beside her cloak. In nothing but her slip, she rushed to the powder room and dipped her hands into the copper bucket that Blossom kept filled with fresh water. Wren splashed her face with it, wincing at the cold but doing it once more for good measure. She dried her hands on the towel hanging from a nearby hook, then returned to her room shivering.
Wren could not discern what to do to feel normal again. Her face was hot and her heart pounded, while her whole body trembled with chills. She did not know what to make of it.
The fire in the hearth burned low. Wren grabbed the poker from the stand to the right of the fireplace and prodded the logs. She did not have any wood to add to it, so this would have to do. Once the flames brightened a touch, she made her way across the large floral rug to her bed. Wren let her slippers fall off her feet as she climbed onto the mattress. The canopy drapes whispered against her skin and made chill bumps rise.
She tucked her lower half beneath the layers of blankets and sat staring at the fire across the room. Her mind raced with the details of her encounter with Castien. She recalled the panic of feeling a stranger’s hands on her without warning, then the inexplicable, stark relief when she heard his familiar, silken voice.
Had he noticed her shaking? His apology was quick and seemed sincere, though she could not know if it actually was. Castien deemed her the enigma, yet it was he who was the riddle. He revealed no emotion, but there was something in his gaze that called out to her. His dark eyes were as infinite and boundless as the night sky. And what they hid was as mysterious as the depths of the Tides.
She lifted her fingers to her lips. He had not harmed her. His touch had been firm, but not bruising. Still, she was shaken. Tonight was the first time in over ten years that her lips had been touched. She vowed she would never experience the sensation again.Don’t be so dramatic, she scolded herself.It’s not as though he kissed you.
The clarification didn’t soothe her. Nor keep the nightmares of her past from assailing. The memories tore at her mind like gnashing teeth. Every flickering shadow seemed to behim, back from the dead to punish her.
You loved me, the creeping blackness snarled. Tears swam in Wren’s eyes.
“I didn’t know any better,” she whispered.
It’s your fault that your brother became a murderer.
Wren wrapped her arms around her middle as she sobbed.
“No, no, he said it wasn’t my fault.” Her voice was broken. A tattered garment in the wind. “He said it wasn’t my fault.”
Guilty. Guilty. Guilty,the darkness chanted. She pressed her hands against her ears but couldn’t escape what was lurking inside her.
Ruined girl. You’ll never be anything more than a broken doll with blood on her hands.
She sank further beneath the covers. When she reached to pull them higher, Castien’s letter rustled in the quiet.
Wren grasped the parchment and traced the red crest in the darkness. Tears streamed down her face and wet her pillow. The shreds of hope that remained within her latched on to the letter. It could distract her. Castien was good at that. She crawled across her bed and leaned over the night table to strike a match and light the bedside candle. Once it was burning, she positioned herself at the edge of the bed, feet tucked safely beneath her, and opened the letter.
Year 822, Week 36, Avisa
Dearest Wren,
