Page 27 of Untempered
She put her forehead against mine. Her hands on my arms. She spoke but I didn’t need to hear the words to know they were reassurances. I drifted, somewhere above, somewhere beyond. Her hands squeezed, firmly. Slow, for a while. Fast, for a while. Moderate, for a while. Left, right, left, right. I matched my breathing to hers. My skirts were bunched, and my backside felt strange with only my drawers between me and the world, so I resettled the fabric. Next time, I’d know what to do.
At the first trickle of terror, I opened my eyes and lifted my hands. I held on.
“I’ve got you,” she said grimly. “I’ve got you, Audrey.”
My heart was beating. Hard. I breathed. I couldn’t match her pace. A wave of horror came up and swept me away.
The agony of it was everything. Everywhere. A sob was ripped from my chest. Her hands squeezed. Rhythmic. Faster, slower, faster, moderate, slower. Left, right. I wept. Her forehead bit into mine, and I felt it. It was mine. And my body hurt. My hip. My shoulders. Where the fabric had pulled and torn with so much force. My neck where I’d been forced face-down and held. I coiled my hands around her skull and cradled her, shaking so hard I don’t know how our heads didn’t rattle and knock. My chest was heaving. He could’ve killed her. He’d never kill me, but he could’ve killed her. He would’ve. Without hesitation or concern.
One blue-eyed swordsman could never be worth Isolde’s life.
“I’m so sorry,” I managed between sobs. “I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, you screwed up,” she said ruthlessly. “But who treated a person like a thing, Audrey?”
The speed at which he’d grabbed her. Horror. Terror. It had me by the throat. By the hair. I wept, clenching my teeth, refusing to wail. It wouldn’t matter. There was so much pain. “I shouldn’t have?—”
“Who held the knife?” she asked, her hands biting as they squeezed. Left, right, left, right.
He had the same eyes as me, golden brown. The same jaw as me, square and strong. The same mouth as me. The tears seared my throat. My knees collapsed, and I couldn’t, wouldn’t, stop them. She went with me, holding me.
“Father,” I said eventually. The Duke. Victor. The Butcher of Wolfswail. The General of Arcanloc.
“Did you hold the knife?” she demanded.
Those eyes. Pain ripped my chest. It vibrated through me. It consumed me. “No.”
“Say it.”
I sucked in air and felt the pain ripping through me. “I did the best I could.”
She nodded. Her head bumped mine. I sobbed, rocking. “Again.”
“I did the best I could.” And the words hurt, still. But they wouldn’t. Not for long. Because they were true. Because they were right. And if anyone could show me that, Isolde could.
“Who overruled your autonomy?” she demanded, fury in her words.
I tried to pull away, and she just went with me, squeezing. My hands went to my face. Tears. Snot. I curled up and crushed myself down. My face into my skirts. I couldn’t breathe. It hurt so much I couldn’t breathe. Her grip adjusted, then the squeezing continued. Slow, slow, fast, slow, moderate, moderate, fast. I didn’t fight. I couldn’t have. I cried and rocked, but it didn’t empty that well of agony.
“Who pushed you down, Audrey?” she asked, when the tears began to run dry.
I wiped away some of the wet mess on my face. “Sullivan.”
“Did you do it?”
“No.”
“Did you survive?”
“Yes.”
Her voice had softened. “Who should be ashamed, Audrey?”
I shuddered. It was there, in my breast, in the marrow of my bones. Dark. Tacky. Hungry. “Sullivan. Victor.” I breathed with her, almost. “I did the best I could.” And it still hurt, but it was a dull ache. I struggled up and pushed my hair back with wet fingers. “I need a bath,” I said, and the words shook. Though he’d only touched me through my clothes, I still needed to scrub myself clean.
“You do,” she agreed, unconcerned. “And the Butcher needs an arrow through his throat. Both can wait. Work with me a bit more, Audrey.”
So I nodded and breathed. I felt the irregularly rhythmic squeezes on my arms. I let my mind circle, let my heart hurt. And it eased, eventually. The words, mayhap. The movements, perhaps. I rested while she rang for a bath, keeping the rhythm myself with my feet. We breathed, together.
