Page 53 of Veinblood
I cross to the table she indicates, and choose the chair that faces the door. My hands shake as I place them flat on the surface. The grain patterns in the wood catch my attention—swirls and lines, the color going from light to dark. It's strange what you notice when terror finally releases its grip enough to let other sensations through. The way the morning light filters through the small gaps in the shutters. The scent of herbs hanging in bundles from the ceiling beams. The sound of my own breathing, finally steady after hours of quick panickedbreaths. My mind latches onto these details like a lifeline, desperate for anything that feels normal, anything that doesn't scream danger.
The woman studies me for a moment, gives a quick nod, and moves to the windows, checking the shutters. Once she’s satisfied she turns back to me.
“Those words you spoke.” She watches my face carefully. “Where did you hear them?”
“Someone taught them to me. Someone I trust. They said if we ever became separated, I should use them to find help.” The words sound thin, but they're all I can offer without revealing too much about who I am.
“Who?” She doesn’t even pretend to dance around it. Oddly, it adds to my relief. There’s something about her directness that reminds me of Mira. She has the same way of assessing every word before she speaks. I’m still not ready to give her that information, though, not when I don’t know who she is or what those words really mean to her.
“I can’t tell you that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” She lifts one eyebrow.
“Both.”
Her eyes move over my clothes, my face, and then down to where my fingers twist and turn on the table. I press my palms flat against the table, forcing them to stillness, and lift my head slightly, refusing to drop my gaze.
When she speaks again, her voice has lost some of its edge. “You’re in serious trouble, aren’t you?”
“Yes.” There’s no point in denying something so obvious.
“The kind that gets people killed by just knowing about it.” Her voice drops lower, almost as though her words might summon the danger she’s describing.
She isn’t wrong.
“I know what I’m asking of you, and I’m sorry.” I'm asking a stranger to risk her life for me, to trust that I’m not part of the Authority, not here to trap her, and not someone who will bring destruction to her door.
“Do you?” She crosses her arms, and leans against the wall beside the door. “Because the wrong choice here could cost far more than you understand.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “I really had no other choice.”
She pushes away from the wall and crosses the room to take the seat opposite me. “Why did you choose me? Why did you think I would help you?”
“Because you look like someone who hates living under Authority control. Because you moved like someone who still believes in something the Authority wants to destroy.”
“And what is that?”
“Hope … freedom.”
She goes completely still, and for a second I think I’ve made a mistake. But then she stands and walks over to a small alcove, where she lights a fire and sets water onto the flame. She doesn’t speak while she heats the water and pours it over the herbs that make what passes for tea in Meridian.
“I could inform the Authority of your presence.” Shedoesn’t look at me. “I could tell them you approached me with suspicious words, threatened me, and forced your way into my home. The Authority would reward me well for information, especially if you are a dangerous fugitive.”
The bottom drops out of my world. She's right. She could. And there's nothing I could do to stop her. My mouth goes dry.
“You could.” I lick my lips. “But I don’t think you will.”
“How can you be so sure?” She glances back at me, one eyebrow raised in challenge.
“Because if you were going to do that, you’d have done it in the marketplace. You wouldn’t have brought me here. You wouldn’t have risked your own safety by even helping me this much.” I pause, hoping I haven’t misjudged her character. “And because your eyes changed when you heard those words. You recognized them. Not just the phrase, but the meaning behind them.”
She finishes preparing the tea, then pours it into two cups. When she returns to the table, she sets one in front of me and wraps her hands around the other.
“Those words do have significance. The kind that can’t be taken lightly. The kind that have gotten good people killed for speaking them to the wrong person.”
I sip my tea. It burns my tongue but I welcome the pain. It’s real, immediate, something to focus on beside the growing tension in the room, and the way the power stirs inside me preparing to defend my life.
“If you’re lying about where you learned them, and your reason for speaking them to me … if this is some kind of trap …”
