"Adeline. That is enough."
The maid froze, keeping her fingers still curled around the edge of a porcelain teacup. She had been in the middle of adjusting the tray whilst arranging the napkin beside it, though it had not been touched. Her back straightened faintly, but she did not immediately turn. Ingrid's voice had been too soft to carry far, yet the silence in the room made anything louder than a breath known.
Adeline turned her head slightly, enough for the corner of her cheek to catch the light from the window.
"…Yes, my lady."
Rather than take her place beside the bed, she waited, expecting Ingrid to change her mind. But Ingrid did not speak. Her hands rested limply atop the linen cover, and her gaze remained fixed on the embroidery of the dressing screen across the room. "I will take no more of your time today," Ingrid said. "Go enjoy the sunlight. Or a warm tea. Something that is not this room."
Adeline's face darkened slightly. "You always speak as if you will not last the week, my lady," she said. "Would you please stop referring to yourself as if you were already in the ground?" That made Ingrid's lips shift. It was not quite a smile, but it was the closest a reaction that was offered to Adeline. She let out a breath that might've been a laugh if she had the strength for more than that. "You watch over a corpse day in and day out. You deserve a reprieve."
Adeline lowered her head, and she stepped toward the window, likely to check the latch. "Would you prefer I close this?"
"No. Let it stay open."
Adeline lingered, but did not argue. "As you wish," she said. Her hand hesitated long enough on the knob that Ingrid could sense the inner war playing out behind her downturned expression. "Thank you," Ingrid said.
Adeline nodded and left, pulling the door closed behind her without the usual click of the lock. That, too, had been a small rebellion. There had been a time when she insisted on locking it herself, as if to keep the illness inside. With the room finally quiet again, Ingrid turned her gaze toward the large arched window that framed the sprawling garden below. Resignedly, she exhaled slowly through her nose. What an impressive little thing this girl is.
"Astrid."
A dark boot—noble in its make and unmistakable in its defiance of ladylike expectation—pressed into a sturdy branch, disturbing only a few leaves that fluttered past the sill. Ingrid watched attentively. The figure carelessly revealed itself a moment later. She lowered herself into the window's ledge as one would lower into a pew.
Her head was crowned with gentle strands like black velvet that sprawled comfortably on her shoulders. Her expression was unchanged from the last time they had spoken. Her eyes still as cerulean as the morning sky.
Her uniform had changed, though—navy trimmed with black this time, its buttons were fastened all the way to the neck and shoulders were squared beneath the weight of a coat meant for a man older than she was. A sword belt had been unfastened at the hip and tossed behind her back to hang uselessly as she reclined on the window's ledge, booted foot braced against the inner frame. In her hands, a leather-bound volume thicker than Ingrid's wrist was opened halfway. Astrid's eyes never left the page.
Do not disregard me! You have kept me waiting far too long, fool!
"You're late," Ingrid said, shifting her hand with visible effort until her finger brushed the folded hem of her blanket. "The bell tolled the hour some time ago."
Astrid made no response. Her lips moved once as she turned a page with her thumb, and her brows furrowed. "You said you would bring the second volume. That one is the third." Ingrid questioned. Astrid exhaled through her nose, closed the book around her finger, and raised her gaze. "I brought it, read it, and it was… undesirable. I left it by the fire and watched it try to crawl into the hearth on its own will."
Ingrid smiled. "You did not like the ending, did you?"
"It did not have one. It died halfway through an argument and left the rest to guesswork." Astrid lifted the book again. "This one is worse in every other aspect, but it tries at the least."
Ingrid let her eyes close. "You always know how to say comforting things."
"Much better than the doctor."
"The doctor is paid to pretend I am not ailing by the day," Ingrid said. "You are paid in pastries."
Astrid paused. "I am still waiting on that plum tart."
"Then suffer."
Astrid had been born to Baroness Helene Hoplite in the final weeks of the year, and because her father passed in the first days of the next, it was said that Astrid was born between two deaths. While Ingrid had been taught the harp and history in a sunlit room filled with roses, Astrid had been fitted into a riding saddle and taught to break down flintlocks before she had even grown into her boots. It had been a surprise to no one when the two girls met at a garden party and hated each other for a whole summer. And yet, after that, they never spent a season apart.
If only that meant she began to show any hospitality...
Ingrid's lashes moved faintly. "Why don't you ever sit inside?"
Astrid did not answer immediately, but her eyes moved away from the text, glancing to the bedside before drifting to the doorway. "That would be a great deal of effort for someone who doesn't like walking down hallways she has not been invited through."
"I've invited you."
"I don't think you count." She turned a page with a flick of her thumb, continuing, "You would invite in a moth if it asked nicely."
"Adeline would set it ablaze."
"Rightfully so."
Their conversation lulled. The air through the open window was warm and stirred the curtains at a languid pace. It was the season of tepid afternoons and bees, and for a time, the only sounds between them were the flipping of pages and the creak of wood. Ingrid watched the upper corners of the room, where she noticed a minor stretch of area the vigilant Adeline had glossed over. Her bed was heavier than most and took up more of the room than it should have.
The rest was adorned with vanity furniture she no longer had use for. There were silk gowns in the armoire she hadn't worn since thirteen. The slippers still by the hearth had not fit her in a year. When she spoke again, it was without preamble. "If I tire of this life, would you be a sweetheart and put an end to it for me?"
The page stopped halfway through its turn. Astrid's gaze remained on the text, but she had stopped reading. There was a long pause before she closed the book with deliberate care. "And sully the bonds of the Delacroix and Hoplite? No, Ingrid."
Not because you are reluctant to harm me? Oh, what have I done to warrant such dull company...
Ingrid tried to summon a sound of amusement, but only a breath escaped. "You could make it look like an accident." She mused.
"You would ruin my name. Worse yet, you would force me to speak to your mother." That nearly made Ingrid laugh aloud. She tilted her head slightly toward the ceiling. "Do bring your blade next time. I should like to see it up close."
Astrid did not respond. That, too, was tolerable. Ingrid's eyes had grown heavy some time ago, and now the warmth of the room pulled at her senses with a hand steadier than any opiate. It was seamless—the drift into that other place where voices became echoes and time gave way to a sleep that was always deeper than the one before. Astrid's voice followed her just before the dark reached full bloom.
"Have a lovely dream."
And Ingrid fell to the lull of respite. Not long after, she awoke.
No, not again! Not this again!
Ingrid curled further into herself with her arms clutched around her stomach. The ache in her gut was no longer dull and slow like the one that rotted her body, the one she had learned to live beside. This was sharper and brimming with heat, something that made her teeth chatter no matter how tightly she clenched her jaw. There was no bed here, no lace-wrapped coverlets, no garden breeze coming through the window. There was no Adeline and there was no Astrid.
A nightmare! I am having another of the same nightmare again!
Her eyes blinked open only to close again just as quickly—it was far too bright! It was not natural sunlight, no, it was lamplight and the air stank of brine and soot.
Ingrid had thought after it first transpired and ended, that would be the end of it. Though currently, that did not seem to be the case. She almost gave in to unconsciousness again, but the searing pain in her abdomen refused to let her go so easily.
F-food... I need food!
She gagged as the smell of something rotten drifted past her nose. There were too many things competing for her attention—her body was foreign, her skin itched and lay caked in layers of grime that did not belong to her, and her stomach would not stop screaming.
She turned her head against the flat surface beneath her, trying to make sense of what she was lying on. It was not bedding. It was not anything that belonged in a room designed for rest. The texture was rough and stiff, and the floor she was on gave with a creak beneath her shifting weight.
Damnable wretch! This girl eats like a worm and expects me to take her place.
She willed herself up, though her body fought her with every ounce of its weight. She failed on her first attempt, toppling back with a heavy thud and stifled a yelp. There was no pain from the impact—her bones felt as if they had long grown used to being battered. She tried again, the hunger did not give her much of a choice in that matter.
Using the heel of one palm and her knees, she forced the body to move. One inch, then another. She pulled herself toward the next room with trembling arms. Her breath had turned shallow and her mouth was dry and coated with something especially foul.
The next room was not truly a room. More a corner sectioned off with old crates and strips of cloth hung like curtains. It stank worse than the one she'd woken in. It was darker here, despite a cracked oil lantern still burning low in the corner. She did not bother to search the walls. She knew what she was looking for. She reached the far crate—opened it—and nearly wept.
A dented, old tin awaited her, it was half-filled with oats and accompanying it was a singular loaf of ashy bread along with a handful of dried berries shriveled into something nearly indistinguishable from rock. She grabbed a fistful and shoved it into her mouth, nearly choking on the dry grain as she chewed without thought. It scraped her throat. Her body shook slightly, but she forced it down.
Truly, what have I done to warrant this?