Interlude [h.s]

seventy-nine

Why can she never get anything right? She couldn't keep her family together. She couldn't look after her sister like her father wanted. She couldn't do the only thing the Revolution asked of her. She can't be part of the Revolution, but she can't stay by Harry's side. Is she destined to live her life treading edges sharper than their corresponding ravines are deep? She can feel herself slipping, and she wants to let go so badly. She wants to let herself fall and see if she truly will crash, or if something in the way will block her path. She wants to save, she wants to be saved. She wants to fight but she doesn't know what to fight for. She wants to crash and burn, she wants to fly so close to the sun that it will melt her wings. She wants to fall back on earth and see every river and valley and ocean and artificial tulip field on her way down. Maybe it was her need for both self-destruction and self-actualisation that let her kiss Harry for the first time so many months ago, because she realised that, one way or the other, he would be it for her. Her destruction and her salvation; death in angel's clothing and life in the devil's pressed suits.

Her fingers grasp the bedsheets. She's a disappointment. She was given an opportunity, and she wasted it. Her chance to change the world has changed nothing but her. And now she's letting it go, because that's what she does. She lets thing go. She lets the tide carry her—with the only difference she's the one that blew the winds this time. She's kicked a hole in the hull of her ship, and now it's sinking. She's lost something in the way, but she can't tell what it is.

The door opens. Harry's wearing different clothes, but his hair is dry. He looks down at Alouette, but she can't bring herself to meet his eyes.

"Do you trust me?" he asks.

Her reply couldn't come faster. "Yes."

"Then let me take care of it."

She looks at him worriedly, but there's no hesitation in his eyes. There hardly ever is. "I don't want to break my promise," she whispers.

"I understand."

Alouette doesn't know what makes her say the next few words. She can't tell when she started trusting Harry so blindly, enough not to ask questions, not to wonder, not to stall. "Then yes."

He grabs his coat and leaves the room. She moves too slowly—by the time she gets off the bed and steps out in the corridor, he's already gone. She bites her lower lip nervously, but even if she wants to follow him, she doesn't know where to go.

She finds herself roaming the building, down the twisting corridors, ignoring the few people she walks past. She forgot her knife in their room, but she doesn't bother going back to get it. She's walked these hallways with no weapons for over a decade—no matter how hard she tries to fight against it, it's still her home. No fight will be aimed at her here—not when she isn't around Harry.

She has no destination in mind, but she still finds herself in front of the door of her bedroom, the one she's shared with her sister for so many years.

She opens the door; the room is empty. A tattered stuffed bunny is on the floor, in the corner, and the windows are still darkened. Nothing has changed, even though it's been over six months since she's last stepped foot in here. The air smells of dust and wood, the lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickers along with the heartbeat of the generator. When she throws herself on the mattress, its springs creak loudly.

Alouette sighs, looking up. The ceiling is darkened with dust, speckles of an inverse night sky. Enlightened by its poor apology of a sun, it almost looks pretty.

Something rolls along her collarbone. When she picks it up, she discovers it's Harry's ring. She's long since cleaned it, and the green stone set in it stares down at her. It's bright; it reminds her of the dress she wore at Harry's celebration, nearly a lifetime ago, now. She was so scared he'd kill her if he found out who she was, back then. How things have changed.