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"to be condemned" December 24th 1658 ☾
Slowly, but surely, Carlisle's health returned. The colour was starting to return to his cheeks, brightening his face. Now he was awake more hours of the day than he was asleep.
For weeks the Reverend's books had kept her company, but more and more, Carlisle had taken to speaking to her, to telling her his stories again, making her laugh as if they were more than mortal and witch. But always, the knowledge of such divide was left lingering in the back of her thoughts. She would have to leave soon. Simran would have to set out to meet her goals soon enough, hoping she had learned enough within the walls of the Cullens' church.
Simran found him in the library by the fire. He was fully dressed, shoes on his feet and coat upon his shoulders. For a moment, she stood in the doorway to watch him, and then he turned and smiled.
"Carlisle, you should be resting."
She wondered if that was a blush on his face or if it was just the heat of the fire making his cheeks so red.
"I've had a whole month of rest. One day on my feet won't kill me," he said, placing an arm on her elbow, guiding her gently to stand by the fire. "Besides, you have taken good care of me. I barely feel the sickness at all now."
It was all thanks to her poultices, weak though the magic was. There was a moment, when not even the smelling salts could wake him long enough to speak, that she doubted herself. But he had improved.
"I am glad of it," she said, holding her hands out toward the heat, looking away. "Though it is selfish to say, I am sad I no longer have a reason to stay here. I've grown somewhat comfortable."
"You must stay as long as you would like," Carlisle said, drawing her sight to him. He spoke earnestly, face warm and inviting. "If not for your own pleasure, then for mine. It would comfort me... to know that you're looked after."
"Carlisle..."
There were no words for what she wanted to say, not that she knew what could possible be spoken. She was at a loss. Carlisle looked at her softly, shaking his head and she was left gaping.
"Say nothing of it," he said and for the slightest of moments, he paused. When he finally opened his mouth to speak again, a cough came from the door as an interruption.
From where he stood at the opposite end of the library, the Reverend levelled her with a cold gaze. But that look was only reserved for her momentarily. Carlisle took his full attention.
"Carlisle, come here," he said, beckoning his son forward with a sharp gesture of his hand. "It is time to go."
"Go? Where?" Simran asked, looking between the two with a desperation that made her feel younger than she could ever remember being. But Carlisle looked lost.
"To hunt the very creatures I am sworn to kill," Enoch said as if the act was obvious.
Simran did not like the iciness of his eyes, the sternness of his features. Something had changed. She did not know how or for what reason. But in the silence that hung between them, she could tell. She could tell the Reverend knew. Knew about everything: about her and the creatures he now sought.
Before then, she should have noticed it. There was no holy fasting, no restriction in the face of religion. The Reverend, alone in his study, had dined upon pig flesh and eggs, wrapped in his coat. The Reverend had prepared.
Instead, Simran turned her attention to Carlisle, to the solemn, confused state in which his expression rested.
"Carlisle," she said, first timidly, before repeating his name with more force. "Don't do this. It's Christmas Eve. Don't put yourself at risk now. No good can come of it. Please, Carlisle."
"Be quiet, witch," the Reverend spat, striding across the floor until he was in front of her.
Simran did not back down.
But nor did Carlisle.
"Father!" His voice was louder, and with more force than she could ever remember it holding. He tried to angle himself in front of her, staring between them with a furrowed brow.
For the briefest of seconds, the Reverend looked betrayed by such movement, but Enoch ignored his son easily. "I know what you are," he said, pulling the poultice from his coat pocket, forcing it into her face as if it were proof. "What curse have you put upon my son witch? What devil's words do you tempt him with to take him from me?"
"You call anything foreign to you witchcraft," she accused, fixing him with a glare. "What a small man to fill such a large church. You've come to fill the space with your delusions."
"Do not try to trick me, witch. Do not lie when I know the truth. God has exposed you to me so I can do his work and clean such devilry from his great earth."
He spoke in the way such men did. Self-importance dripped from his tongue, and his tone and flow was as if read from a book. But the words came from himself, cruel and made-up. Yet Simran obliged. She threw away all mask of normalcy, of unimportance. At the tips of her fingers, the tingling of magic- finally acknowledged- made her burn.
"Your God gave me the power to cure your son," she said, though she did not know if it was true. All she knew for sure was that, without her poultice, Carlisle's condition would have only worsened.
"You burn the sickness from him but how do I know you didn't replace it with something else?"
"This is your son you speak of. Look at him," she said, moving to Carlisle's side like a cat, smooth on her feet. She held a hand around his arm. "Look at me and tell me he is anything but himself."
Overcome with frustration, the Reverend let out a shout, throwing her poultice to the fire behind them. The fabric and bundled herbs flickered with flames and was consumed with a puff of smoke. Simran felt the fire call to her.
"You don't fool me," Enoch said finally. Carlisle hung in between them, split by a line. He considered his son with narrowed eyes, before smiling. "Tonight we hunt the devils creatures and I mean to hold no bias."
Simran moved forward to stand by Carlisle's side, but as she did so, the Reverend held up his wooden cross and held onto his beads. His eyes were squeezed shut. From his lips fell a muttered prayer, growing quicker and more fervent the closer he got. The silenced finally broke in Carlisle.
"Father stop," he urged, quiet at first, but then he turned to her, hands gripping her wrists, pushing her away. Simran stared at him as he began to speak swiftly. "Go. Go on. You have to leave. You have to get away from him."
"Carlisle..." she muttered. Simran wanted to know what swarmed behind his eyes, what thoughts burned her skin because she knew she consumed them- she could feel it. He knew what she was. She wanted to know what he was too. "Carlisle, I only ever wanted to heal you."
His voice was suddenly hard. "Leave, Simran."
She knew not of what had created her. But Simran thought of the women burned or hung, of the power so many had been threatened with before her. The changes prayer grew louder and more despertar. This was not her fight. Simran gave one last glance to Carlisle, and ran.
*
My soft, innocent girl won't be soft and innocent for much longer :(
