𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 | 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐧 𝐊𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐢𝐧

𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈 : 𝐀 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐃𝐢𝐞 𝐈𝐧

You can go. I want to rest. Thank you.

Mr. Arlert appeared wounded by your quick send-off but took your dismissal as well as anyone could. Unbeknownst to Mr. Arlert, you had no intention of resting—only of waiting in silence for the end of this nonsense.

It was strange to have nothing to do. You weren't used to such free time while also being held captive. Even when you had any breaks before, you would pick up a book or some fabric and thread to busy your fingers. Now, your hands trembled with some unseen terror.

You did have the journal; you could use it to steady your shakes.

Flipping open the pages, your mind wandered to your closet full of fabrics in your sewing room. There were pastels of pink, yellow, and blue, but your wardrobe had enough plain dresses to cover you until the end of days. There was the fabric Connie brought you from his trip. A red as bold as that one was unlike the usual dresses you kept in your wardrobe.

With unsteady hands, you sketched a silhouette onto the paper. The focus you poured into each swipe of the graphite stripped the stress from your hands.

You finished your elementary imagining, and your fingers returned to trembling.

You were bold with your concept. There would be no sleeves or cuffs to cover your shoulders, but matching gloves with red embroidery would swathe you to the elbow in barely visible flames. More embroidery would adorn the bust, and ruffles would flow over the bustle like ripples in your sun-scorched lake. The daring exposure of skin would age you; you would no longer be a little girl hiding behind pastel mountains but a dignified, alluring woman with a body to match your experience.

You would make Niccolo rue the day he saw fit to treat you like a child he could lock away.

A polite knock at your door pulled you from your plotting.

"Marlowe and I are coming in, so you best be up and dressed!" Hitch appeared when the door creaked open, and her happy expression crumbled as soon as she spotted you. From behind her, Marlowe's face fell just as quickly.

"Good heavens," her husband mumbled, but Hitch instantly snapped her head over her shoulder to shush him.

When Hitch faced you again, she smiled tightly. Her eyes latched onto your lap rather than your face.

"Well, well, well," she started, but the carefree floating of Hitch's voice felt forced, "Look that this lazy daisy, all bandaged in bed while the rest of us have to pick up the slack! Must be nice!"

She swept into your room with the breeze from your open doorway. Ignoring Mr. Arlert's reading chair, she sat at the middle edge of your bed and gazed all about your room. Not once did her eyes find your face. Marlowe slowly shuffled after her but opted to press his back against the wall and stare into the ground.

"What's this? A book?" Hitch asked as she stole the leather from your weak grip. She flipped open a few pages to find your words and your single sketch. "Ah, a little response booklet. Very clever. Whose idea was that? Mrs. Yeager, I'm sure. She's always been so inventive with finding ways to chat our ears off."

Hitch laughed as she handed back the book. Her eyes flicked to your temple, then back down to your shaky hands.

"Your nails," she muttered.

Your eyes followed. For the first time, you noticed several of your nails had fractured around the edges. You had always kept your nails short because of housework and societal conceptions, but even your tiny tips were chipped to the quick. When you looked even closer, there was a reddish dirt under the cracked tips, and your cuticles were dry and red.