No Fury

Now: Fifty Four

"Come, Catie," he says, carefully placing Anne on her bundle of blankets. "There is no reason to stay here a minute longer."

~~

I am unfortunately weak.

But fortunately, I have no modesty remaining.

Zayn helps me out of my old clothes, eyes averted, and hands me a cloth and the jug of cold water. He turns to face the wall, to give me privacy as I wash the dirt and soot from my skin.

The water is bracing - quite freezing in fact - but it has been a week since Zayn last brought me something to wash with, and I am nearly weeping from the relief of it.

I dry off, pulling on the dress with some effort. My limbs lack coordination. Even with two meals in my belly, I still feel weak and dizzy.

I quietly call to Zayn when I am done . . . or nearly done.

"I cannot . . ." I gesture helplessly to the ribbons lacing up the back of my dress. I cannot reach them and even if I could, I suspect I would not be able to manage such fine movements with my freezing fingertips.

He bids me to turn, and ties the ribbons, expertly tightening the lattice as he works from my waist to my shoulders.

"Do you have a sister?" I ask, grinning at him over my shoulder. "Or a bonny lass?"

He laughs and the sound is deep and warm. "Three sisters, with me, the only son. It is a torment."

I laugh, too, and then turn to face him.

"Ready then?" he asks.

I nod once, decisively. But inside, I tremble.

Bending, I pick up Anne and hand her to him. "I do not trust myself to carry her up the stairs."

He nods to the pile of red dresses in the corner as he takes my daughter into his arms. "I will return for those and bring them to your cottage tonight."

I have never mentioned why I kept them, and he has never asked, but that he knows how important they are to me - even without reason - makes me feel tender all over again toward him.

What an unlikely ally he has become.

~~

Zayn leads me up the stairs, halting halfway up to have me hold Anne while he begins to place a blindfold over my eyes.

I resist, swatting at his hands but he captures them, whispering a gentle, "The light, Catie. It hurts me when I have only been in the dungeon an hour. It will cause you great pain."

I blink down to the floor, apologizing guiltily before nodding. Gently, Zayn places the black silk against my eyes, tying it at the back of my head.

"All right?" he whispers, taking my daughter once more.

"Tell me what to expect," I say, reaching out blindly for him.

His warm hand guides my palm around his arm, and he steps forward, leading me up. "I don't know much," he admits. "Maria is locked in the tower. The council will meet with you. They will want to see the girl. I suspect Douglas has told them most of it."

I scoff. "I cannot believe he has been at all truthful about his role in it all."

Zayn is quiet beside me as we ascend, and finally murmurs, "It is my understanding that Douglas is . . . remorseful."

I open my mouth and shut it again. I have no useful response.

At the top of the stairs, I inhale fresh air for the first time in weeks and it shocks me with it's sharpness. Coughing, I stop, bending at the waist to recover. I expected it to feel wonderful to finally breathe it in, but the air is so clear, so cold, the sensation burns a path from my lips to my chest. And even with the blindfold, the chill of the cavernous hallway seeps beneath the silk; my reflexive tears are salt and fire on my already-sensitive eyes.