Nocte Yin: Anti-Villain, Anti-Hero and Anti-Everything Else

Chapter Thirty-Four

In a reel of vintage film, the sound of Marie’s laughter and the image of Burghard’s smiling eyes juddered and skittered in fleeting and lovely moments, one after another. She felt the woman’s dress graze her fingers—the man’s shirt on her knuckles—the plates and forks and knives sliding, clattering, settling on the kitchen counter. Chatter—the woman’s daisies swaying by the window—jesting—the man’s bread rising in the oven. Glasses—spices—milk—butter—saltiness—yeast and richness.

It was a beautiful dream, of easy smiles and bright laughter, but it could never last.

Nothing so perfect or surreal could ever last.

(They were dead.)

With a quiet inhale, Nocte woke to the scent of lemons in the air and the sound of curtains knocking on the windowsill. The sun was just beginning to crest to its mid-mark point, beaming fingers of light across the floorboards of Room V4 and ripples along the length of the ceiling. From the windows, the curtains shifted in lazy patterns; the glass panes parted slightly for the crisp autumn breeze to lick through and stroke the peace lily in the corner. It was quiet and still, and warm with the sun and thick curtains.

Nocte did not remember there being a peace lily in the room.

Groggy, she turned to the teapot on the nightstand, films of vapour floating lazily upwards from the spout. The scent of lemons came from the steam; her throat felt dry. She tried to remember her dream, for she was struck with a feeling of urgency, but all she could recall was the angry blue of the arctic and the pleasing scent of ocean spray—honey and jam. She sighed, her chest rattling with effort. She was thirsty.

Gingerly, her arm crawled out from under the covers while the other pushed her torso up to a sitting position. As she reached for the teapot, her left side gave a sign of protest and she faltered, pressing a hand just below the ribs. The new muscles trembled and she remembered being tossed across the tundra, falling down an icy cataclysm and being speared through by a tremendous icicle. She eased back against the headboard to catch her breath. She remembered the councillor and their discussion. The sense of urgency returned twice fold.

Nocte sighed, tired and strained. “No rest for the wicked,” she thought to herself. She chuckled at her dull joke, only for her laugh to end in a harsh cough. Frowning, she placed a hand to her chest to brace herself. Her throat was sore, her cheeks swollen and her head warm: these were the telltale signs of her beginning to catch sick. Blood loss in sub-zero weather followed by sweating profusely at the equator was not good for one’s health, evidently. “Damn,” she swore quietly, if not a little hoarsely.

Her oesophagus grated and she pinched back a cough. She really was thirsty. Bracing herself, she stretched her arm toward the teapot again, her ligaments nipping at the exertion. Shaking, she grasped the handle and carefully poured the tea into the nearby cup. She took a moment to steady herself before gathering the cup in her hands, the warmth seeping from the porcelain loosening her shoulders and easing her breath. She took a sip; it was a little sour and sharp without the sugar, but the lemon was invigorating and electric. She took another sip, this time longer, and sighed with relief and relish.

Nothing tasted so wonderful, so pure and so sweet than the water from home.

Something caught in her throat and she swallowed. She remembered blooming daisies and rising bread.

They were dead.

She pressed a palm to her head and rubbed the bridge of her nose. She could feel the coming ache, and the grit and dried sweat in her hair. Grimacing, she removed her hand and watched a shower of red flakes follow in its wake, traces of dried blood peeling from her hair and joining the others dotted sparsely along the pillows and the perfect white linens.