Promise the Sky

Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Melissa

 

 

 

I tip the glass to my lips, allowing the wine's heady tang to slip smoothly down my throat in one final moment of peace before Honour's voice bounces through the house again, calling my name. I sigh, but discover that after all my preparation, I still have no desire to move.

I tilt my head back, resting it against the low slope of the ceiling, and let my gaze settle, staring sightlessly out through the holes in the slats of the roof. The sunlight shines through these gaps, glaringly bright, and fills the entire attic, my tiny haven, with sparkling dust motes and life. Even after so many days down here, it still feels strange to see that daytime exists this side of the reflection, especially as I do most of my work at night.

"Melissa!"

Honour's voice is closer, he'll find me soon enough. I sigh, rubbing hands across my eyes in a feeble attempt to rouse myself properly and go meet him. My knuckles come away black with smeared mascara and I gaze down at it distastefully, as though this tiny section of dirt is responsible for how unclean I feel just about everywhere.

"Melissa!" This time the words are accompanied by the sudden appearance of Honour's head, popping up through the trap door just beyond my feet. "How long have you been hiding up here?" He scowls. "Come down, I need to talk with you."

I roll my eyes, fighting with that familiar mix of hatred and gratitude that his countenance always sparks in me. I do not want it said that Melissa VanCoupé was ungrateful for the man that saved her life, but equally I cannot help but remember the conditions of his kindness.

Not to mention that I almost find myself blaming him for that tiny piece of information that has haunted me right from my first day here.

Ben is dead.

And more than anything, I do not want it to be my fault. I want it to be Honour, I want it to be the nefarious Null. I don't care, I just want it to go, the endless cycle of his face, the longing, the loneliness, and the guilt, guilt, guilt.

"Melissa!" Honour's tone curls into a low growl of frustration and he leans forwards, an arm materialising through the attic floor to click insolent fingers beneath my nose. "Listen to me."

It upsets him that I don't love him, that I don't simper and giggle like the other girls. But in a strange way, a respect has grown up from it. He doesn't demand the same attention as customers, which I appreciate, and in return I retrieve a strangely begrudging admiration for my strength of character.

I scoff inwardly, and hate myself again. As if any of this would have made a difference to Ben, as if he would even notice the small barriers I have set up to protect my dignity. Sometimes I wonder if he would even deem me worthy enough of holding his memory.

Not that it matters. I've got all this compassion for a dead man, and nowhere for it to go. Might as well sell it to the world.

A rough hand seizes the glass I'm holding, wrenching it from my grip so violently that the ruby liquid trickles over my fingers to drip tiny circle stains onto a dress already thrice soiled by other girls.

"That's it, Melissa," Honour hisses, eyes narrowed and dangerous, "this is the last time I catch you drinking in the day, do you understand? No more."