Winds of Fate [Books I-III]

Chapter Forty-Eight: Come Back To Me

Crema?

Anton groans, shutting his blazing eyes once more. But the hated memories of cream-colored walls, golden chandeliers, decorated uniforms, and splendid colorful brocade skirts with large panniers haunt him even in the darkness of his foggy mind.

Mierda. He forces his eyes open, sucking a breath. The throbbing at the base of his head remains, dull and demanding. He lifts a hand and thin, fine threads of smooth textile meet his fingertips.

Silk? Dios mio. Ruminating on purgatory being a brighter place than this circle of Hell tailored just for him, he grasps the edge of the couch and folds. Acidic bile threatens his throat. Heat flashes behind his eyes. Anton wheezes. In the haze of pain and panic, his mind manages one thought.

Lenore, alone.

Not again. He catches his breath. But if I am still alive, where is she? Were we caught? Was she taken away?

If I'm dead...No.

I cannot die just like that.

Anton pants. "Not yet." He leans on the chaise. Its silk has a shade of red as deep as the finest tinto fino wine that Mamá never failed to request for whenever Papá travelled to Ribera del Duero. Embroidered swirls of golden leaves pop from the rich upholstery. Gold... He squints, tracing the pattern for a brief moment to assure himself he is awake.

Pleased he can lift a finger, he looks up beyond his seat.

A white dresser sits under a mirror with silver gilt hanging on the wall. Beside it, a large white window opens to a sunny day outside. The sun beams in greeting, washing the room with soft, yellow light. His skin heats up even more and Anton frowns.

Movement reflects in the mirror. He stares at the figure, curled on the emerald settee and cocooned under a cloak. The head droops down sending long locks of pitch black hair spilling over the armrest. Anton bolts up. Soft feathery material tickles his feet. He pauses for a moment, surprised at the lush carpet under him. Confused, he shakes it off and bursts of color cloud his eyes at the sudden motion. Anton takes a deep breath, then slowly walks over to the settee by the closed ornate doors.

Eleanore is folded unnaturally in the tiny seat. The cloak hides her whole form, except for her face. "Lenore?" He leans in, nudging her by the shoulder.

This is an odd dream. A grand manor. With Eleanore?

We were walking out of the forest...

And...

Nothing.

He cannot remember a moment after kneeling by the sugarcane field. Anton rubs his aching temple. Did she get help? "Lenore." He hates waking her, when she must've stayed up all night to look after him but he has to.

Eleanore blinks, sitting up.

Her eyes find him and she stares at him from head to toe before framing his face in her hands. "You're still hot, my-" she stops, making him wonder what she was about to say. Eleanore shakes her head. "How are you feeling?"

Anton wraps a hand around her wrist and gently pries her hand away. "Better than earlier," he says, despite the heat simmering under his skin. "Speaking of earlier, where...where are we?"

"Oh, here first, don't crouch there." She guides him back to the couch, holding him by the arm. Anton frowns, his stomach rolling and threatening to spill yesterday's food all over that expensive carpet. His feet are merely floating with how light and hot his head is. Anton realizes how old he has been getting...