They offered the travel-weary guard a cup of bitter coffee, and he lingered at the front of the room, holding the ceramic cup in his hands but never actually drinking from it.
The site of the sergeant jarred Kalindi, his glaring white uniform like a too-bright camera flash. He was a harsh shard of reality encapsulated in this dream Kalindi had created for herself—that she could really be free, that there was really more to see besides the thick, impenetrable walls of the castle.
Enzi endured the tense stares of the Celestials for a few long moments, before he cleared his throat, glancing at Aldric where he still lay confined to his bed. "Mr...Finck, is it?"
"Yes," Aldric allowed, "but don't say that too loud around here."
Enzi nodded. "Your injuries aren't troubling you too much, I hope?"
"The guy the Queen sent us looking for blew a hole through my side. It's a miracle that it missed any vital organs," said Aldric, leaning his head back against the pillows, the pale slope of his neck turned towards the sky. "I would say that's very troubling."
Kalindi exhaled, nudging Chike over so she could lean against the arm of his chair. "Save the small talk, Enzi," she said, worrying at one of her earrings. "Tell us why you're here."
"He said why he's here, more or less," Jem interrupted. She'd grown tired of standing, it seemed, and had claimed a spot on the floor in the very center of the rug, legs crossed underneath her. "The Queen sent him. She's keeping an eye on us."
Enzi coughed, finally sipping from the coffee with a maddening amount of caution.
Jem's intense eyes settled on him, giving the poor man no breaks. "I'm right, aren't I?"
Enzi hesitated, but nodded his head, bending to set the cup down atop the dresser with a gentle clink. "Her Majesty has not heard word of any progress from you regarding the search for Vernon Schmitt, so she sent me here to ensure everything was alright."
"It's far from alright," Jem scoffed, tearing a hand back through her hair, the strands of which, Kalindi noticed, were a lighter brown in the sunlight, the same hue as warm black tea.
"Jem," Zuri warned.
"It's true," Jem said. "The Queen's given us a basically impossible mission; I've already come close to death at least two times now which is two times too many—"
"What she means to say," Zuri interrupted, offering the sergeant a strained but polite smile, "is that we have certainly had our struggles, but we ensure you we will complete the mission as requested."
"Struggles?" Enzi's brows twitched with interest. "Like what?"
Zuri started to reply, but Aldric cut her off. "Vernon Schmitt is the one who shot me," he answered, and though it was the truth, only the truth, Kalindi still jolted as if bracing for a blow. She couldn't pinpoint where the fear came from, and that somehow made it all the more terrifying. "We thought we had him cornered, but it seems he has other plans. He made it clear he has no intention of working for the Queen."
"He got away, then," Enzi asked, adjusting his posture, his shoulders a straight line. "That's what you're telling me?"
"Yes," Kalindi agreed, sharing a worried glance with Chike. "I'm afraid so."
"We far underestimated him," Chike added. "As well as how far he'll go to get what he wants."
Enzi's dark eyes were curious, but what Kalindi couldn't quite gauge was whether that curiosity was benevolent, or something far more sinister. "What is it he wants?"
A hush fell over the room once more. The words climbed in Kalindi's throat, but stuck there; it was too terrible, too beautiful, to speak of, a macabre poem she didn't dare to recite.
"We're not sure," Aldric said, his voice low, still gravelly from the hours he'd spent unconscious. Kalindi watched the shuttered reactions of the others: Chike's eyes going to the floor, Zuri's face carefully blank, Jem nodding along solemnly like she'd been about to speak herself. "But I figure it's something personal, very personal, considering the violence he's resorting to."
"I see," said Enzi. "That would make sense. I'll be sure to let the Queen know."
"Tell Her Majesty she doesn't need to worry," Zuri insisted, stepping forward, her hands clasped in front of her. She was, as all of them were, still slightly battered from the morning's events: her clothes strung with grime, hair hanging in curly straggles around her dirt-smudged face. Still, there was something about the way she spoke, the way her warm eyes fixed on Enzi's, that made her disheveled state the least interesting thing about her. "For Naino's sake, we will find Schmitt again. And this time, we'll bring him home."
Enzi stared at her, his expression awash with unbridled awe for a moment, before his lips curved into a grin. He placed his hand to his brow in a rigid salute. "Well," he said. "If you don't have anything else to report, I suppose I'll be on my way. Best of luck to you all."
"I'll show you out," Kalindi interjected, jumping to her feet. The sergeant glimpsed her with a certain interest, but his expression was otherwise unreadable, a well-constructed wall polished from years and years of work amongst the royals. All Enzi gave her was a brief nod as he strode towards the door again, Kalindi following after him.
The door thudded shut against the jam, shutting them in the stifling, thick heat of the hospital hallway. The air was perfumed with stringent disinfectant and that bitter, medicinal tang; it made Kalindi's nostrils twitch.
"Tell my mother she should worry less about what we're up to and more about the war about to be on our hands," Kalindi snapped once they were far enough from the door. She whirled, facing Enzi, her eyebrows risen towards her hairline. "What sort of game is she playing? I was taken hostage on the train here. It's not an empty threat anymore, Enzi, if it ever was. These people are serious."
Enzi's face was still a blank page, which only aggravated Kalindi's nerves further. "I'm afraid it's not my business to discuss Her Majesty's arrangements, Your Highness," he said, and now he looked at her, his eyes ever so slightly narrowed, jaw clenched. "I believe you and I are both aware that it's simply my job to do as I'm told."
Kalindi's heart seared in her chest, rage and frustration all in one burning, toxic cocktail.
"Enzi, this is an order from your Crown Princess," she began steadily. "Tell me why my mother really sent me here."
She wanted to watch that wall come tumbling down; she wanted to see that cultivated resolve of his crumble. But it never did.
Enzi said, "I cannot answer that."
The words were a slap in the face. Kalindi's cheek stung.
"Please be safe, Your Highness. I bid you and your comrades farewell for now," said the sergeant, dipping in a bow and removing his hat. He turned and marched to the exit, the sunlight swallowing him whole.
Sorin had nowhere else to go but home.
It was easy enough to get there; he dove unnoticed into the stifling crowds of one of the riverboats, weaving between leather workboots and sandals, moving quickly to keep from being stepped on. He found a crate near the boat's bow and curled up on top of it, head ducked upon his paws. The humid freshwater air washed away the stinging scents of blood and dust from his nostrils, but every time he closed his eyes, he was still back there, staring down at Liesel's lifeless face. He wondered if he would ever sleep again.
"Mama, look, a kitty!"
Sorin jolted, the tiny black hairs along his spine sticking straight up. A young boy, round-faced, his eyes huge beneath his glasses, was heading towards the crate, his tired mother just behind him.
The boy lifted his hand, and Sorin bared his teeth in a vicious hiss, snapping at the child's fingers—but a sharp pang of pain zapped his strength and he collapsed again with a pitiful cry.
"Oh, dear," said the boy's mother, drawing closer. Sorin wished he could fade away into nothing. "Looks like he's hurt, the poor thing."
Sorin watched the boy's eyes soften with pity; the child turned, grabbing his mother's sleeve and tugging on it. "We have to help him, Mama!"
Sorin hissed again, but all that seemed to do was burden their hearts even more. He couldn't stand to look at them, the way the son's fingers dug into the fine cloth of his mother's jacket, how she curled her own sun-speckled hand over his. It was such a violent echo of his past, of everything he'd just lost and would never get back, that it splintered something inside of him.
Soon enough, he figured, he was simply going to unravel.
This time, it was the mother who came forward, murmuring sweet words, her hands cupped as if offering water to sip from her palms. He didn't know why, but he let her get close, let the clement sensation of her fingers brush his fur, before he could stand it no longer. He scratched at her, an angry red line blooming across her knuckles. He stayed long enough to watch the blood pool over her skin, before he jumped from his crate, plunging into the river.
He waited until the frigid water no longer hummed with the movements of the boat, and then he dragged himself ashore, struggling back into his human skin. The shift was more painful than most—the feel of his skeleton rearranging itself uncomfortably acute—and once it was finished, he collapsed onto the sod, breathing hard. Water soaked his clothes, his hair; every inhale filled his nose with rancid pond scum and made his broken ribs ache.
Sorin only allowed himself to linger there for a moment. He staggered to his feet, clutching a trembling hand to his injured side. Gratefully, central Sinje was just in front of him; he could make out the bridge a bit further downriver, the beautiful cacophony of a myriad footsteps and strangers' voices carrying into his ringing ears.
Sorin crested the hill, where grass melted into cobblestone. Across the street, the sign for Wendell's Rug Shop tilted slightly on its fastening.
The doorknob was cold, almost unnaturally so. Sorin shuddered and stepped inside anyway, bumping the door shut behind him, flipping the sign in the window to closed.
The rugs that had once hung from the ceiling in a whimsical arrangement formed a deep, endless labyrinth now. It wound and wound around him, stirring him to senselessness. He limped, stumbled, burlap and wool grating against his cheek, his hands, his vision momentarily lost in the rug's swinging shadows. Finally, he rammed into the back desk with a harsh thud, crying out, crumpling over it. Papers crinkled beneath him, soaking up water, turning to pulpy mush.
The beaded curtain clinked as he pushed it aside, climbing the steps so slowly that each footfall sounded like a gunshot. The further he went, the more blood seeped into the floor, the colder Liesel's skin grew beneath his fingers.
Tell me what to do now, he thought. His body was heavy; the stairs were giving underneath his weight, melting into soft clay that stuck to the soles of his waterlogged shoes. Liesel. Someone. Anyone. Just tell me what to do without you.
The apartment was unchanged: a broken clock forever trapped in time. The futon was unmade as usual, heaps of blankets draped across it without care, a woolen sock poking out from behind one of the sofa legs. Dirty dishes teetered out of the kitchen sink. A single coffee mug sat on the countertop, still full, as if Liesel would get back to it any second now.
Sorin stood at the top of the stairs, afraid to go any further, terrified of disturbing the perfect image before him. Except it wasn't perfect; there was still one piece missing, one integral ingredient whose absence made the whole dish meaningless: and that was the only mother he'd ever really known.
He felt his legs fold underneath him. He was nothing. A ghost in his own home, wandering through a world that was no longer his.
Tell me what to do now, he thought again, but he already knew.