I'd only heard it a couple of times before, but I was becoming eerily acquainted with the creaking sound of the door when it opened. I turned just in time to see Zelle slipping in, her face a blank mask hidden behind strings of black beads. A veil that jingled musically when she moved.
I smiled at her.
She flinched. "Don't smile at me, Olya. You should hate me."
"Why should I hate you?" I asked, and she looked insulted.
"Because I know your secret. She was shaking, full of self-righteousness. "You're just as barren as I am. You've never once had the bleedings, and you have no more right to your soldier than I had to mine. You're destructive and deceitful, and you ought to learn your place."
I tilted my head to the side, absorbing her words slowly. "So, because you never had the right to your soldier, you wish to take away mine?"
"That's right." She wasn't even trying to hide it.
What a hateful little creature she was. Such pettiness. Such jealousy. I wasn't surprised. I was just disappointed and hurt. I loved this girl and she was betraying me without even the grace of looking sorry for it.
She'd turned against me entirely, blinded by a sense of duty to her beliefs. In the end, that mattered to her more than me.
I wanted to laugh. Wanted to take her into my arms and pat her head, tell her how silly she was, but how much I adored her anyway. I actually felt a bit proud of her for taking a stand, for showing her strength. She didn't know how brave she was for living in this world while keeping her sweetness, her innocence, intact.
"Good for you, Zelle."
She ignored that. "They promised not to execute you."
"And you believed them," I said. "You always had a trusting nature."
"You think I'm stupid, I suppose."
"Yes."
"Don't you know anything?" Her temper flared. In her eyes, there was fear. "Don't you know what will happen to you after you die?"
"I'll be dead."
"Your refusal to acknowledge your fate will be your doom."
"Okay, Zelle," I said patiently. "Okay."
My easy dismissal of her words infuriated her. She was nearly shaking now.
"Your mother knows you're here," she threw the words at me. "And yet she's doing nothing to save you. She's abandoned you, Olya."
I didn't react, didn't even move. I blinked at her in vacant interest, her hatefulness intriguing to me.
She lashed out even harder, grasping desperately for any weapon she could use. "They're going to execute your soldier. He's been sent back to the City of Roses for an official, military execution."
I still didn't move. I continued to stare at her. Slowly, the tears came, dripping down my cheeks. She looked horrified. My crying disturbed her—possibly reminded her of emotions she herself knew too well. The kind of crushing sadness she must have experienced.
Suddenly, her face flooded with regret. Not for having inflicted it on me, but for being reminded of her own pain. She was falling apart, tearing open at the seams, her plan backfiring. Vengeance didn't come naturally to her. She was too fragile, too sweet. She couldn't carry around all that hate without feeling it digging its teeth into her, like that trap she'd stepped in all those months ago.
It might as well have been an eternity ago, now. That time when I'd sewn her up myself, with my own hands. I'd stayed by her side when she was stuck in bed, held her when she cried because the pain was so great, spoon fed her so she could regain her strengths.
But that time was gone, and I couldn't save her now. This was a trap of her own making. She'd stepped into it willingly.
Zelle rose to her feet and turned, started banging on the door with her whole hand, begging to be let out. It swung open, nearly hitting her in the face, and then she ran out.
The door slammed shut again, I felt the rush of air hit my face, and then I folded over onto the hard ground.
I had no idea what to do—there was nothing I could do—so I just rocked back and forth and repeated his name over and over, like a prayer.
Gunnar. Gunnar. Gunnar.
I was his god, he'd said. Me. The girl made of lightning storms.
Except, I wasn't. I was made of flesh and blood and powerlessness. And I couldn't save him.
...
I counted the days, because there was nothing else to do.
Ten. Eleven. Twelve.
I looked through the cracks in the planks that were nailed over the window.
Light. Darkness. Light again.
I wondered if Gunnar was dead already, and wished they'd tell me—wished that Zelle would come back and scream at me some more, so I could at least know what was going on. But she never came back, and the only company I had were the brief visits from the guards who brought me meals. Sometimes three a day, sometimes only one. It depended who was on shift. Some were more generous—more sympathetic—than others.
But they were all soldiers. They wouldn't speak to or look at me.
I'd always had a frayed sanity, but in those days that I was held prisoner, I'd never felt so solid. So grounded. There was nothing insane about me, in those darkest of hours. I was a rock in a moving current. The only person standing still in a country of swirling chaos.
Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen.
I wondered what was taking so long, and whether it was a good sign or a bad one. How long did it usually take to get results?
By the sixteenth day, I had learned to sleep on the floor so well that I was out cold. It took a while before I heard the first signs of a struggle, the sounds reaching me in the depths and pulling me to the surface.
Someone was shouting in the near distance. More than one. There was something going on beyond the walls and the door, and I pushed passed the fog of sleep and lifted myself off the floor to sit cross-legged, listening.
Was I dreaming?
Someone was here, on the other side of the door. I could hear them. I could hear the latch being released, followed by that hauntingly familiar creak.
I first glimpsed a pair of war boots, laced high on the shins, then the uniform, then the face and, finally, the mouth full of fangs.
"Wolfe," I said, still wondering if I was asleep.
He lunged towards me with urgency, his hand landing on my arm and pulling me to my feet.
"Come now," he ordered, and I was still sleepy, still confused, unable to feel my legs. I struggled to follow.
I was barely aware of making it out the door, down the hall, then out of the small house that had acted as my prison these past weeks. I was still in a daze as I filled my lungs with the cool breeze, my white hair slapping me in the face.
Wolfe didn't pause for a second. He dragged me down the road, towards the tissue-box train station, while I struggled to keep up, my head spinning from the fresh air, my body sluggish from the weeks of inactivity and little food.
No one stopped us. No one stood in our way. We boarded the train, took our seats in an empty cart, and then I just sat there in stunned silence until, soon after, the train started pulling away.
It wasn't until the village had faded behind us that Wolfe bent over my cuffs with a key. I sighed in relief when they fell off and rubbed my sore wrists. Wolfe pulled his scarf off his neck and helped me fasten it over my face like a veil.
"Just for appearances," he said.
"What's going on?" I asked, surprised at the sound of my own voice, hoarse from disuse.
"I'm taking you to camp. Bjorn has promised you full immunity and shelter."
I blinked at him. This was really happening. This wasn't a dream.
"What about Gunnar?" I reached out and clutching at his arm without even meaning to. "Is he alive?"
His eyes dropped immediately, and then I knew the answer before he even spoke the words. All he said was, "I'm sorry."
I snatched my hands back, my whole heart freezing over in an instant. Tears came up so hot and fast they startled me when they splashed against my cheeks, and I could feel a sob at my core, slowly at first until it broke through the surface, shuddering through me.
"Your results came back," Wolfe kept talking, not granting me the time to process.
I was barely able to formulate a response, my throat constricting so tightly it was difficult to breathe, but I managed to choke out, "So they know I'm barren."
"No." He reached out and put his hand on my face, it felt cold against my hot cheek. His solid gaze collided with my unfocused one. "Olya, you're pregnant."
That's what he said, but I think, at first, I didn't even hear the words. My mind just swam, filled with doubts and grief.
"Olya," he pressed. "Did you hear me? You're pregnant."
And then I did hearit. I did. And all I could do was cry harder.