Time does what it always does.
It passes.
A few days grow into weeks, until the October rain turns into November snow.
My back heals, slowly. It seems to heal slower everytime. At least, by Thanksgiving, it stops bleeding regularly.
As an extended punishment for breaking curfew, Dad has me scrub the kitchen floors at the morning as well as the regular night scrubbing for a month. It means that I get to wake up at 4:30, an hour early, and that Lucy needs to get up at the same time for me to have any time to help her get ready.
I'm almost at the end of the month. At the end of every day, Lucy's eyes are even more tired and purple than normal. Hopefully returning to our original sleep pattern will help fix that, at least a little.
The first night it snows, it takes nearly half an hour to walk home. The drifts of downy flakes are walls against my legs, but not dense enough to walk on. I pull my meager coat tighter around my shoulders and wrap my scarf as a hat around my head, but my face still burns with cold. The wind blows so steadily against me that it feels like hail.
When I finally get home, I can barely keep my eyes open through my chores. Exhaustion has hit me like a truck for a month. When Lucy asks why the bags under my eyes are dark as a thunderstorm, I tell her that I'm trying to make myself look more intimidating, like Eleven in season 2 of Stranger Things.
I don't tell her that when I close my eyes I begin thinking of him. It becomes a habit to push him out of my mind during the day, but at night, when my mind is exposed and difficult to control, I'm almost able to see him in the darkness. It sends me into a state of anxiety that fills my every pore. So, needless to say, I don't get much sleep.
I finally finish cleaning the dining chairs at midnight. The stairs seem crooked and wavering as I climb them.
When I close my eyes, I'm so tired that the vision of Prince Orion is almost defeated by my fatigue. My fingertips are filled with lead, like prison chains. It makes me feel like my body is sinking towards the ocean floor.
I reach out across the blankets and intertwine my hand with the Prince's. He presses a kiss to my forehead, warm and close. His other hand sifts through the bottom of my hair in a meticulous gesture of love. As I curl myself into him in the darkness, I realize that I am dreaming.
"Wake up," he murmurs against my skin.
But I don't care, really, that it's a dream. There's no pain for me to feel here, and my limbs are light as air.
I reach out and pull myself closer to him. His scent is fresh rain - but he smells like home. Real home. A strange warmth drips over my hand and I pull it back from him. It comes away from his shirt wet with blood.
"Wake up!" The Prince repeats with a stressed urgency.
A stabbing pain erupts on my side, between two of my ribs.
"Ah!" I gasp, bolting upright in bed. It takes a moment before I can get past the sensation that is overwhelming my internal comm system with ouch ouch ouch ouch ouch.
I grapple with my shirt and examine my left side. There's not even an old scar in the stinging area. I try to silence my agony as I feel around the area. Could I have broken a rib, somehow? I can't feel any blood or see any bruising.
I wince with a sharp intake of breath as another stinging wave hits my side. What is this? What -
The Prince.
The Prince.
This isn't my pain. All of the blood in my body takes an Exodus to my feet, leaving a pale and shaking anxiety in its place.
The Prince is hurt.
My mate is hurt.
My sneakers are already tied and I am halfway down the stairs before a thought floats above the cloud of urgency screaming through my brain. Mate is hurt, mate is hurt, urgent, urgent -
I pause at the base of the stairs, feeling like the wind just got punched out of me. I have to go see my mate, my mate is hurt, I have to -
I hold my hands over my ears, like it will block out the thoughts. I can't go to the Prince, I know what will happen if I go to the Prince!
My pulse is rapid in my ears. What if he was wounded in a battle for his life? What if he was attacked by an assassin? What if he was captured - or killed -
My shoes thud against the living room carpet as I pace the floor. Nausea rolls like a sea in the pit of my stomach. My mate needs me. Is this how he felt, when Dad was placing burning cinders on my back? How could I do this to him? I'm the worst wolf alive, if you can even call me a wolf. Instinctively, I know that if I just set my eyes on him - if I just saw him and knew he was alive - then this sickening blackness crawling over my body would stop, and I would know that he was safe, he just needs to be safe.
A small, weak sound of hopelessness escapes my lips. The falling snow turns white in the light of the porch lamp, appearing from the darkness like magic.
It must be early, because I stand in distressed silence for over an hour before Lucy calls out to me from the top of the stairs. 4:30. Time to get to work.
I can feel how pale and clammy I look. I can't feel the pain anymore. Does that mean that he was healed, or -
Is he dead?
"I wish I could work at the Palace with you, Lee," Lucy says as I'm helping her get ready for the day. The sky outside is still dark with night.
I smile through the nerves that still light over my body. I notice that my hands shake as I hand her her jacket. "Why's that?"
"You get to see all the fancy people, and you get to spend the whole day away. Maybe someday I can work at the Palace, and we can wash dishes together." She sends me a small smile as I strap her arms to her supports.
I wanted Lucy to be halfway through recovery from her life saving surgery. I wanted her to be taking her first real steps. If things had worked out differently, she wouldn't be wishing she could work in the palace with me. The thought turns my stomach into a sinking ship.
"Maybe we can, someday. Race to see who can finish the dishes first," I propose. Her face lights in ecstasy.
I leave Lucy polishing our extensive silverware collection in our laundry room and begin the kitchen floor.
After scrubbing it so many times, I've gotten much faster. I rinse out my rag into the bucket until it no longer drips and ignore the stinging of the soap on my hands. On the upside, scrubbing the kitchen floors in the mornings gets me out of scrubbing my own hands with my lye soap. After my night, it's almost therapeutic to feel the burning of the cleaner on my hands. It wakes me up.
The floor is still perfectly spotless from the washing I did last night. But Dad would be able to tell, and, besides, I could never lie to him. At least, not to his face. So I clean it again. The lines in the tile are spotlessly white. It reminds me of the lines in my hands, purged of dirt and life. The Prince, dead and mateless. I swallow the lump in my throat.
I'm almost halfway done when I check the time. It's already 5:45.
I have to be at the Palace at 6:30. Which means I have to leave at 6:10.
I haven't even started on my normal chores. A burst of stress immobilizes me and I stare blankly at the wall for 23 seconds before bursting into action.
Okay. Okay. This is fine.
Kitchen floor, bathroom mirrors, garbage, laundry, dusting.
This is fine.
Frenzy mode. My knuckles turn white as I scrub as vigorously as possible to the increasing pace of my heartbeat.
Bathroom mirrors, laundry, dusting.
20 minutes later, I hurriedly take care of the wood polish and have covered my arms in an appropriately scent-covering amount of lemon juice and perfume. The habit makes me think of the Prince, and the falling likelihood that he is dead. I know I'm forgetting something, what am I forgetting?
Kitchen floors, dusting, mirrors, laundry.
Floors, dusting, mirrors -
Garbage. I need to bring the garbage to the curb.
Surreptitiously, just as this thought arrives, I hear a distant crash from outside.
Lucy.
"Lucy!" I run from the front door just as Lucy hits the icy ground.
Her tiny body is still crumpled low on the snowy driveway. I rush to her side, thankful that the grips on my sneakers keep me from tumbling sideways.
"Lucy, Lucy!"
I kneel down next to her and tilt her head upward. Her cheeks are almost as pale as the snow, but her eyes are alert and alarmed.
"I just - I just slipped on the ice. I wanted. I wanted to - to take the garbage to the curb, because you were late. You were late because I was going so slow this morning, and I wanted to help, but I slipped - I slipped on the ice," she stutters in slow speech, tears gathering in her eyes and spilling over her cheeks.
"It's okay, come on."
Even for my subpar werewolf body, Lucy is ridiculously easy to carry into the house. Her boney arms wrap around my shoulders, her supports clinking together where they lie across her stomach. When I place her on the couch, her lips are still pale and shaking.
"Are you okay? Are you bleeding? Did you scrape your legs? How -"
"You have to leave," Lucy replies with anxious insistence, "you're going to be late!"
"I - I -" I look at the clock on the wall. 6:14.
"I - can't - I can't - "
"I'm fine," Lucy insists, "I'll see you tonight. Go!"
She doesn't look fine. Her cheek, already hollow and thin, is purpling in a bruise. Dad wouldn't like it. He doesn't like any injury that can be seen.
6:15.
"I'm sorry Lucy," I place a kiss on her forehead, wishing I had the ability to heal people, "I love you."
"I'll be fine," she assures me, but her voice cracks at the end, "get out of here!"
With my running, it's a miracle I don't slip on the pavement on the way to the Prince. I mean, to the Palace.