“Breathe, Del!” he cried, pumping her chest. Her lips were blue, her eyes open and glassy. “Wake up! Wake up!”
Roman startled awake.
He stared wide-eyed into the darkness as the dream settled like silt. His pulse throbbed in his ears and blood rushed hot beneath his skin.
It was only a dream.
But Roman could still taste that pond water, feel it drip from his hair. He could smell the damp earth of the shore, like it had only been yesterday when the water had stolen Del away.
He didn’t remember having a sister. But the dream had been so vivid, he couldn’t help but wonder if his mind was trying to help him recall those lost pieces of his past.
If this wasn’t just a dream, then it’s my fault that my sister is dead.
He covered his face with his hands, trying to swallow the tears. But the sobs racked him like a storm tide. Roman eventually curled on his side and let them shudder through his bones. He lay there until his weeping subsided. His throat was raw, his stomach ached.
If he remained here any longer, the pallet would feel like a grave.
He forced himself to rise.
Flushed and bleary-eyed, he moved to the door. It opened, swinging crookedly on its offset hinges. To Roman’s surprise, Shane wasn’t posted in the hallway as guard. In fact, the corridor was empty and quiet, full of night’s deepest shadows.
Roman stepped into the hallway. He let his feet take him to the staircase and quietly descended, pausing only when the two guards at the front door met his gaze with brows arched in suspicion.
“I’m going to the kitchen,” Roman whispered hoarsely. “For a glass of milk.”
One of the soldiers gave him a slight nod. Roman continued on his way, drawn by the warmth and flickering firelight of the kitchen.
He expected it would be empty and was once again shocked when he saw that Dacre was sitting at the table, staring at a spread of maps. He cradled a glass of dark red ale in his large hands, and the sight was so domestic that it could have fooled Roman into believing that the gods were cut from the same cloth as mortals. That they were not so terrifying and omnipotent as humankind was bred to believe.
“Roman,” Dacre greeted him, his deep-timbred voice rising with surprise. “What has you up at such an hour?”
“I could ask the same of you, sir,” Roman replied, his gaze coasting over the maps. “Don’t divines need sleep?”
Dacre smiled and stood. He put his ale down and began to gather up the paper. “Perhaps we do, from time to time. But you’re a welcome sight and a reminder that I should take a break.”
A welcome sight, Roman’s mind echoed as Dacre set aside the stack of caramel-edged illustrations. And he doesn’t want me to see those maps.
“Here, sit,” Dacre said, drawing out one of the chairs. “Would you like a dram?”
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” Roman replied. “I came for a cup of milk, actually. I used to drink it when I couldn’t sleep.”
A line furrowed Dacre’s brow. In the candlelight, he suddenly looked older, almost haggard. His eyes narrowed, gleaming like gemstones. “The typewriter is helping you remember?”
Roman nodded, but his tongue curled behind his teeth. He still wasn’t sure why Dacre had asked him to identify his old typewriter and then secretly given him the other.
Unless he doesn’t want me to remember.
The thought nearly struck Roman off-balance and he sank into the chair. He watched as Dacre opened the fridge and withdrew a bottle of milk.
“We’re fortunate the people of this town left their livestock behind,” Dacre said as he poured a tall glass. “A thoughtful offering, or else my forces would be hungry. As would you, correspondent.”
“Yes,” Roman whispered, his thoughts preoccupied with the account Dacre had given him of Avalon Bluff, days ago.
They had walked the streets together, observing the damage. Some houses sat in heaps of rubble, charred from fire. Others had escaped the bombs’ destruction, but still held evidence of the terror with shattered windows and crooked doorways and pieces of shrapnel glittering in the yard. Roman had written it down in his notepad, but he had also transcribed what Dacre had said. In many ways, that account didn’t feel like Roman’s words at all.
“Whatever happened to that first article I wrote for you?” he asked. “The one detailing how you saved Avalon Bluff?”
Dacre set the milk in front of Roman before returning to his chair at the head of the table. Again, there was that faint metallic clink when he moved.