Chương 10: Chapter 10: Longstanding Loneliness
Mercy Hall
Taking the form of a statue isn't all it's cracked up to be, not really. There's nothing angelic about the way Mercy feels. Nay, three days of impersonating a statue, or roaming the castle grounds at night, isn't how she thought she'd spend her birthday or the days thereafter.
Mercy wiggles her pinky. Fissures run along the thin layer of stone covering her arm. She rocks on the balls of her feet until she cracks the shell around her body.
"For the love of all that's holy," she groans.
Slowly, she stands under the light of the moon, her knees creaking and popping.
"Well, that doesn't sound good." A cool breeze chills her skin.
The air smells sweet like lavender. There's a faint aroma of another scent, one she's come to recognize, Ambrose - the Drachn Prince of the Bastaff Region - the future king.
Her mind wanders, only days ago, King Alexander and his men pursued her through the kingdom, so where are they now?
Hell, for that matter, where's the ancient spirit? The one who channeled thoughts into my mind, she wondered. Am I dead? Are the gods angry? Is this my punishment for not obeying my sire?
She arches her back then raises her good arm overhead. Slowly, with controlled movements, she does a few head rolls. The motion pulls the puckered skin tight over her wound and makes her shoulder ache.
The area is hot to the touch. Red streaks shoot out from the injured, swollen flesh.
The garden swirls in and out of view.
No. No. No. Now is not the time for another nap.
She wills the warmth behind her eyes to go away along with the throb in her head, pounding in her skull.
She staggers to a bench, Mercy sits. Eyes cast down, she examines the new tissue surrounding the puncture hole in her thigh. She sits. Carefully, she binds the wound with a strip of cloth from her blouse.
The laceration in her shoulder next to her collarbone excretes a bloody pus mixture.
It's been three days. Why isn't the skin mending?
Sleeping in her beast form has always accelerated healing but not this time.
Why? What's different?
Plant names enter her thoughts. Her mother, Arden, is an herbalist.
Or, at least, she was before she . . .
Mercy's lids brim with tears. She's not entirely sure if it's because of her mother's death or because of the heat ravishing her body like a hungry flame.
Burdock root cleanses the blood. It reduces fever, or so she recalls. She wracks her brain because she's seen the plant in the garden during her nightly excursions. Now, to find it.
She samples the air around her.
Traces of the guards and their hounds barely register.
Mercy stands then makes her way to the side of the castle wall. In the corner, next to the grapevines, she's sure she has seen a batch of burdock growing.
By the wall, she digs around a three-inch stalk of one of the pink-red thistle-like flowers. The hairy leaves make her arms itch. Ignoring the reaction, she continues to claw at the soil around the plant.
Once the root is exposed, a pungent carrot-like smell wafts up her nose. Tugging, she snaps off a section longer than her hand and larger in diameter than her thumb, free of the ground. Rising, she brushes the excess dirt off the stalk, breaks it in two then makes her way to the pond. Kneeling, she rinses the root.
Eyes focused on the liquid pool below her, she peers at the shimmering water, half expecting the creature to show herself. The only image visible is that of the castle, but something is different. Glancing at the second story, she takes in the railing of the balcony, which is narrower than she had recalled.
Where is Alexander, she can't help but wonder, and why is Ambrose occupying the king's suite?
Holding the harvested plant out in front of her, she bites off a small section.
Bitter, earthy, with a bit of heat, yep, that's what she remembers of the taste.
It's not a flavor, at least raw, she's ever cared to taste again. However, she'd learned a long time ago, necessity doesn't always align with what one wants.
Slowly, under the light of the moon, she rotates the bitter vegetable between her thumb and index finger. Her stomach grumbles. Pains of hunger ripple across her abdomen.
Perchance, it will taste better this time.
Raw, the root is fibrous, stringy.
Yep, no change there. The pungent kick smacks the delicate buds on her tongue.
She plucks a leaf from a twisted tree, curls the leaves creating a makeshift bowl, spits the crushed root into the center of it, and then spreads the once-chewed concoction across the length of it. Gently, she presses the earthy mixture to her throbbing shoulder wound.
Music rolls in on a cool breeze. Her skin chills, and goose bumps erupt over her flesh.
The human, Ambrose, plays a dark melody on his viola.
The strings vibrate. They tell a sad, gut-wrenching story of loss followed by a longstanding loneliness. Drawn to the intonation of each note, she makes her way to the castle wall where the grapevines grow thickest, then stares up at the soft candlelight glowing from the second story window.
One-handed, she climbs the vines then hoists herself over the edge of the king's balcony. A feat she performed last night, and the night before, which led to a bowl of fruit she ate from while he slept.
Under the cloak of darkness, she keeps to the shadows. She approaches the opening of the room, quietly, mesmerized by the movement of his bow arm and sway of his lean, tan frame. He glides back and forth, keeping to the beat of the music flowing from his body.
Dark, thick curls fall loosely around his face. Lush, full lashes sweep across his lowered lids. Feather-like, they rest at the curve of his bruised cheekbone.
The tempo crescendos, and he licks his lips. Drawing in a deep breath, he looks as if he's slowly sipping on the emotions vibrating around him.
Mercy, still on the balcony, hides behind a thick curtain. Inching closer to the doorway, she cranes her neck for a better glimpse. Fingers wrapped around the velvety fabric, she pushes the curtain to the side.
A vase, on top of the pillar in front of her, teeters. She reaches for the breakable decoration, but it slips out of her grasp and tumbles to the floor.
The urn shatters, and tiny slivers of porcelain slide across the floor like grains of clumped sand.
Ambrose pivots toward her. "There you are." A smile washes over his face. "I've been expecting you."
She stumbles, unable to turn away from his dark gaze. Blindly, she reaches for the castle wall to steady herself.
"Leaving so soon?" He sets the instrument and bow on the floor. Leaping over them, he sprints to the balcony in pursuit.
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