The Iron Thorn - Caitlin Kittredge [95]
“Cal.” I interrupted his red-faced slurry of words, dipping my head so that I could pretend not to notice the moisture in the corners of his eyes. My friend would do the same for me. “I’m fine. I promise.”
Cal pressed me closer, against his bony frame, though I was startled to feel a bit of steel in his grip and a fullness in his chest that hadn’t been there when we left the Academy. Being on the run had solidified Cal, firmed up his boyish edges. My wounded arm started to throb. I pulled away too fast, and felt a prick at the downturn his mouth took.
“Where were you?” he demanded. “We looked everywhere, over every inch of grounds. Even in the old cemetery … did you know there’s a cemetery up here?”
“I just got lost,” I repeated. Dean cleared his throat and cocked an eyebrow at me. I shook my head slightly, just once. Not here. Not where Cal could get an inkling. I couldn’t go through another scene like the one in the library.
“You should get some rest,” Cal said. “Bethina can draw you a bath and you need to have a long soak and forget all about this day. What were you thinking, going into the woods like that?”
“I was thinking I wanted to be alone,” I said, and it came out far sharper than I’d intended. Cal winced like I’d stuck him with an actual blade.
“You could have been hurt, or killed,” he sniffed.
“Yes, but I wasn’t.” I could see the argument derailing the return of our good feeling and I put up my hands. “And you’re right—I could use some rest.” I caught Dean’s eye and held it for a moment, and his lips twitched upward. Deceiving Cal sat badly in my stomach, like I’d eaten something too sour, but I consoled myself that it was for his own good. Until I could show him my Weird, something tangible, he’d just think I was nuts anyway.
“I can draw my own bath, but could Bethina bring up a plate for me?” I said. “I’m famished.” That at least was the truth—I hadn’t gotten any breakfast before Tremaine snatched me away.
Cal smiled and nodded, patting me on the shoulder as if I’d just agreed to take my medicine like a good girl.
“Of course. You run along and try not to tax yourself anymore.”
“I will. Good night, Cal. Good night, Dean.”
Cal was back at his baseball game before I’d stepped out of the parlor, but Dean gave me a smirk. “Good night, princess. Sweet dreams.”
I pelted up the stairs, paying no mind to my bruises, and skidded into my bedroom. In the wash closet I spun the taps of the steam hob open and guided the water via valve into the brass tub in the corner, leaving the drain open so I wouldn’t cause a flood. When the hob was burbling away merrily, refilling itself with hot water, I stripped down to my slip and pulled a plain green cotton dress on, leaving my muddy clothes just outside the wash-closet door. Then I locked it from the inside and shut it from without. No one could get in without a skeleton key, and Bethina didn’t appear to have custody of the house’s key ring.
Then, stocking-footed, I crept back downstairs. Once I was in the shadow of the entry, I made a hard right turn into the library to avoid the sight line of the parlor, and pulled the doors shut behind me.
Dean would have to be disappointed tonight. I needed solitude, time with the books in the library above. I didn’t quite trust Dean’s faith to extend to some of the things in those books. I was still having a difficult time believing this wasn’t all just a terribly long nightmare.
I lit one of the oil lamps on my father’s writing desk and cycled open the trapdoor of the attic. I climbed, my slight weight silent on the ladder, and shut the door after me. I had at least a few hours undetected, until Bethina realized I hadn’t touched my supper tray and Dean realized I’d never left the wash closet after my theoretical bath.
I couldn’t claim to be one of those students who studies best when pressured. Cramming always made my head feel too small, as if facts were spilling out to make room for inconsequential