Page 16 of Crucible
It’s just right.
Before I know it, the cup is empty, and I don’t feel so close to death. My stomach rumbles, and I don’t bother counting thehours since I last ate. I fall to my knees again and devour the half-eaten sandwich. I don’t allow myself to wonder what the gamey-tasting meat is as it fills my belly.
The cabin quakes again as if telling me to hurry. I don’t have much time before I’m caught trespassing.
I’m not ready to leave, so I chalk it up to paranoia and move closer to the fire once I’ve eaten all three sandwiches. I only need a few minutes, but as I sit and stare into the flames with the blanket around my shoulders, the minutes tick by without my realizing.
I don’t even feel my eyes growing heavy until I nod off.
When it happens a third time, I accept that I’m safe for now and stand.
No one is going to walk through that door and find me anytime soon. My dress, still damp in places, is mostly dry and warm now from lying in front of the fire, so I put it back on. Harrison’s coat, however, is thicker, so I leave it and Cassie’s scarf in a pile on the floor.
I walk to the bank of windows below the loft, and the view I’m greeted with is…I hate it.
The cabin is built on the edge of a cliff. I know instantly why the mountain men chose this cliff. I can see all of the wilds from here, every terrifying inch and endless angles. From this vantage, it looks deceptively small, but I know all too well how easy it is to get lost in it. The valley and most of the foothills below are mostly hidden by thick, white mist, but I can see the tallest of the trees that rise above it and the outline of the smaller mountains in the distance.
I was in that.
Isurvivedthat.
It was terrifying at the time, but all I can think now is how much I want to burn it all down.
Forcing myself away from the windows before the thought can take root, I explore the rest of the house.
The kitchen is tucked away behind the dining room, but I find it easy enough. As I pass the dining table, I run my index finger over the unfinished wood. There’s a deep gouge in the sanded oak that makes me pause.
Had someonestabbedthe table?
The edges of the groove are rough and splintering, but when my curious gaze passes over the rest of the table, I don’t see any more gouges.
“What…?” I rasp, but I don’t finish.
My throat feels like I’ve been gargling gravel, so I continue my exploration into the kitchen, where I search the fridge and cabinets for water before realizing these people must drink water from thetap.
I shudder.
But I’m too thirsty to care for long.
I grab the only tin cup remaining in one of the cupboards and fill it with water from the faucet.
My first sip is tentative, and while it’s not artesian, I’m surprised by how refreshing it tastes. Cool, crisp, and refreshing, like it was sourced straight from a spring. And most importantly, no weird aftertaste. A solid seven out of ten.
I gulp down several more cups since it’s a small one before I’m finally convinced I won’t die of thirst. Leaving the cup on the counter, I continue my self-guided and unsanctioned tour of the cabin.
There’s a set of stairs by the front door that I missed when I broke in, but I ignore them for now as I finish exploring the first level.
The house is smaller than I’m used to, so I find the bedroom easy enough. I’m scratching my head over why anyone would everchoosethis.
It’s souglyand sad.
Not the house—though it is hideous—but the drafty room I find myself standing in. There’s a neatly made bed with four posters and a simple metal railing for a headboard, two nightstands, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and a chair shoved in the corner.
I hear prison cells are nicer than this, I muse. Begrudgingly, I make my way over to the bed and sit on the edge.
I give it a testing bounce, but the mattress refuses to yield. It’s hard, rigid, and completely devoid of comfort—just like this god-awful room.
Maybe there’s another.
