Page 135 of The Cannibal

“I know,” Silas said quietly. “I’m sorry.”

“She is the only reason I do anything.” I laughed. “If not for her, I may still be cooped up in my father’s Nest or married off to some poor fellow.”

“She has a way of moving people.” He tilted his empty cup in his lap. “Sometimes that means out of their immediate comforts.”

“She’s cruel, and selfish, sometimes shortsighted and stubborn⁠—”

“Sometimes?”

“But I am no different.” I shrugged. “She is my other half.”

We both traded grins, shaking our heads at the many ways we’ve been charmed by such a creature.

“You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” I asked him. “If she makes it out of this.”

“When,” he corrected. “I will.”

“But do you love her enough to do what needs to be done if she doesn’t?”

I had never seen his eyes so strained or glassy. He looked down, nodding his head slowly.

“Father is going to kill us, you know.” My lip quivered, but I was finally able to admit it. I saw Silas, and I knew he was right all along. I didn’t want it to be true, I wanted it to be a happy ending for us all. But that was childish to believe to begin with.

“I know,” he mouthed, gesturing to the tender with two fingers up.

“What do we do?” I sighed. “If there is anything to be done.”

The tender brought over two small glasses with a clear liquid inside.

Silas slid one across the glass table to me. It chimed against my empty glass.

He lifted his glass, waiting for me to join.

I held mine carefully.

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” he finally answered, tapping his dram against mine and letting it slip down his throat with a single slow swig.

“Cheers then.” I swallowed mine too, the sting of moonshine burning my throat all the way to my stomach. Oddly, I didn’t think any alcohol was able to do that and have the feeling last.

I screwed my eyes shut as I swallowed it, reaching over to squeeze Silas’s hand.

He squeezed back.

One last night to drown our worries in liquor, numbing us until we had to face the challenges ahead.

38

THE POISONER

Every part of me was limp. My body sank into the cloud of a mattress, the sheets at least slightly cool against my skin as I was caressed by the pillows and blankets. The pain had either left, or the medicine had destroyed my nerves, or my body had stopped responding to any stimulus altogether. Any feeling was touch and go between pain and numbness.

Every movement was labor, especially when avoiding expelling in bed. Even if I did, I couldn’t promise I wouldn’t just lie there in it.

A fetal position with the blankets up to my chin was the only way I could fade into light sleep. The crack of morning light coming through the curtains somehow was still too bright for my swimming head. Everything was in such a haze and all I could do was be still and rot directly into the place I slept. My throat was so dry that I thought I’d choke on my own larynx, yet I was too weak to even ask for water.

There was soft whispering at the entrance.

Finally . . .