Page 250 of Coal Hearts

I didn’t answer her.

The effort was too much to swallow and blink and speak.

“I’ve got some stashed downstairs. If she wants some later, I’ll give them to her,” Peter said quietly.

“Okay.” Stepping back, she grimaced. “In that case, off with you both. Sleep is the best healer, so go get some.”

“Hear that, Ily?” Peter grinned far too wide for my benefit. “Chalne ka samay ho gaya.” (Time to go.)

The Hindi words sank into my cotton wool head, reminding me that I’d implored in it, chanted in it, begged in it.

It’d been as useless as English because I was still here, still trapped, still lost and alone and so, so afraid.

But I didn’t cry.

Didn’t cry.

I shivered as Peter stole my blanket and folded it neatly back into place on Dr Belford’s couch. Taking my icy hands, he guided me off the table, then tucked me like a terrified naked duckling under his wing and guided me through the citadel.

The journey went unnoticed.

The chilliness of the morning utterly unable to match the frostiness of my soul.

We met no one.

Heard no one.

Just two bleeding ghosts in the night.

The entire time we walked, Peter stayed silent. He didn’t try to pry me from my fugue, and I didn’t try to offer him comfort.

Our silence did that for us.

It cloaked us and made us invisible.

By the time we’d climbed down all the stairs and entered a familiar corridor, I didn’t want to be around others.

I just wanted to be around him.

I burrowed into his chest.

He hugged me tight as he pushed open the entrance to the slave quarters.

The huge carved door swung wide.

Warmth from sleeping bodies welcomed us. The soft snores of those in sweet oblivion made me viciously jealous.

I drifted toward the huge room holding a sea of white-shrouded beds. I could vaguely make out the one that Peter had said was mine. Smooth and empty, beckoning me to tumble atop it and forget.

Forget.

I needed that.

Badly.

So I went.

“Wait.” Grabbing my wrist above my cuff, Peter tugged me to a stop.