Page 41 of Hush, Little Baby

I turn my head back toward him, holding my breath as his chest rises and falls. His breathing is even enough that I think he has to be asleep, but I still watch him for what feels like an entire hour before I dare to shift.

The bed creaks when I start to move.

Not loudly.

Probably not loudly.

But to me, it sounds like a gunshot.

I freeze, every muscle locked, mouth open around another trapped breath. Nikolaus does not move.

I wait.

One second.

Five.

Ten.

Still nothing.

Okay.

Okay, okay, okay.

I can do this.

I ease one leg out from under the blankets, then the other. The robe bunches around my knees, too thick and soft and stupidly luxurious, and I have to stop to untangle it. My hands are shaking so badly the belt nearly comes loose, and I grab it at the last second, pulling it tighter around my waist.

The robe is too big.

Of course, it’s too big. Everything about this room is too big. The bed. The windows. The space between the furniture. The man sleeping behind me. I feel like Jack in the Giant’s castle.

My feet touch the carpet, and thank god it’s so soft it swallows the sound. I stand slowly, gripping the edge of the mattress until the dizziness passes. My head feels wrong. Too light and too heavy at the same time. My body is warm from sleep, but my hands are cold, and there is a fluttering weakness in my stomach that makes me remember the grapes. Three grapes and some water. That’s not nearly enough.

Too bad.

I look at Nikolaus again.

Still asleep.

I take one step.

Then another.

Every movement feels impossibly loud. My breathing. The brush of the robe against my legs. Even my heartbeat feels like something he might hear, because he seems like the kind of man who can hear heartbeats.

The room is dim, but not dark enough to hide all the evidence of him. His shirt is folded over a chair. His belt is beside his watch. His shoes are near the dresser, perfectly aligned.

Mine are nowhere.

I go into the bathroom first because that’s where my clothes were. At least, I think that’s where my clothes were. My brain is a mess of fragments from earlier. Water. His hands. The robe. His voice. The awful, embarrassing way I let him wash my hair.

I push the bathroom door open just enough to slip inside, squinting at the light. I accidentally catch a glimpse of myself in the huge mirror and cringe.

I look like a ghost.

My hair is dry in weird places and damp in others, curling at the ends and sticking up near one temple. My face is puffy from crying. My eyes are red. The robe hangs off one shoulder, swallowing my whole body, the belt tied too tightly around the middle.