“What is it?” It is the first time I have ever addressed him before him me.
He watches me a while longer, every feature and crease in his face seeming to present concern. “I just…” he looks down and runs his fingers across the seal of an envelope. As though feeling it is keeping him from focusing, he sets it and the rest of the papers onto the table. When he looks up, his eyes are gentle and pitiful, something I would rather have no share of from him. “I received word…” he seems like he had more to say, but is unsure how to put it. As I process his words, I feel like the pounding in my pulse grows louder. I understand.
“What happened to them?” I can hear the light tremble in my voice, but in this moment nothing matters more to me than what floats about in his thoughts due to my family.
His face is grave. “They…were…no,” he stops and looks down a moment. “They were…” He looks up to me, speaking in a firm but worried tone. “Promised protection…but the lie only lasted long enough for them to…”
He does not finish, but the very word about to come from his mouth rings in my head like a siren; prosecute.
“I’m so sorry…” His words are there, but the ringing prevents them from entering farther than my awareness of them.
At first I cannot feel anything. I had relied so confidently on the thought that they were only outlawed, or at least alive. Now I see that for the past several hours, I had been wrong. I had lost everything. I had been alone. Alone.
This is what brings the reaction crawling back in. A sensation of loss and loneliness enter so quickly the next moment I cannot process the emotionless feeling being there before. I feel hollow, but full of remorse at the same time. I feel nothing but everything.
“No…” It comes out soft and disbelieving. “No, no, no, no, no…”
That is half of how I feel. The other half knew; it knew when I left them the day we were separated. I just hadn’t let it make conscious evidences as much as the other.
I slowly reach for the chair in order that if I should fall, I would be sitting at least. I feel my hand clenching the chair, and as I try to pull it back, I feel I am trembling. I plop down into it and stare across the table’s wood at nothing. I feel something large and hard form in the back of my throat but my eyes stay clear. I cannot move for what feels like a long time as it washes through me, the fact that moeder and Meyleia are no longer tangible to me. After a moment, instead of fading, the ringing gets louder and I feel a tug in my heart. I cover my face with my hands and breathe. No tears come, but the trembling in my chest and churning in my stomach are enough for me to feel my pain.
“Lyra…” I can’t even put out the knowledge that he is using my improper name. When I raise my face from my hands though, I see that they are a little wet. I do not look at him. I can’t. Not after…
I choke back a sob and place my hands cupped together in my lap, trying to keep them from trembling so hard. I can tell that he is watching and I don’t want him to, I don’t want him to know what I do after this.
“Can I help you?”
The pain surges with his question, and I suddenly feel tortured to have to be in a room with someone of the decent that killed my family. I stand, not hurriedly, no, but cautiously balancing myself. The doctor always said I had a knack for low blood pressure, and that if I took shock, I could easily faint at my will, which I don’t want to, but he never said anything about being able to stop a faint against my will. I turn away and start for the door to his room.
“Lyra…” It is gentle.
I reach the door as he says it, and I brush against the wall, leaning on the door frame.
“What could help…you forget…?”
The words are harmless, but the meaning scares me. Forget Moeder and Meyleia. No. Without meaning to I grow breathless and I tense up in my stomach. I don’t feel it as I slowly sink down and flutter to the floor. I land lightly, and it is almost graceful like a bird, my dress floating out around me like a moat of blue over my legs. Nadeje rises almost instantly.
“Lyra…”
He comes to me urgently but carefully, seeming to know by now that fast movements could frighten me. He kneels down with me and sits at the edge of the lace in the bottom of my dress, like it is a boundary which surrounds me, his borders and my protection displayed by the fabric. I can tell he is unsure of what to do or how to comfort me. I do not look at him. The silence is a little reassuring.
After a moment, I don’t know why but a sudden urge to speak about memories of moeder and Meyleia become needful. I ignore it and continue to lean my head to the wall, away from him. I take a shaky breath and I feel a tear escape like a cold crystal, sharply sliding down my turned cheek. I close my eyes and try to remember who I am, what I am doing, why I am here, who is beside me. It isn’t working.
“I couldn’t do what moeder asked…” I nearly choke up on my words, but they keep coming. “So she would make me sit in a corner and count to one hundred…” It is quiet and I cannot tell if he is listening or not, but I don’t care, this is for me to let it out, not for him to know about it. “I despised it…it was dark in the corner…and often too cold and…boring. I often nonetheless got stuck there to count anyways…” I look down at my shadow below me and swallow hard. “Now…I feel like I am always in that corner…sitting and trying to count to get free…but I can’t seem to remember the numbers.”
It is faint and I feel the prickle in my throat as a warning that I could break down. It didn’t matter though; it was all I needed to say.
He is silent a few seconds, giving me time. He does not judge or take action for me, he just listens and considers. I like it. I feel a terrible fluttering in my stomach telling me it is wrong to like it, and to feel comfort after what I just heard, but I can’t not feel it when it is there.
“Do you want to get out of the corner?” It is smooth and not teasing, sincere, even.
I do not look at him. I nod a little.
He quietly watches me. “I understand you.”
It takes me a long time, but I manage to let out the question. “Your sister?”
Though I am not interested, it could distract me from my current pain. Why do I need distraction? The thought is lost as he begins to speak.
“Yes,” it is calm and soft, comforting, but I can tell that it pains him. “I was young still when my moeder and vader died…” It is quiet a moment. Then he starts again. “First it was my vader…then my moeder after remarriage…I planned to take care of Carmela…but she left as well…” I listen halfheartedly. “I got stuck there…after my family had gone…my step dad would have shared some of the money…but he would have remarried again and I could not stay with him. So I left…and became what I am now.” It is silent in the house. “There is more to it…but that is a summary of my story.”
I swallow dryly. “Are you still stuck?”
He is quiet a moment, as though contemplating it. “No.”
I choke back tears. “How did you get out?”
He is silent longer than last time and I am afraid he did not understand or did not hear, but then he says it carefully. “I got help.”
I close my eyes and wish it would end. “I can’t think of anything that would ever…”
He waits. When I do not follow through with it, he interrupts the incomplete sentence. “You have to find it.”
I don’t know why, but it triggers something loose inside me, and I feel myself break down. I sob once, twice, three times. I feel the tears as I breathe shakily and too loud.
“Dutchling…” It is gentle and for some reason I like it, but I do not respond.
I wipe my nose and try to stop the tears, but they continue. My chest is shaking too hard to stop it and I feel worried. He does not reach for me. I am grateful.
“Help me,” I whisper it, still turned away.
He watches a moment, unsure I suppose, if I am referring to physically or the corner. “How?”
I shake in the shoulders and slowly si
nk further. He seems to see past the physical gesture and to the point where harm could be done by this action, for one moment he is a good distance, and the next, I feel his presence close in.
“No…” I beg. He stops midway from taking me and coming closer as I look up. “No…don’t hold me.”
He stops and obediently returns to his post beyond the moat, at a distance. I look away again, and after a few more moments of my sobs, he speaks to me.
“Do you wish me to leave you for now?”
I wait a moment as a tear tickles down my nose and drips into my lap. I nod.
He is still seated for a little while, lingering and watching as though making sure I am okay. He slowly begins to leave. I curl up into a tight ball against the wall as he rises and I hear him step away. I glimpse his boots stepping over the floor into the room with the bookshelf out of the corner of my eye. I rock as another sob takes me into a fresh batch of tears and I let it.
Eventually I grow tired of knowing he can still hear me easily, and I slowly uncurl. I crawl to the bedroom door and turn the knob, crawling through and shutting it behind me.
At first I just sit here, and wonder if the tears are gone. Then I see the bed and remember home and Meyleia, how I used to sleep so close to her. I command myself to stand, and to my own surprise I do, weakly. I head out for the bed, and when I reach it, I quietly crawl in and collapse onto my side. I only wait a minute for the tears to overtake me again. My throat burns now, and I do not care. I sob. I do not move from here for the next few hours.
Chapter 9
When I wake up, it is in his bed. I don’t remember much of it. Only the sear burning in my throat and my red eyes can attest that I had cried for quite a while. I lift myself from the covers without thought, like any other wild creature, living life the way they instinctively can, not hoping for anything, not questioning anything, just being.
I step to my clothes and unbundle the pile from the shelf. I slip off the nightgown and instead fit over the Spanish dress I have been wearing since the bath a day or so before. I look to the window a moment and observe not the wonders outdoors, but my own reflection, clearly shining back at me across the pane of glass. Looking at myself I feel reckless, knowing I still look like that girl who lost her family makes me feel reckless, so I walk away without tending to the disrupted hairs on my head.
When I enter the kitchen, it is silent and not empty. Nadeje is walking across it as I step in, and hearing me, he stops and calmly reads my manner. I feel like I am a statue and he a man walking passed and observing its complexity. It makes me feel slightly ill, though not as much as it would have before, all my emotions at present are diluted with the grief I let go of earlier. I feel like stone; a stone statue.
“Are you better?”
I try for a nod, but it is a lie. I shake my head when it refuses to come.
His cavernous eyes are not judgmental, but definitely hold some deep thought. “Could something help you? Someone help you…I wish I could help.”
I stare at him and ignore the flood of warmth filling my chest. “No,” it is gentle.
He watches me a bit longer, and then sighs and turns to the stove to stir something. I wait, not wanting to do more without his request. He stirs the food hard, as though it is thick, and I absently watch his back work, gazing over the faint muscles beneath his shirt and not noticing any fault in it until he stops and turns.
I hate myself.
“Could I…bring you something? Or…”
He stops. I watch him for a few moments and the room is silent. Seeing something further inside me that I don’t see myself, he seems assured. I almost want to go back into the bedroom as his eyes venture into me. I do not.
“I wish to supply you with something for comfort and use…but I don’t know what you would like,” he tilts his head and looks down as though knowing it is wrong. “Would you like me to get you something from a shop?”
I feel a small flutter of hope inside at his offer. I do not know what he could possibly gain from it other than my better regard or his punishment. Surely it was not allowed for me to remain and for him, my protector, to go out, not even for his own needs, but for mine. I am not sure whether I should feel wary for him or not, not because I don’t know if it is permissible or dangerous, but because I am wary presently.
“It is disallowed…but because I am your guardian I feel we could make accomodations for your…security,” he looks at me questioningly. “Lyra? I need you to answer me before I may think of how to plan it and go.”
I nod a little, taking my time to warm up to the idea of him caring enough to do this. Do I look like his sister?
He straightens to my response, and looks at me as though judging and charting something I couldn’t see. He then looks down.
“I will have to call on Arturo…” He says it as though speaking to himself and I stand watching him as he contemplates deeply. He tunes back in as though just noticing me for the few seconds of absence. “Are you able to walk a distance?” He inquires purposefully.
I look at him still from my place at the door, unsure. I nod.
He watches me a moment longer. Then he seems to remember. He gently adds in. “When you feel the need, there are cucumbers and nosh upon the table, please help yourself…what would you like?”
I take a moment to understand his question.
He notices the confusion and clears it for me. “Shopping-wise.”
“Isn’t it…not safe?” I inquire uncertainly. I feel resistant to ask but seeing no regret or softness to my request I continue. “Couldn’t your Commandant find out…or if anyone noticed…”
He shakes his head assuredly. “Today is generally my shift…we take turns walking through the streets so that there are not too many in number. If I am there at the time I usually am then it should be of no trouble to the others. I will have to be careful though.”
I am too taken back to think straight. “Why?”
He looks lost.
“Why are you doing this?”
His face is expressionless. “Someone has to do what is right.” It comes out firm and sincere.
It makes sense and it makes me senseless.
He watches me quietly. “Food? Or…no…I have enough of that…do you enjoy reading?”
At the first part I realize with a little resentment, that the storage he has is filled with everything we’ve eaten so far. A little envy and anger at the Spanish fleet for having such provisions and us nothing glints in the bottom of my gut, but at the second part I feel my heart spiral with undeniable delight that plummets to guilt. I have never been offered such things. Never have I been spoilt.
“I would love to read…if I ever did…”
He looks at me frowning thoughtfully. “You have never read?”
I look him in the eyes. “Not these past few years of…disadvantage. When I was little I used to learn how to read signs and occasional lines in the letters my vader received…but the books my moeder once had owned I didn’t get to…” He looks confused. I quickly fill up the space of absence. “We had to sell her few copies for necessities.”
He seems to understand. “I aim to mend that by tomorrow. What are your favorite genres?”
“Poetry, I enjoy poetry.”
I love to read anything, but poetry is different somehow. Maybe because vader used to make poems about silly things with me when I was young or maybe just because of the tangled secrecy in each individual writing, all I knew, was each one left me breathless for more, and every time I read another the more breathless I got.
“I know of a small outer shop for books and written works…and little to your liking goes in there without poetry…though heroics…” I grimace.
“I do not enjoy the bold show-offs of those who wish to be recorded…biopics…no. I enjoy fiction with history.”
He nods. “Then this is the place…I will guide you away from my favorite sections of heroism then, and try to find you a lady’s proper guide to pl
easure.”
I swallow. It takes me a moment to get my voice to come back to me to say the words. “I do not want you to spend every bit of money upon me,” I say it remembering my proper respect and a lady’s poise.
Though, half to my sorry, he is not listening. “I will have to come up with a plan through the streets and rides and contacts…” he turns away from me, leaving behind his low murmur, also leaving the hanging feeling of the weight tying me to him now. For now I cannot go. Not after he has left me here, without chains tying me to the foundation of his house, or interdiction of the door at my back. Not after he has left me without being harmed, not after he has left me undoubtedly with trust, tying me here with intangible cuffs.
That evening I move quietly towards his shelf of books, wanting nothing more than to find something suitable to put me to a calm sleep and keep me in a drowse throughout the rest of the night, and doubting upon finding such in maps and heroism. Scanning the shelves I find that my eyes land on what seems to be a dusty old journal, a few maps of some sort, a few old poetry papers, and some bound books of the newer kind. Reaching out, I withdraw one of these.
“I suspect you shall not find what you wish inside that one.”
I look up quickly, turning my gaze to the left to find him standing within his hallway doorway, leaning lightly upon the frame. “Her books tend to carry thick information on weaponry and the nursing laws from last year…and the slight physiology of the body discovered by her husband, who is a politician for the King and a respected surgeon…” it takes me a moment to process his words. “With rights, of course, to write such things in copies for us militia.” Understanding how this was not meant for me, I silently reshelf it to its place.
“If you are interested in such you may read it, it is just, I find, somewhat frustrating and…tedious.”
I do not respond a moment, then I turn. “You will be going then, tomorrow morning?”
He steps to lean against the shelf instead, not looking at me. “Yes.”
Tears of Leyden Page 6