by Darcy Coates
“It’s fine.” He picked a dry towel off the shelf and slung it over his shoulders to hide the marks. “It is not as bad as it looks.”
“I don’t believe that.” The bowl of hot water beside him was stained pink. “Dorran, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s fine,” he repeated. “I’ve had worse.”
Those words sent a chill running through Clare. She wrapped her arms around her chest and tried to swallow through the lump in her throat. “From your mother?”
His face twitched. He still wouldn’t look at her. “When I was a child. Not recently.”
She didn’t know what to say. His posture was tense, as though he were trying to shrink away from her. He didn’t want to be pitied. He didn’t want to be seen when he was vulnerable. But she couldn’t leave him.
“Here.” She stepped forwards and carefully touched his fingers to ease the wet cloth out of them. “I’ll help with the ones on your back where you can’t reach.”
“You don’t need to worry. I can look after myself.”
“I know. But you’ve done so much for me. Trust has to go both ways, doesn’t it?”
He finally met her eyes. It only lasted for a second before he turned away again, but the look was full of crushing loneliness and stifled longing. He stopped arguing. Clare’s heart ached for him as she rested against the nearest shelf and pulled the towel away from his back. She hated how angry the bruises looked. They had to hurt every time he moved. She dipped the cloth in the hot water and pressed it against one of the marks. He sucked in a sharp breath, and she pulled back. “Sorry!”
“It’s fine.” The tension was dissipating, and he actually laughed. “Don’t worry about hurting me. I just need to get them cleaned.”
She returned the cloth, moving more carefully this time. With a tentative dab followed by a soft press, Clare cleaned up the flecks of dried blood and grime from around the cuts.
While she worked, she glanced across the back of Dorran’s head. His dark hair was tousled, and clumps stuck together. She couldn’t tell if it was from melting snow or blood. “Did any hit your head?”
“No.”
She tried running her fingers across the back of his skull, but he flinched away. Clare bit her lip. “If you have a concussion—”
“I don’t. I promise you. The worst I have is bruising.”
She didn’t know if she could trust him to tell her the truth. He rested his arm on the shelf and tilted his head down while she worked lower on his back.
He’s not used to being looked after. His whole life has been spent trying to appear stronger than he actually is.
“Dorran…” She swallowed and flipped the cloth to a clean patch. “After this is over—after the snow melts, and we can get in touch with the outside world—I’d like you to come with me.”
His head lifted.
“I don’t have a large house. Nothing like this. But it’s big enough for two people to share. We’ve done all right here, just the two of us, haven’t we? So if you want to—if you wouldn’t mind—I hope you’ll come and stay with me.”
Her left hand rested on his shoulder, and she felt a shiver travel through him. He took a breath as though he were about to reply, but he didn’t speak. Clare waited. She wished she could see his face, but he resolutely—almost deliberately—faced away from her.
When he spoke, his voice was tight. “I am sorry. I cannot accept your offer.”
“Oh.” Embarrassed heat rushed over her face. “Right. Sorry. That was really presumptuous of me—”
He took a breath. “No. It’s not that. You…” He tilted his head back to stare at the wood ceiling, and after a moment, he continued in a steadier, calmer voice. “There is more at stake here than my wishes.”
Clare carefully moved to a new patch of raw skin. Her pulse felt like something alive, jumping through her veins. “What do you mean?”
“Every choice has consequences. Mine especially.”
She frowned. “Are you worried about your family looking for you? My house is rural. We can stay quiet. They can’t find you if they don’t know where to look.”
He turned and wrapped her hands in his. Drips of water ran from the cloth and trickled between their fingers. Even though his eyes looked sad, Dorran was smiling. “You care too much. I am grateful. But once the snow clears, you will leave, and I will stay. That is just the way it has to be.”
“I…” She looked down at his hands.
He squeezed hers lightly then took the cloth back. “You have been a great help. If you will excuse me, I must check on the gardens. The temperature will be dropping now that the furnace is out, and our seeds will need water. Please eat some of the soup. The pain tablets are on the shelf above the stove. Take two then have a sleep. I will be back to check on you shortly.”
He scooped his shirt and jacket off the shelf then left. She could hear him moving through the kitchen, but he only stayed for a moment before the door clicked closed.
Clare let her head drop. She didn’t understand him. He hated his family—she could guess that much—but he refused to leave them. She didn’t know what he needed from her, or from himself, before he could feel free.
She blinked back angry tears as she carried the dish of water to the sink and tipped it out. The pot on the stove had stopped bubbling but was still warm when she touched the lid. She found a bowl, ladled out a portion, then sat at the table, but she couldn’t do much except stir her food. Clare knew she should feel hungry. She hadn’t eaten since the previous day’s lunch, but her stomach was in knots.
A fresh wind picked up outside the house. She hoped it wouldn’t start snowing again. Despite how vast the property was, it stifled her. It was strange to simultaneously feel claustrophobic and lonely.
She made herself eat the soup. Dorran wasn’t a bad cook. Even with limited ingredients, he seemed to have a knack for making their meals taste good. But she was starting to crave fresh food, especially something green. She hoped the garden would grow quickly.
Her legs ached from the hike, and the cuts on her arm refused to stop stinging. The bottle of painkillers waited on the shelf, like Dorran had said they would. She tried to read the label, but it had been handwritten in a script so faded, she couldn’t make it out. Dorran normally gave her two, but Beth’s cautious voice in the back of her head said it wasn’t wise to take drugs she didn’t know, especially if there was any chance they might be addictive. She compromised by tipping one tablet into her palm and washing it down with a mouthful of freezing water from the tap.
Dorran wanted her to rest, but despite how tired she felt, she didn’t think she could sleep. She stood in the kitchen, shoulders hunched, as she stared at her surroundings. She didn’t want to go back to her room. But she didn’t want to walk the halls aimlessly either. The wind was growing louder. She thought she could make out soft pattering noises through the brick walls. Snow? Sleet? Not more hail, I hope.
She shivered then glanced back at the pot of soup. Dorran hadn’t eaten any. She could take a bowl to him. If what she’d said had upset him, the food might work as a peace offering. And even if it didn’t, it would at least save him a trip back to the kitchen.
Clare checked that the liquid was still hot then poured out a large bowl, making sure to give him plenty of the meat. She dipped a spoon into the mixture then blew out the candle on the bench before leaving the kitchen.
She followed the path Dorran had led her down before, into the stone cathedral-like room that separated the main section of the house from the indoor garden. Bright, welcoming lights glowed through the garden’s blurred window. Clare thought she could see Dorran’s silhouette as he tended to the plants. She squared her shoulders and lifted her chin as she started to cross to the door. Her breath caught as a noise startled her.
What was that? She stopped moving. Sudden dizziness cascaded through her, making her stumble. She blinked. A rushing sound filled her ears. She tried to take another step, but nothing felt right.
Nothing felt real. The bowl tumbled out of her hands, but she was only vaguely aware of the noise it made as it broke on the stone floor.
Clare shook her head. The motion made the dizziness worse, and nausea accompanied it. Her vision was hazy, and her heart raced, but she couldn’t breathe deeply enough to get the oxygen her lungs needed. Pain moved through her stomach like a sharp, hot needle.
Light washed over her as the garden door opened. Dorran called to her, but she couldn’t answer. Her legs were shaking. She fell, but before she hit the floor, Dorran caught her.
“What’s wrong? What happened?” His hand moved over her forehead then her throat, checking her.
She tried to answer. The nausea became worse, clawing its way from her stomach to her throat, and she convulsed as she was sick over the floor.
Dorran dropped her. She couldn’t see him. The room was a swimming mess of colours and shadows. But she heard footsteps beating over the stone floor. Then a door slammed open. She hugged the ground. It refused to stop moving, tilting her over until she retched again. There was nothing left to bring up.
Then, without warning, Dorran was back. He skidded across the floor and came to a stop at her side. He flipped her over, keeping one hand under her head. The other plunged a needle into her chest.
Clare barely felt the sting. She couldn’t tell if she was suffocating or hyperventilating. She only knew she couldn’t breathe or stop shaking.
“Come on, Clare.” Another needle stabbed into her thigh. Then Dorran pulled her close against his chest. “Fight it. Please. Fight for me.”
She tried to speak. Her muscles spasmed, wrenching her head back and making her torso twist until it was painful.
Dorran didn’t let her go. He pulled her closer as he began moaning under his breath. “Please. Please. Come on, Clare. Please.”
She convulsed again. Stark, bleak fear wrapped around her. She tried to hold Dorran, the only real, solid thing in her world, but her hands wouldn’t work. Her mouth was open, but no air reached her lungs.
He cradled her, one arm holding her up, the other running over her hair and her cheek. “Clare. Don’t leave me. Please.”
Darkness seeped around her, dragging her down, drowning her until she couldn’t even hear the ringing in her ears.
Chapter Sixteen
The bed was warm. The blankets were soft. The inside of Clare’s chest ached, and her head throbbed. Between the fog of sleep and the pain of wakefulness, though, she was grateful that at least she wasn’t cold.
Every part of her felt heavy, especially her eyelids. She left them closed and instead focussed on the sounds and sensations around her. She heard a fire crackling. Wind whistled in the distance as it clawed its way through broken roof tiles and narrow gaps in the stone.
She lay on her side. One hand was tucked under the blankets, but the other was left out. It wasn’t cold, though. Warm fingers rested over it. A thumb brushed across her knuckles. She squeezed lightly in response.
She heard an intake of breath, then Dorran’s voice. “Clare?”
“Hi.” The word came out slurred. She forced her eyes to open and blinked through the blur.
Dorran sat next to her. He looked ghastly. His normal skin colour had been replaced by an ashen grey, and dark circles ringed tired eyes. He shuffled forwards in his chair and bent closer. A cautious smile grew. “How are you feeling?”
“Great,” she lied. She felt like death. If she hadn’t seen the barely hidden panic in Dorran’s eyes, she would have let herself fall back asleep. “What happened?”
He turned aside, and his expression twitched, but only for a second. When he turned back to her, his face was calm again. “You were sick. You ate something bad.”
Even breathing felt like an effort. “Bad? The soup? It tasted fine.”
“No, Clare. Not the soup.” His fingers rubbed over hers. “Cyanide.”
“Oh.” She knew he was telling her something important, something that should mean a lot more to her, but she just couldn’t muster the energy to be upset. “That sucks.”
His head dropped, and his shoulders shook. When he looked up again, he was laughing, but moisture shone in his eyes. “Sleep for now. I will watch over you. You’re safe.”
“Mm.” She didn’t know what she needed to be safe from, but sleep sounded like the best idea she’d ever heard.
The next time she woke, light had vanished from the windows. The fire had been kept strong, though, and even though the wind sounded cold, it didn’t chill her.
Dorran’s chair was empty. She blinked at it then tilted her head to see more of the room. He stood by the fire, arms folded and head bowed. He swayed slightly as he watched the flames. She wanted to say hello to him, to break through whatever thoughts were making his posture so defensive, but her mouth was dry, and the words weren’t loud enough for him to hear over the ambient noise.
The third time she woke, the fire had dropped lower in the grate. The sun hadn’t yet risen. Dorran was pacing. Her heart sank at how haggard he looked. She reached a hand towards him, and his face brightened when he saw her move.
“Clare.” He was at her side in an instant and took the hand she held out to him. “Do you feel any better?”
The aches had receded, and the exhaustion, while still there, seemed less pronounced. “Yeah.”
Her voice was croaky, but he still smiled. “You’ll want water. Here.” Dorran lifted her and pushed pillows behind her back until she was supported upright. Then he held a glass to her lips and helped her drink.
Her headache throbbed every time she moved, but Clare hoped it would fade with hydration. When she’d finished drinking, she inclined her head back and closed her eyes as she tried to gather her thoughts.
Her recent memories were distorted so badly that they felt like dreams, but one part stood out. “Did you say I ate cyanide?”
“Yes.”
Clare was awake enough to realise the implications. She looked down at her hands and squeezed them. They seemed to work all right, albeit without the strength they normally had.
Dorran pulled his chair closer and sat so that he faced her. He looked gaunt, and she wondered if he’d eaten or slept. “Do you remember taking it, Clare?”
“No.” She tried to shake her head, but that made the headache worse. “I remember coming home from the shed. I had lunch. I was going to bring you some, but I felt sick before I got there.”
“Did you take a tablet? A round white one?”
“I…” She frowned. “I did. One of the painkillers.”
He ran his hand over his face, and his expression tightened momentarily before relaxing again. “So you did not eat it deliberately. That is a mercy.”
“You thought I poisoned myself?”
“I did not know what to think. This house is such a bleak place to live. And we had failed to reach the radio, which I know you desperately wanted.” He shook his head. “But the fault must be mine. I am deeply sorry. I don’t know how, but I left the wrong bottle out.”
She narrowed her eyes. “How is that possible? Why do you have bottles of cyanide in the house in the first place?”
Dorran stared at his hands folded in his lap, seemingly lost in his mind, then he took a short, tight breath. “I suppose you should know.”
Clare could tell the revelation was painful for him. She watched him even though he wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“It is the reason I cannot leave Winterbourne. I tried, once before, when I was nineteen. I wanted to move to the city, to find employment and make a life for myself outside of the estate. My father supported my wish. My mother opposed it.”
He’d never spoken about a father before. Clare pushed herself a little higher on the pillows as she waited for Dorran to collect his thoughts.
“My father married into the family,” he said. “He never bought into the… insanity that had possessed my mother. He was tired of maintaining the old ways when it had no benefit. It was a constant tension betwe
en my parents for as long as I can remember, but in most instances, he eventually bowed to my mother’s will. Not in this case. He was resolute in supporting me. He planned to help me find employment with one of his relatives.”
Dorran’s pose was steady, seemingly calm, but a pulse jumped in his throat. “It turned into a painful, drawn-out fight. Every family member took a side. Hold on to the old ways or open ourselves to change? It lasted for days. Every time it seemed to be dying down, someone would make a comment, and the house would be filled with yelling once again.”
Very briefly, a smile flitted across his face. “I thought, for a few happy days, that we might be close to reformation, to escape.” As quickly as it had appeared, the smile was gone. “My mother sensed she was losing. She was not powerful enough to keep us here against our will, and once the unrest started, it would be hard to tamp back down. She said she was prepared to compromise. She said she wanted to discuss it over dinner that night.”
His hands tightened around each other until the knuckles turned white. Dorran’s face and voice were impassive, but Clare could see the guilt and grief in his eyes. They were eating him alive. “She poisoned them. Everyone who did not agree with her. My father. My uncle Eros. My aunts, Tabatha, Jayne, and Abigail. Two of my cousins, Henry and Peter. Cyanide tablets dissolved into their drinks at dinner. She proposed a toast. It took effect within minutes.”
“Dorran…”
His breath caught. His eyes were moving, flicking from side to side, the only external expression of his agitation. “Convulsions. Coughing blood. Fits. Screams. They all fell in a matter of minutes, collapsing out of their chairs. I could do nothing for them. There was no cure and no respite. The others—the ones who had taken my mother’s side—they must have known it was coming. They sat quietly and watched it happen. I held my father while he died. I saw the fear in his face. And when he was finally still, when he stopped twitching and his body stopped drawing breath, my mother placed her hand on my shoulder and whispered into my ear, ‘Perhaps now you will remember your place.’”