Chapter 226: Patricia
Chapter 225: Patricia
Lyria’s POV
I changed quickly.
The old gown came first—the one I had worn numerous times before, softened by years of wear and faded to a colour that could scarcely be named. It was not pretty. It was not fine. But it was comfortable, and it would not draw attention, and that was all that mattered.
I pulled the cloak over my shoulders and fastened the clasp at my throat. The fabric was dark and heavy, the hood wide enough to shadow my face when lifted.
I masked my scent next, rubbing the crushed herbs against my wrists and along the collar of my cloak. The smell was bitter and sharp, familiar after so many years of use.
The drawing was tucked carefully into the inner pocket of my cloak. I patted the fabric twice to ensure it was secure.
Then I turned toward the colour pencils.
They were still spread across the table where I had left them. I gathered them carefully and returned them to their original arrangement before wrapping them once more.
Then I knelt beside the loose floorboard and placed them inside, nestling them beside the pouch of money and the folded letters I had kept since childhood.
The floorboard settled back into place with a soft thump.
I sat back upon my heels for a moment and thought about the pie.
The remnants were still wrapped in linen upon the table. I had considered bringing a slice to Patricia—she deserved something sweet, something to remind her that the world still possessed small pleasures, even if she could no longer taste them properly. But the thought faded almost as soon as it came.
Patricia could not eat solid food.
Her tongue was gone. She could manage soft things sometimes—porridge, broth, anything easy to swallow after sufficient chewing—but pie was beyond her. The crust would be too difficult unless she spent an unreasonable amount of time softening it. The filling itself would still be too thick.
I sighed.
Perhaps one day there would be a way to give her tongue back.
It was a foolish thought. I knew that. Tongues did not simply regrow once lost. Yet I could not stop myself from hoping all the same that perhaps something might be done for her.
Perhaps herbs could help. Not with the tongue—that was beyond any remedy I knew—but with her health. Her body was failing. She grew thinner with every visit, weaker, her skin pale and her eyes dim.
If I could find something to slow the deterioration... something to strengthen her... something to keep her alive long enough for me to find a means of freeing her...
I had money.
Not much, certainly, but perhaps enough to begin with. And perhaps Lucian could help me procure something. He was a Duke after all, and had access to things I could never hope to obtain on my own. Liquid herbs perhaps, the sort that could be swallowed with ease. Something that might help Patricia endure a little longer.
I would ask him.
The next time I saw him, I would ask.
And I would repay him for the colour pencils as well. I had been so occupied with using them that I had scarcely considered their cost. The leather wrapping alone must have been expensive, and the pencils themselves...I had never seen such quality before.
I rose from the floor and walked toward the door, intending to visit Patricia. It was her birthday after all.
The corridor beyond was quiet.
I slipped through the palace as I had done countless times before, keeping to the shadows, my footsteps soft against the polished stone. The guards remained at their usual posts, their attention directed outward, their gazes fixed upon the corridors where people were expected to walk.
I made my way down narrow staircases and through forgotten passages long fallen out of use, the sort no one remembered save those with reason to hide.
The air grew colder as I descended.
The walls appeared older.
The scent of damp stone and neglect filled my nostrils, familiar and unwelcome in equal measure.
The guards near Patricia’s cell were absent, as always.
I no longer questioned it.
I slipped through the doorway and into the corridor beyond, my heartbeat steady within my chest.
And then I saw them.
Rats.
There were far more than usual.
They gathered around the door to Patricia’s cell, while others scurried along the edges of the corridor, their small bodies dark against the grey stone, their tails dragging behind them. One darted across my path, and I stepped back instinctively, pressing a hand against the wall to steady myself.
I shooed them away, but they did not retreat far. Normally they fled at once.
This time they lingered.
As though waiting.
A frown touched my face, though I chose not to dwell upon it. Instead, I reached for the door and pushed it open.
The room smelled of iron.
The scent was thick and heavy, so strong I could taste it at the back of my throat. I knew that smell. I had smelled it before upon my own hands after the Queen’s punishments, upon cloths stained dark whilst tending wounds that refused to heal.
No.
I stepped forward.
One step.
Then another.
At some point I was no longer certain whether I was truly moving at all.
My gaze found the bed.
The sheets were stained dark red—almost black within the dimness of the room—the colour spreading outward in terrible uneven patterns.
The blood had seeped into the mattress.
It dripped over the edge.
It pooled upon the floor beneath.
And Patricia—
No.
No, it was not possible.
I refused to believe what stood before me.
This must be a dream.
Yes.
That was surely the only reasonable explanation for what I now beheld.
There was no possible way Patricia lay upon the bed with her mouth open as though caught in the midst of a scream, her eyes wide and lifeless.
There was no possible way Patricia was dead.
