Violet Shadows

33

When winter brought out cooling winds, as if it were settling to merriment with the heat, the promise Christine made to herself had been broken.

Months of running around the square had brought little but assured progress. You could see the improvements Nicol had done—the once muck-ridden streets were now glistering in the sun. Vines let loose against buildings were now cut and removed, given to farmers to use as soil. Even the business owners seemed to open their doors wider, windows sills farther, ushering more guests in. No fighting had come, and Maze's arm had healed, which was both relieving and alarming at the same time. Something was coming, and it was running towards them.

The promise lay in the plan that Christine wouldn't enjoy the time spent waiting, that she would let everything and everyone teem at a distance. She kept telling herself that the company of the love interests was better than Rionack or Clara's brothers, and after months of scrambling, that reason became convincing enough. She needed to wait now. Wait and then leave. But try as she might fit through that crevice of hope, leaving was not the solution to her problems, merely a distraction. Because even if she left Valltore, she was still stuck here.

And so she molded into the comfort of that threshold. As did they, within the bare days that felt like an eternity, they all grew familiar with each other's presence. At first, it felt a little awkward loitering around the love interests when her presence remedied no actual part. It continued that way for the weeks that followed—Nicol not finding her any particular job except a few runaround errands, and playing the occasional messenger and saying hello to Felix—even when he insisted her stay was for her gift, that opportunity remained untouched. Christine didn't dispute that decision any further seeing that her purse was fattening and her danger was thinning.

As they all grew comfortable, Nicol bought several sets of plush chairs for them to sag around in when they were occupied in his cramped office. Even Eric was beginning to lead discussions, not dais out of the center when their voices supplied enough power to overtake his. Maze once brought his siblings by accident—which was an interesting conversation trying to explain how a Rumiere knew a Ducal and wasn't screaming monstrosity at each other—and Nicol opened his private chambers without any hindrance to Christine when she wanted to take a short nap after Rionack mad tales of court. They learned to find conversation instead of objectives. The entire impossible yet possible pattern of banter carried her through the days when waiting felt like an eternity.

Christine wouldn't dare admit that the days were enjoyable, that after finding out Nicol hated sweets, a spring of joy sprouted when he was forced to scarf some down because of his insurmountable pride when attending to Henri's craves. Or that when Henri ignored their intervention on the boat, remaining close to her as if the episode had never existed, a part of her was relieved. It was the storyline that dragged her out of everything—that rictus tension that followed her step like a shadow. Christine wasn't sure when she'd ever stop poring over the contents of What Wish So Haunted, but she hoped so soon.

Christine looked up at her plate of cake. This was the worst that stunned her for an entire afternoon: that her throat wouldn't stop constricting as she swallowed a piece, and hands that were meant to devour the sweet in one heap were trembling, barely holding onto her utensils.

She took another bite, forcing herself to remain bright. It's your twentieth birthday, she thought to herself, smile.

There was no control to be had, especially as traitor tears dripped onto the strawberry icing. It was no cheesecake, nothing familiar—but it was a cake. It was her first birthday in this world, and she hoped it would be the last. She tried to control her careening heart as the burden of days hounded over her. Seven months. Seven months since she fell into this world. Her breath lost its hitch, and she was begging herself to smile. To try. To not lose any more hope.