Violet Shadows

35

Nicol ended up leaving early. He informed her that he needed to fetch something from his office—probably for another damn mask since he loved wearing them so much—but told her they'd met up where the east and west channels fused, a roundabout walkway conveniently placed where Henri's favorite bakery lie. Sometimes they forced Nicol to come with them there, so it a familiar area. But Nicol told her—teasingly—that if she felt like a big girl she could make the walk herself.

With that much condensing, Christine left for the Lower Banks.

Luckily, she was dressed for the weather but should have thought to bring a waistcoat with pockets. Christine awkwardly lingered around a cluster of artisan supplies, staring little enough so that she didn't harper any attention, but when she did, she scurried off. Even if she was to buy anything, the only thing of value would be to use the satchel to hold her gifts, but with how much it weighed, she didn't feel like buying anything.

"What am I going to do about Haleema?" Christine murmured to herself as she shifted out of a stall holding different kinds of mallets. She couldn't just ignore Haleema, the time at the church meant something, and it wasn't like Haleema did much in the book except act as Clara's mentor. But then what? Enjoy the time as though she wasn't a character in a book and then bid goodbye?

Christine nodded at herself, in agreement with the answer to her own question. She was leaving soon enough. Spending time with someone couldn't drastically change that much of the story, and it wasn't as if she had much proof that her meddling changed anything. It's not like Christine tried looking for her—their meeting had been natural as any two strangers coming together.

Maybe Haleema was already in Valltore when Clara came. It would make sense, but it didn't explain why Haleema was in the Church of Saint Randall. There were far holier ones, one that nobility sought prayer in. Christine chewed on her lip. Then why did she come to a church made for commoners?

She was left without an answer. Christine hurried around another booth and studied all sorts of different kinds of glasses: mirrored, tinted, float, toughened, patterned, and wired. She was halfway through rounding towards another booth where they hung drapes in different fashions of threading, when she slipped through a crowd.

She didn't fall the way she thought she should have. Something felt off. Something felt wrong.

The Lower Banks was empty. She wasn't moving as she was before, her limbs were scuffed and felt groggy, and all around the scenery lost its hold. The weight of the emptiness dimness her sight into shadows, echoing to a frigid darkness. And then she was confused, because suddenly her eyes were closed when she didn't remember having them shut.

She blinked against a burning light, vision unexpectedly blurry even when she knew it should have been clear. In the middle of the haze, her entire body grew limp. As if the start of it crawled up from her legs and spread throughout her blood. And as the weariness of her eyes abandoned its hold, her pulse clambered instead.

She backed away, stomach hollowing, at the sight of an empty hospital room.

"Christine?" A nurse shook her foot gently, another one shining a light in her eyes. "Are you awake?"

She backed away further, only to hit the backboard of her hospital bed. She glanced down, stunned to see Mom's embroidered blankets cover her from head to toe. Mom. She ran a finger down the plant-like details, no better than the ones she did herself at House Ducal. How was this possible?

"Christine?" Mom hampered around her right, fingers tightly squeezing the hand that held the IV. Her grip lessened as her eyebrows furrowed. "I don't think she's awake." She said to the nurse.