Masked

Chapter 3 HER

"Did you see Becky's new dress?" The delicate voice of my little sister interrupts my thoughts, which are sparring between worrying about the boy and thinking about what Gregory told me. Elizabeth is sitting in front of the window, her small ivory hand lifting up the doll, her eyes hopeful for my approval and attention. I place a look of pure admiration on my face and move to sit beside her.

"Wow! It's lovely, Lizzy!" I run my fingers along the navy fabric of the doll's new dress. "Becky will be the prettiest girl in Faygrene."

A soft smile paints Elizabeth's young face. She looks so much like our mother; the same curly red hair, the same blue eyes. I share the same black hair as my father and Gregory. But where their eyes are the deepest of browns, mine are the color of amber. Mother says I have the same eyes as my grandmother. I wish I could have met her. I have never seen anyone else with eyes like mine.

"Mother made it for her," Elizabeth says adoringly, her concentration still set on her favorite toy. She received it for her sixth birthday and it hasn't left her side since.

"Addalynne!" Mother's voice calls from the kitchen. I kiss Elizabeth's head, push myself to my feet and walk to the kitchen.

When I open the door, I am met with the smell of boiling onions. Mother is standing in front of the pot, stirring the broth. She glances at me and then nods toward a bowl and cloth that are on the table. "I need you to take that into the boy's chambers and lay it on his forehead, however, before you do that, be sure to check his wound. If you see a sign of infection, come get me immediately," she says, and turns back to her stew.

I make my way down the dim hallway, lit only by a flickering torch on its last breath, and stop in front of the door. Since the moment my father moved him into this room I have been anxious to see him, but now that the moment is here, I only have one thought terrorizing my mind: what if he's dead? My hand trembles as I turn the doorknob, my nerves jumping frantically. I hold my breath and push the door open.

The boy is lying on the bed, his pale face illuminated by the ivory candle flickering on the table next to him. Other than the small light from the candle, the space is almost completely engulfed in darkness. I look over at the fireplace and see that the fire has burned down to embers sizzling against the blackened logs. I stoke the fire and, once I have the flames burning again, make my way to the side of his bed.

The boy's eyes are closed, his dark lashes sending shadows across his cheeks. His brown hair is falling along his forehead, blocking my view of his cut. I move my fingers gently to his face, my heart pounding, and brush his hair away from his forehead. It's difficult to see in the dim light, making me lean in close to get a better look. I'm so close that, though my mother has cleaned him as best she could and changed him into some of Gregory's clothes, I can still smell faint traces of the river on him—dirt and stale water, mixed with lavender soap and a scent that could only belong to the woods. The black stitches are still perfectly in place, the skin underneath a little red and bruised, but it doesn't look infected.

I drag the back of my fingers along his hair line, which is warm, but thankfully, not feverish, and his eyes open. My breath catches and I go completely still, as though his wide, green eyes won't see me if I don't move. He blinks rapidly, and I jerk my head back and take a step away from the bed.

"Who . . . who are you?" he stammers, his eyes ignited with panic as he searches my face. I'm too shocked to respond, and after several seconds, he warily examines the room around him. "Where am I?"

I suck in a breath and push out the words. "I'm Addalynne Troyer. You're in my home." His eyes return to me.

"Addalynne?" His eyebrows pinch together. "Am I supposed to know you?"