The End of Eden

XXXVIII

The night after I picked corn in the field, I rest beside Four in his room, his arms banded around me, our legs entwined, my head on his bare chest. I think I slip in and out of consciousness, his presence a perfect shield against any dreams I may or may not have. I was so thoroughly tired that as soon as we laid down together, my heavy eyes slide closed.

But come morning, I wake with a start, my stomach heaving, and I spring from his bed so quickly he startles awake.

"Little-!" but I don't hear him as I crash into his bathroom, and slam to my knees as I gag and then throw up, tears leaking from my eyes. My stomach heaves over again, and barely anything comes out, but still I grip onto the toilet, my knuckles white. Over and over again, my stomach clenches, and nothing else comes out.

I can feel his warm, safe hands on my back, rubbing small circles before drifting up to my neck, and then to pull my hair back from my face, his fingers brushing along my pulse. I can hear him murmur sweet nothings as the blood rushes past my ears, the rasping gasp of my breath drowning out his words.

When I feel almost fine, I sit back on my heels, and he pulls me backward into his solid chest, his arms tangling around me as his warmth seeps into me, comforting me, the sickness within me ebbing away slowly as I breathe deeply with him. I let my eyes close, and we sit in the cold bathroom, his bare legs bracketing me, his arms keeping me together, as I slowly breathe in, and then let the breath loose along with his even breaths.

"What is wrong?" he whispers, and I can feel the brush of his silky mask on my shoulder, against my cheek as he speaks.

I am almost certain I know what it is, but I am too scared to tell even him, the love of my life.

"It's nothing," I answer, "just an upset stomach."

It hurts to lie to him, and surely he knows that I told him a lie. But he doesn't accuse me, or force me to be honest with him. He doesn't prod, or look at me dubiously, or argue; he respects me. He loves me. And he shows it to me by accepting my lie, and then helping me stand up only to sweep me into his arms to carry me back to our shared bed where we tuck back into the safe warmth of our shared bed.

It is not nothing. He is everything to me.

Later, after Four disappears and then returns with a bowl of hot oatmeal with sliced figs on top, and after I have dressed for the day, I let my feet carry me out into the fields where I find the gatherers already working, Annabelle mixed in with them. The sickness I felt this morning has passed with food in my stomach, and I can feel my resolve hardening once again.

They are plucking apples from trees; bright, deep red orbs, blushing pink ones, and the tart green apples that I know Serra would love to bake with.

"Good morning," I call out, and every face turns towards me to welcome me with warm smiles, except for one. It is she who I stop beside. "I said good morning, Annabelle. Come now, don't be rude."

Annabelle only rolls her eyes and sets a wood stool up under the apple boughs. Her lips are pressed into a thin line as she defiantly looks at me without muttering a single word.

"Do you mind if I climb up and pick some apples?" I ask, pointing to the roof of leaves and fruit above us. I don't wait for an answer as I step onto the flat surface, then reach my hands into the limbs.

"I hope you fall, and your neck snaps," she whispers so quietly, that even I can barely hear her.

She threatens you, my love.

She wouldn't harm me.

She threatens everything.

I pluck an apple from a branch, and aim right for her, then throw it down to her. She has only a moment to step out of the way of the hurtling fruit, which falls to the ground with a soft thud. She looks down to the fruit, and then up at me, anger clear on her face.

"Oh, I apologize, my aim was off," I say, looking down at her, my brows furrowed with my fake apology. "I was aiming for your head."

Annabelle throws her empty apple bushel to the ground and stomps off. I cackle, and find Sleep staring at me. I can never tell his expression, and now is no different. But I can feel a tinge of uncertainty from him. He is not sure what I am doing, but I know full well what I am doing.

I am forcing her hand.

After the apples are picked, we have a small luncheon of cheeses and nuts and fruit before the bushels of apples are carried to the kitchens. Serra is surprised to see me carrying a basket, and swiftly plucks it from my arms.

"I didn't need help," I say, but she brushes my argument away with a flick of her hand, and then she pulls me away from the group of gatherers.

"Have a seat," she says, patting a stool, and I watch as Annabelle leaves with the gatherers, her not sparing a glance in my direction. "Did you eat something strange last night?"

"What? No-" I start, and then I pause, realizing the error in my answer. She levels her gaze at me, hands on hips, a dusting of flour across her pert nose. "I mean... yes. The fish didn't sit right with me."

She doesn't believe me either. Instead, she makes me a slice of toasted sourdough loaf slathered in butter and covered in raw garlic, and a kettle of mint tea with honey mixed in.

"Raw garlic every day, lots of fresh fruits and vegetables, and drink more water," she starts, and I stare down at the toast, my stomach flipping over inside me. I look back up to her, and she watches me, arms crossed, expectantly.

"It was only an upset stomach," I start, my throat tightening.

A lie.

A lie.

A lie.

Serra unfurls her arm and pats my back. "Eat the toast slowly, drink the tea slowly, and quit going into the fields. They don't need your help."

"I will continue to help," I say defiantly, meeting her gaze, challenging it. I am above her, and she knows it. "I will do as I please."

Her eyes drift over me

She knows what's wrong with me. She knows, and Four knows, and Sleep knows. Vessel will know, Two and Three as well.

"Don't tell anyone," I say to the toast, my voice shaking. I take a sip of the tea, then pluck up the garlicky toast and sink my teeth into it.

"It's not my secret to tell," Serra answers before pushing away from the table she sat me at. "But there will come a time where you cannot hide it."

Fear runs up my spine again, and I look over my shoulder to Sleep, watching me take a bite of the toast. I watch him nod once, then twice before I turn away from his form.

That night, I feel Two slide into my bed, Four and Three running off on their own business that I can only guess at, the one that the vessels run out of Eden, the one they haven't told me about.

"Why are you in the fields again?" Two murmurs into my hair, his lips against my neck through his soft mask, our bodies pressed together under the knitted blankets on the top of my bed.

I can't explain to him, to anyone the spike of jealousy I felt when Sleep looked at Annabelle, and that it has caused me to want to do something about it, to remove her entirely from the picture, from Eden, from our lives.

"I hate my idle hands," I answer instead, which isn't a lie, but it's not the full truth, either. I can see his hands unfurl from my body and pull my hands from under my cheek. The black body paint has been washed away from his hands, leaving black rings only in his fingernails, and in the creases of his skin.

"Why the fields in particular?"

I pause before answering. "I like to feel grounded to the earth. In nature, where I can feel what is real and what is not."

"Just be safe," he whispers into my hair, and I can feel the slip is his mask just below my ear as he pressed his lips to my skin.

"No one will harm me," I assure him, letting my eyes fall closed. "To harm me, is to harm us, and to harm us, is to harm Sleep. And no one would dare do that."

I turn in his arms to face him, to slide under his body, to feel his weight over me, to hide me from the vision of Sleep, in the darkest reaches of my room.

No one in Eden would harm me.

Except for one.

And I have a plan for it.