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It’s a struggle fighting the urge to look at Dessin for reassurance that we aren’t in danger. He’s a blanket of security. A shelter that I run to when I’m afraid.
We stop walking in front of their heightened table. The elders are at least two feet above us.
The old woman sits in the middle, no cloak, only a black lace turtleneck. Her wizened hair matches her colorless skin, and her eyes aren’t beady and black; they’re the color of smoke that has polluted the air, bleeding into the whites of her eyes.
The two old men look like brothers. The same sleepy expression, hooked noses, and bald heads. The right one drums his fingers on the table to hurry this along before it’s even begun.
“Here they are,” Runa announces nervously out of respect for her superiors. “I found them in—”
The old woman holds up her crepe hand. “I’d like to hear their ages again.” Her voice is hardly that of an elderly woman. It’s melted chocolate. It’s low and shiny with newness.
“Twenty-three and nineteen,” Dessin answers.
The woman eyes him suspiciously. “You came from the inner city.” Not a question, a fact.
Dessin nods.
“From the asylum.” The old man to the right stops drumming his fingers.
Dessin’s cruel eyes shoot to him like a poisonous arrow. “I hardly think that’s any of your business,” he grits.
The elders chuckle softly as if they expected that response.
“And are you in love?” the old woman asks.
Dessin and I stiffen.
“No,” I answer quickly. Dessin doesn’t move.
“Is that right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” I regret how unsure I sound when I answer. My voice trembles like a brittle leaf in the wind.
Why would she ask that? We aren’t holding hands. We aren’t gazing lovingly into the other’s eyes.
The woman rests her chin on her fist, concentrating on the two of us. Committing our faces to memory. “I have one question. Your answer will determine if you are who we think you might be. It will confirm that our prophecy from ages ago is that of truth.”
We wait, tension thickening the air like being underwater.
“Aside from the death of Scarlett, what are the memories that pain you the most?” Her question is a volcano erupting within me. An earth-shattering statement. Chills ripple over my arms like a colony of fire ants.
Dessin’s head whips to look down at me, frozen in shock.
“I—” My breath hitches in my throat. I want to ask how they know about Scarlett. But the old woman isn’t blinking. She needs my answer, and she needs it now.
My hands clench and unclench repeatedly.
I know the answer without giving any additional thought.
“The memories that I have forgotten are the ones that hurt the most,” I say with pain like barbed wire tightening around my words.
The three elders straighten in their seats, glancing between each other in surprise and understanding. The old woman rises from her seat, looking down on us as if seeing us for the first time.
It’s only after I slide my confused gaze to Dessin that I notice he’s watching me too. Eyes shadowed with agony as he releases a slow breath.
“I know you will not trust us for some time. But our people have waited for the two of you for several generations. It’s been so long, in fact, that most of our youth believe you to be fictional characters in a bedtime story.”
What? This doesn’t make any sense. I’m a nobody born in the Bear Traps. I weaseled my way into the city, slithered into the asylum, and now I’m here. Am I just involved in these stories because of my association with Dessin?
