The look on his face when he’d been running down the street toward her…his eyes so wide, as if he’d been frightened for her.
Perhaps she shouldn’t do this. Were spiders too much after the relatively minor prank he’d played on her?
No, he deserved this after what he’d done. She wouldn’t dump the spiders down his shirt. Just on his head where they could be easily brushed off.
Tiptoeing into the circle, she crept up behind him, the moss on the floor muffling her footsteps. When she was right behind him, she withdrew the jar, held it over his head, pulled off the lid, and gave the jar a firm shake. The captured spiders tumbled onto his head and shoulders.
“Ha. Take that.” She leapt backward to avoid getting any spiders on her as she gave in to the urge to gloat.
Benedict spun around, his eyes narrowed. “What did you…” He swept a hand over his hair. His hand came away with several spiders clinging to it.
At the sight of the spiders, Benedict paled as white as the paper in the books behind him as his eyes went wide. He stumbled until his back slammed into the shelf behind him. Frantically pawing at his hair, his shoulders, his clothes, his movements grew more and more panicked. “Get them off. Get them off.”
He collapsed to the ground, his knees tucked to his chest, his arms over his head as if to protect himself. He was muttering and shaking, not even seeming to be aware of her anymore.
Beatrice took another step back. Just what had she done? She’d never known Benedict to react like this. He’d put snail slime in her hair, spiders in her pockets, a frog in her lunch. And she’d done all that and more right back. It was their thing.
Yet during all those years of pranks, he’d never freaked out like this. He’d never been this broken.
Benedict huddled,trying to ignore the feeling of too many legs skittering over his body.
It wasn’t real. It wasn’t real. It was never real.
Something prickled against the skin on the back of his hand. A tiny black spider crawled over his knuckles.
He shuddered and flung it off, his body shaking. It was all in his head. There never were any spiders. He squeezed his eyes shut, his face pressed to his knees. Not that huddling within himself would do anything against the illusions piercing his brain.
“Benedict? Are you all right?”
The feminine voice didn’t belong in that place of illusions and nightmares. She was far too real. Too much a part of the Library and everything good about it.
A light touch rested on his shoulder. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have put spiders in your hair if I’d realize you were so scared of them.”
“The spiders are real?” He shouldn’t have to ask. He should have been able to discern the difference between what was real and what was illusion.
Yet he’d never been able to do that in the dungeon. What made him think he could do so now?
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
The spiders were real. He drew in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. Strangely, knowing the spiders had been real and not merely a torture of his imagination calmed him. Real spiders could be squished. Real spiders could be tossed away.
He sensed more than saw her lower to the ground next to him. “I was just so mad at you after you switched the book yesterday, and we always took out our frustrations on each other with pranks like this. It was childish, I know.”
Benedict released another long breath and managed to lower his arms. He blinked to focus on her.
She sat with her legs tucked beneath her pink skirts, her blue eyes big and liquid as she regarded him.
He shook his head, tearing his gaze away. He opened his mouth to say something, but his throat closed up. Though, he wasn’t sure if it was from emotion or from his vow preventing him from speaking.
“You never used to be scared of spiders. You had no trouble putting them in my hair when I was twelve. And in my pockets when I was fourteen.” Beatrice remained sitting beside him, her face puckered with worry that he never thought would be directed at him. “What happened? Was it during your imprisonment? You’ve been different since you returned.”
“The fae are cruel, even to their own.” He stared at his feet rather than look at her. How much would the vow let him say? He tried to say more—tried to tell her exactly what they had done to him—but his tongue couldn’t seem to form the words. In the end, all he could say was the complete truth, even if she would assume the wrong reason for it. “I can’t talk about it.”
“I’m sorry.” She spoke even more softly and, ever so gently, laid her hand on his arm. “I’m sure it was awful.”
“I well deserve what I experienced after everything I put you through when we were children.” He stared at that hand rather than meet her gaze.
“You didn’t deserve whatever they did to you. Not if it made you react like this.” Beatrice’s fingers tightened on his sleeve.
