I want to keep touching him; everything in me is demanding that I let him burn me alive. But it suddenly feels as if I’m being pushed away, even without Atlas moving an inch, and I rip my hand away a moment later. I must have subconsciously become aware of the boundaries I’m unconsciously crossing.
“Julian, we do not touch the Young Master without his permission,”Oscar had once said.
Atlas is observing me, his own hand lifting to touch the skin where my fingertips had rested a few seconds ago. The hand holding his mug shakes slightly.
“I beg to differ,” he finally replies, just loud enough to be heard over the crashing waves.
“Come inside,” I repeat.
Eventually, Atlas nods. “Very well, Julian. Take me inside.”
I turn to walk away when a question appears at the forefront of my mind, begging to be answered. “What are you waiting for, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Atlas trails behind me as I begin to walk, and he waits to respond until we slip back inside the castle.
“A cure.”
“What took you so long?” Abigail asks, her lips pouting from where she sits on the couch in front of the fireplace.
I close the door to the music room quietly, crossing the room to find my seat next to her.
“I was talking to Young Master Atlas,” I answer, placing my mug on the low table in front of us.
“About what?” she presses.
“I just told him what I told you; standing outside in the cold for too long isn’t good for your health.”
Abigail huffs, but I can spot a small smile playing at her lips, as if she’s happy she wasn’t the only one scolded today.
“Atty is always in the back courtyard, waiting,” she says. “He does it almost every day.”
“I see that.” After a moment, I decide that Atlas’s peculiar actions might be worth asking Abigail about. She is horrible at keeping secrets, after all. “He said he’s waiting for a cure. What does he mean?”
The girl next to me shifts uncomfortably, her eyes darting around the expanse of the music room. Almost as if she’s making sure we’re alone.
“I’m not supposed to talk about it. Atticus won’t like it.” Her voice is small when she speaks, like she’s scared of disappointing me.
“That’s okay; you don’t have to tell me. Want to play the piano?” I stand, leaving my mug behind, and I move toward the grand instrument.
I can feel Abigail’s eyes on my back as I walk away, but I don’t want to sit around and pressure her. I’d feel horrible if she got in trouble because of me or if she felt obligated to spill the truth.
“Atlas is sick,” she suddenly says, and I stop, turning to face her. “He has a condition that makes him… different. Sometimes it’s not so bad, and sometimes he won’t even leave his room.”
“That… that sounds really hard.” I say nothing more, scared of pushing.
But Abigail nods softly, her sad eyes trained on her dress shoes. Something that was weighing on her shoulders seems to fall away, her small body sagging as she speaks again.
“Everyone is so worried for him, and they won’t tell me what sickness he has. They say I’m not old enough. But Atticus babies him, and Mother and Father do whatever they can to help relieve the pain.”
“The pain?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I can hear him crying all the way from the top of the west tower. His skin gets hot, and he starts acting funny. He won’t even let us touch him sometimes.” Abigail looks devastated by this fact.
I can’t seem to wrap my head around what disease this could be. Pain and hot skin? Acting funny and not letting anyone touch him? Nothing correlates with just one illness; at least, not oneIknow of.
“Is there anything I can do for him?” I ask her because I genuinely would like to help, even if his presence is stifling.
“No,” she says, shaking her head. “All he can do is push through and wait for the cure, is what Momma told me.”
