I need to tell someone, but by the off chance that I’m notcompletelyfree, I don’t want to give my family false hope. So instead, I knock harshly on Oscar’s bedroom door.
It doesn’t take him long to answer. He’s already dressed impeccably for the day, his salt-and-pepper hair slicked back neatly.
His eyes widen at the sight of me, taking in my elated expression and giddy movements.
“Young Master Atlas,” he begins, but I push past him and head straight into his quarters. He stutters, as if to objects.
Of all the years he’s worked for us, I’ve never stepped inside his personal chambers.
“Oscar, my love,” I greet him. “I have wonderful news.”
“Could you not tell me in the hall?” he asks, his tone slightly irritated.
“I could not,” I assure him. “It is top secret; do you understand? You can’t tell a single person, not even my father. And definitely not Atticus.”
“Oh, Lord,” Oscar mumbles, shutting the door softly. “What is it?”
I sit at the foot of his bed, grinning widely. “I think the cure has come.”
There is a brief pause. And then—
“What?!” he screeches.
“Shh! Oscar, please. Keep it quiet.”
“Sorry, Young Master. But… what? How do you know?” He comes closer, peering down at me with desperate, hopeful eyes.
“Last night, I had a nightmare. And in that nightmare, the demon… itstopped. Right there in the middle. Then it screamed so loudly, and I went unconscious.”
“How does that tell you you’re cured?” Oscar asks, his tone turning from hopeful to doubtful in a second.
“Because when I woke up, I was bathed. And the demon never… it didn’t finish the ritual. It didn’t take my energy. I think the cure came and stopped it and fixed me up.”
“Young Master Atlas,” Oscar says, sighing. “It is quite a leap to assume this means you’re cured.”
Disappointment courses through me. Before I can stop myself, I’m frowning at him heavily, tears building behind my clenched-shut eyelids. “But… but this has never happened before. And the demon was stopped, and I was cleansed by an unknown force. How else do we explain this? I… what else am I to believe, Oscar?”
“Okay,” he rushes out, tone placating as he gets onto his knees in front of me. “Okay. Let’s give it time then, hm? We will give it a few days, and if your symptoms go awayandyou have no more interactions withit, then we will assume you’re cured. Deal?”
“Deal,” I agree, opening my eyes to peer down at him.
Oscar is giving me the look he gives me when he wishes to lock me away and hide me from the pain of the world. He’s giving me the look he gives when he’s trying not to act like my father.
“Do you have them? Symptoms, I mean,” he asks.
I take a moment to justfeel. And for the first time in years, I do not feel as if I’m overheating. I was so excited by my discovery this morning that I didn’t notice it.
I have no burning fire beneath my skin, no constant nagging in the pit of my stomach.
“No,” I whisper, extending a hand for him to touch me.
His fingertips graze my hand, and though the symptom of being affected by the touch of someone else’s skin isn’t constant, it is frequent. And this time? Nothing.
Oscar’s eyes meet mine, and I grin.
“Nothing?” he confirms.
“Nothing.”
