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I’ll deal with that when it happens.
Right now, there’s already too much to manage.
There’s a monster dead on the floor, stinking to high heaven and seeping black blood all over the place. There’s a clamor from the kitchen, where Adrina’s father is suddenly healed and whole, and Adrina’s mother weeps joyfully to find him in his right mind again. Adrina and Timon add to the crying and shouting and celebrating until Adrina’s da breaks the news about Clara and the attack, and they all rush to the bedroom door to get a good look at the monster.
And then Timon passes out in the doorway, and Adrina’s mother shouts for her to fetch the third best linens, and they set about moving the unconscious Timon to his da’s bed before wrapping the monster corpse in old sheets and dragging it outside.
I’m dimly aware of it all, but it’s background noise.
My focus is on Clara. On her too-pale skin and her ravaged leg and the soft, miserable moans she makes as pain finds her, even in whatever dream world she’s walking right now.
The thought brings flashes of my own dark dreams—the witch with Clara’s face, her magic flowing down my throat like poison, the oily water in the pool where I was grown seeping through my skin and soaking into my soul, leaving me paralyzed and lost between this world and that one.
Reason insists it was only a dream, but my gut knows better.
Da and I are bound for a serious discussion about where I came from, who my mother truly was, and why he’s lied to me for so many years. But saving Clara comes first.
I help get her into bed and hold her hand tight while Da sets to work on her leg—starting with fire flashing in his hands. It stops the worst of the blood flowing but makes a smell like grilled mutton. My insides lurch, and I know I’d be sick if there were anything left in my belly.
It feels like I haven’t eaten in days—how long was I unconscious?—but there’s no way on God’s green earth I could force down food now. Not when there’s blood everywhere.
It stains the sheets and the floor, and even when I’ve sopped up the worst of the red from Clara’s leg and Adrina’s mother has scrubbed away the harpy’s black mess by the door, a cloying metallic smell lingers in the air. It summons sour saliva into my mouth, and though I chug a glass of orange juice, I can’t seem to banish it from my tongue.
While the sun climbs higher, Da somehow explains himself—us—to the Barolos in a way that puts their minds at ease. He tells them of a vengeful harpy who’d been tracking him since he was a young man and accidentally damaged her eggs while hunting in the forest. My father is an excellent liar, but I know him better than anyone, and I’m on high alert for lies. His harpy tale is pure story-spinning, but I don’t say anything.
That’s also a discussion for later, but I’ll need answers soon—true ones.
After forcing down bread and cheese for lunch, I make sure Clara is still sleeping before rejoining everyone in the kitchen and asking, “Da? Can we talk? Outside?”
He nods and gathers his priest’s robe in his hands, guiding the fabric out of the way as he rises from the long bench on one side of the table. That robe and everything it symbolizes buys my father the benefit of the doubt with God-fearing people like the Barolos, and most of his lies seem designed to ease fear and offer comfort.
But I’m done with placating falsehood.
I have to know who I really am. Who Clara really is. Where we all go from here.
Once we’re far enough from the house that no one should be able to overhear, I turn to my father, pinning him with a hard look.
I don’t know where to start, which questions to pose first, so I just say, “The truth, Da. It’s past time.”
“I know, son, but first…” He trails off, his gray eyes sadder, wearier than I’ve seen them in years. Before we arrived on the island and were finally able to sleep through the night without fear, Da was exhausted all the time. But this is a different sort of weariness. This comes from too much fear and too many hard, ugly choices made in one terrifying night. “Well, I was a young man in love once… You can rest your mind on that account. Clara isn’t your sister.”
In spite of everything—my anger and frustration with my father and my fear for Clara—my held breath escapes. “You’re sure? You understand who she truly is?”
“I knew the day you pulled her from the sea. I’d seen her and her sisters before. Long ago, in another life,” he says, surprising me. “Why do you think I kept such close watch over the poor thing? I wasn’t sure she would survive inside the wards. After a time, it became clear she wasn’t thriving, but you were so fond of her and I couldn’t let her go. But it isn’t the child’s fault she was cursed to carry out her mother’s revenge. And I thought, if given time, I might find a way to set her free.”
