Kingston crouches and retrieves the dress, or whatever it is it turned into. Frowning, he brushes his fingertips over the fabric. "Sackcloth," he says.
Sackcloth. A word I've heard but can't properly define, one of those terms likemannaorterebinth treesorswaddling clothesthat only ever seems to come up in the Bible. The kind of thing that maybe—I thought, anyway—doesn't even exist anymore, if it was ever real to begin with.
"Goat hair," Kingston explains, seeing my confusion. "Traditional garment of penance. It’s—” He hesitates. "Not comfortable."
I don't want to ask why he knows that.
"Ah, but of course," Emrys says. "Sackcloth"— he steps to the coffee table and rubs a sooty pinch of it between his fingers —"and ashes."
That, too, rings a bell in my memory. A two-word pair, likemilk and honeyorfire and brimstone.
“‘Then I turned my face to the Lord God, seeking him by prayer,’” Kingston says. “‘With fasting and sackcloth and ashes.’” He swallows. “The book of Daniel.”
Both of them stare at me.
Instinctively, I put my hands out in front of myself, like I might need to physically push the two of them back from me. "I don't know what's going on. I promise you, I don't."
Kingston's knuckles flex as he grips the garment tighter. But he nods. And he believes me. I think.
I look from him to Emrys. Desperate.
“Again, I am loath to pry,” Emrys begins. “But I’m afraid, once more, I have to ask. What exactlydidhappen to you, Ms. Vale? Before you came to Caliburn, I mean.”
My eyes shut like a reflex. I take in air, cold enough to prickle and scented like woodsmoke: in through the nose, out throughthe mouth, just like I learned in all those sessions with Jessie the therapist.
I haven't told them. Not really. Not except Kai, and even then in a roundabout way, since I didn't know any of it wasrealat the time. Notmyversion of things, beyond what followed me in rumors and whispers and accusations.
"There was a fire," I say at last. "In the church. My church. I lit some candles. But it spread. Fast." I pause. Pause a long moment. "Faster than it should have." I swallow. "And I couldn't get it out."
"You were alone?" Kingston asks.
"Yes." I look at the floor. "It was the middle of the night. I used to sneak in a lot."
"Why--"
"I don'tknow," I all but snap, suddenly irritable. "I just felt drawn to it. It felt right to be there. I didn't think it wasbadto be in a church, so I went."
The cure to all wounds.
The vessel of vessels.
The words ring in my mind. The words I’d thought, practicallyheard,for weeks. Months. Internal echolalia—a compulsion to mentally repeat words and phrases, over and over, as a way to self-regulate—that’s what Dr. Riggs had called it when I’d made the mistake of sharing with him. Another symptom of the psychosis. Another brick in the wall. Snippets of language I’d heard somewhere, in a homily or a prayer, and had stuck in my mind, swirling around and around like flakes in a snowglobe.
I stare at the floor, reciting the rest of it before I lose my nerve.
“I wasn’t thinking straight. When I woke up I was hurt. Burned. They said I was lucky I didn't lose my arms, that it should have been hot enough to damage muscle. Except it didn’tactuallyhurt. I didn’tfeelanything.” I breathe out.Get back to the facts, Gwenna. “The church was destroyed. And…”
Without meaning to, I clutch my left shoulder with my right hand. Pressing my forearm to the flesh just above my heart.
"I had this scar," I finish. "Everyone said I did it to myself. Self-harm. But I don't remember that. I wouldn't have." My eyes fly to Kingston. "I hate blood," I whisper.
I'm not sure if I collapse into him or if he embraces me. But that's where I end up: wrapped in him, trembling, eyes damp and scrunched into his sweater.
“I think we’re done for now.” Kingston’s voice. “We’ve discussed enough.”
I extricate myself from his arms, rub my eyes with my wrists, sniffling. “No,” I insist. “No, I’m?—”
“Ms. Vale.” Emrys holds up a hand, politely silencing me. “Your martyrdom is to be commended, but distressing you further will not make the sun rise again. We have now, at least, pulled further puzzle pieces from the box, so to speak. Even if they did not quite hold form as might have been hoped." He eyes the grainy black pile of ashes, the lumpen sackcloth. Considers a moment.
