Page 175 of Fallacies

EVR

Gods.

My heart begins to pound. I push through the bathroom door and into the bedroom, rushing in with such urgency that Salem jumps up from his seat on the couch.

“What’s going on?” I vaguely hear his voice as I shoulder past him and towards the closet.

I throw the doors open wide and storm in, rushing to the nearest rack to begin rifling through all the fine clothing. I pull at heavy jackets and layered skirts, a lump settling in my throat as I go.

It doesn’t even register that he’s followed me into the closet until the Hound says from somewhere behind me, “I could have brought you clothes.”

I whirl around to face him, shoving a green dress into his chest. “What does it smell like?”

“What?” He takes the hanger and holds the garment out of my reach, as if he’s worried about what I might do to it.

There’s concern and skepticism all over his face, his attention falling to the water I’ve tracked across the hardwoods. More of it drips off the ends of my hair, splashing onto my heels when it hits the ground.

“The dress,” I whisper, my stern gaze meeting his confused one. “What does it smell like? Who did it…belong to?”

“That’s not how it works.”

“Try,” I beg, swallowing against the tightening of my throat. “Just try. Please.”

Salem stares back at me for a long moment, and I can tell he’s trying desperately to understand. It’s the most serious I’ve ever seen him, aside from the night he told me the truth about Rogues.

No matter how serious the topic, he’s almost always teetering on the edge of a smirk, so casual with the way he talks about things. I suppose that’s an attitude reserved for immortals—desensitized to our silly human afflictions.

But not this.

Whatever he’s seeing as he looks at me has stumped him. I’ve cracked his usual smug confidence, and I’m about to ask him again when he exhales, slowly lifting the fabric to his nose.

He holds my gaze as he inhales, brows furrowing as he breathes in the scent. Then I watch his fingers tighten on the bunched fabric.

“High-ranked,” Salem says finally, breaking my stare as if to increase his focus. “Sol…”

Blue eyes flick up to mine, and my stomach sinks at the recognition in them.

I nod, spinning around the closet, taking in the sight of her wardrobe. Of the skirts and smocks and ballgowns she’d worn. All pristine and fit for someone grand.

Stumbling out of the closet, Salem lowers the dress, following me into the bedroom.

The light coming in through the windows is tinted grey, but I imagine it flooded with an unrestrained golden sun. I imagine the windows open at the start of spring, cream colored curtains billowing out over the hardwoods. I imagine her reading by the window with a fire in the hearth. A room that was once perfectly hers and perfectly safe.

“Lucina?”

The peaceful image fades, replaced by a skeleton of a once-grand space without the stunning color and vibrancy I imagined. The bed, the quilt, the pillows. The old books and the couch I slept on last night…

Salem still has the dress clutched in his fist. “These rooms…”

“Belonged to my mother.” As soon as the words leave my lips, a laugh tumbles out after them, and as if my emotions weren’t twisted enough, my eyes well with tears.

In the periphery of my blurred vision, Salem stiffens, his attention frozen in my direction.

Realizing how uncomfortable this probably makes him, I quickly wipe the tears from my face. With the manic laughter, the overconsumption of whiskey, the towel I’m still wrapped in…he has every right to think I’m insane. Gods, maybe I am.

I open my mouth to apologize, but he beats me to it.

“I’m sorry.”