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She nods, biting on her lip.
“Then why don’t you?” She shakes her head harder, tapping her lips, pleading with her eyes. “Ah, I see. You don’twantto…”
She nods, squeezing my arm gently before turning on her heel and walking over to the opposite side of the room where her bed and wardrobe is situated. She grabs a pale pink kaftan from the wardrobe, bringing it to me. I take off Konrad’s shirt and put it on immediately. The material is made of silk, its scent heady and perfumed like this room. I instantly relax, my shoulders dropping in relief.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Taking my hands, she urges me to sit on the bed, I wince in pain, suddenly reminded of the tender skin from the lashes to my arse and the fact I punched Leon. Funny how the pain returns now even though it was absent the whole time I was with Jakub. She frowns, pointing.Where?Her expression seems to say,Where is your pain?
“I punched Leon,” I say, pointing to my right hand. Her eyes widen in surprise, then she blinks a little before gently pressing her fingers over my knuckles. It’s a little sore, but nothing too painful. She frowns then holds up her hand, wiggling her fingers, indicating for me to do the same. I copy her, and wiggle them well enough. Holding her thumb up, she gives me a small smile and nods. She doesn’t think anything’s broken.
Bringing her hands together, her palms facing upwards, she gestures again. The action reminds me of Oliver Twist asking for more, and I realise that’s exactly what she means. Do I have any more pain?
Nodding, I stand, lifting up the hem of the kaftan and turn my back to her, showing her the lashes to my arse. Thirteen huffs out a breath and when I look at her, her expression changes from serene to troubled. With a shake of her head, she strides over to her worktop and reaches for a blue bottle, its contents hidden by the dappled glass. Snatching it up, she returns, then reaches for the hem of the kaftan.
“Wait, I can do it,” I say, understanding that whatever’s in the bottle it’s something she thinks will soothe my skin. “I don’t want you to touch me!” She stiffens, apologising with her eyes and hands me the bottle, pointing to a door in the corner of the room. I’m guessing it’s a bathroom. “Bathroom?” I ask.
She nods.Yes.
“I need to pee,” I say, quietly blinking back the sudden tears at the look of empathy on her face.
She nods her head, grasping at the key around her neck and unfastening it. She hands it to me, jerking her chin as she wraps her fingers around mine and pushes my closed fist towards my chest.
Here.
“Thank you,” I mutter.
Entering the bathroom, I push the door shut behind me as more tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision and preventing me from seeing my reflection in the mirror hanging above the sink. I let the tears fall, allowing myself a moment of sheer misery, letting the emotions so bound up inside of me, out. Anger, pain, anguish, shame,hate, it all falls from my eyes, giving me desperate release. It’s cathartic.
A couple of minutes pass and I feel immeasurably better for it. Crying is cathartic so long as it doesn’t feed someone else’s twisted fantasies.
Placing the bottle on the counter, I pull up the kaftan and unlock the chastity belt. It falls to the floor with a thunk and I step out of it, kicking it aside. After relieving myself I strip off the kaftan and wash using the soap left beside the sink, needing to scrub The Masks from my skin even if I can’t scrub them from my memories. I don’t bother asking permission from Thirteen, I just do it. I get the feeling she wouldn’t mind anyway. She seems kind, sympathetic to my situation, and I resolve to find out as much about her and The Masks as I can, despite her refusal to speak.
I’ve heard of selective mutism. I know that it often occurs on the back of something traumatic, but I’ve never met anyone with the condition before. Of course, she could be being deceptive, but somehow I don’t think that’s the case. I might have little reason to trust her, but my gut instinct is telling me she’s trustworthy. Right now, that’s all I’ve got.
Drying myself off on a hand towel hanging from the back of the door, I reach for the blue bottle and twist off the stopper, pouring the unknown liquid into my hand. Its consistency is thick, opaque, but it smells like the sea, salty and fishy. Wrinkling my nose, I smooth the liquid onto my arse, wincing at the initial sting that quickly fades to a cooling sensation. The pain instantly eases, the recent events dampened by the soothing concoction. Once I’ve covered all of the sore skin on my arse, I pull the kaftan on, pick up the chastity belt, wipe it clean and step into it, clicking the lock in place. I might hate this contraption, but if it keeps those monsters from taking what isn’t theirs then I will gladly wear it.
By the time I’m finished, Thirteen is sitting on a stool in front of her worktop stirring two cups of what looks and smells like peppermint tea. As I approach she hands me one. I take it from her, breathing in the fresh scent. My eyes flutter shut as the smell conjures up memories of my aunt and uncle who loved to suck on mint sweets. My throat tightens and a sob escapes my lips. I swallow it down and blink back the tears.
Thirteen smiles kindly, pressing her fingers against my hand, jerking her chin.Drink, she urges.
“Thank you,” I mutter, taking a sip and humming my appreciation as the sweetened peppermint tea permeates my taste buds. The consistency reminds me of the liquid she’d poured into my mouth with her kiss and I find myself asking her about it. “You gave me something to counteract The Quickening, didn’t you?”
Her hand stills, her cup of tea midway to her mouth. She sighs, placing it on the worktop. She nods,Yes.
“Why?” I ask.
She frowns, chewing on her lip. I’m not sure if her hesitation is because she doesn’t want to tell me why or if she doesn’t know how to explain without words to make communicating easier. After a beat she reaches for a pencil and pad that appears to be filled with recipes, then flicks to a clean page.
No one should have the right to choose taken away from them,she writes.
“Yet you make a drug that does exactly that.”
She shakes her head, furiously writing.The Quickening isn’t meant to be used to trap and ensnare. It’s supposed to be used to enlighten, to heighten sensation to a willing participant. It’s for pleasure.
“I see,” I reply, cutting her a look. “Surely you understand, given who The Masks are, that they would abuse such a drug?”
I wait for her to respond, to scribble her reply. Instead she sighs heavily, and places the pencil on top of the paper, apparently not willing to answer. Part of me wants to persist, to make her reply, but another huge part is tired. I’m tired of being held prisoner in this castle, exhausted from the constant emotional and physical battle with The Masks, and fatigued with trying and failing to understand why the Numbers stay when they appear to have every opportunity to escape.
She reaches for me, her fingers gently squeezing my arm. Her grey eyes tell me to trust her, that she knows what she’s doing, that she has my best interest at heart, but trust has to be earned, and whilst she’s helped me this one time, it doesn’t mean she won’t turn her back on me the next. I step back, putting some distance between us.
Reaching for the pencil once again, she writes:Trust me. Please.
The Masks trust her, which counts for a lot given the type of men they are. Yet, they’re my captors, myenemy. Why on earth should I trust her when her loyalty lies with those wankers?
“I don’t trust anyone here,” I say. It’s a lie, however, because my gut is telling me to trust her and my gut has never, not once, been wrong.
Then trust your instincts, she writes before gently tapping her finger over my heart then my temple as though reading my mind. We lock gazes, and after a beat she holds out her hand, her palm facing upwards. I understand what she wants, and despite not really wanting to give her the key, I do, my gut telling me that it’s far safer in her hands than it is in mine.
