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“That’s what I thought,” I say to him. “In the future, don’t give me advice that you don’t plan on following.”
I pull Erik’s arms, leading him out of the garden and back into the house. My clothes are still wet, but now I feel the heat of anger.
“I’m sorry about that,” I blurt out.
“Don’t be,” Erik says, raising a hand to stop my further apology. “He’s looking out for you. I’d be the exact same way if our positions were reversed. He’s probably trying to keep you safe.”
“By keeping me away from a friend?” I ask. “By trying to turn me against you?”
“Friend, huh?” Erik says, not quite able to keep his lips from turning up into a crooked grin.
“Don’t get cocky,” I say. “The pickings are slim here.”
“I’ll take the position however I can get it,” Erik says. “And, Ad, don’t be too upset with him. If you knew the things I know about Tailors—the things I’m sure Dante knows—maybe you wouldn’t trust me ei—”
“Stop,” I say, placing a hand on his chest to bring his attention away from his diatribe and back to me. “I trust you, and I don’t care what’s in your past.”
“That’s philanthropic of you,” he says, “but—”
“No!” I say. “Stop trying to convince me otherwise, because you won’t be able to. I know you, Erik Bell. You’ve got a good heart—whether you like it or not.”
Erik thinks on this a moment and then draws me into a hug. “Like it.”
“See?” I say, lingering in the warmth of his arms. “Your choices are getting better every day.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
I TELL MYSELF I HAVE QUESTIONS ONLY she can answer, but in truth, I visit her to stem the waves of guilt that roll through me without warning, brought on by the most innocuous things. The scent of roses drifting through the garden, the sting of hot bathwater, a bite of dry pot roast—they bring her back to me. I don’t want to attach the prisoner locked securely in the bowels of the estate with my mother. But no matter how well I understand the situation, my brain is no match for my heart.
My mother’s curled up in a ball in the corner of her cell. She doesn’t move when I enter. For a moment, I think the worst: that she’s dead. And confused feelings swirl up inside me. Anger. Bitterness. Sadness. Relief. I wish I could lean forward and reach out to her. With her eyes closed, she looks peaceful. She’s not wearing cosmetics and her hair is clumped around her head, but it’s still her. She lifts her head, and the shift reveals a large purple scar running up her neck.
What did the Guild do to her? Can I undo it?
She stares at me without speaking and I see the wheels turning in her head. She’s going to play with me, but I won’t let her.
“Meria,” I say. I can’t bring myself to call her Mom after our last meeting.
“Adelice,” she murmurs. “Come to check in on your prisoner?”
“You aren’t my prisoner,” I remind her.
“Sure, your whining didn’t land me in here.” She sits up. She’s thinner than the last time I saw her. Under her threadbare shirt I can see the jut of bones, and how her clothes hang on her. She’s all points and angles.
“Are they feeding you?” I ask.
Her lips squash a smirk. “Yes, scraps.”
Scraps like she is an animal. No wonder she’s so thin.
“I’ll make sure you get real meals,” I promise her.
“That’s so sweet of you.” Her voice is flat, as colorless as the walls around us.
“I have some questions for you.”
“And I have all the time in the world to answer them.” She blinks slowly.
“Can you swim?” It seems silly and frivolous to ask a starving woman this.
