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“Oh?” Aric let a dark grin tip his lips. “Then it’s only fair if you tell me about yourself in return, don’t you think?”
****
“Where the hell were you?” Graham demanded as soon as Rochelle pulled her door open. Spittle flew from his mouth and his eyes were red. Even his hair was a mess.
Rochelle blinked up at her best friend’s younger brother. “Um, hi, Graham. Why are you barking at me?” She’d known him for pretty much all of his formative years. It was hard to be intimidated, despite his muscles and the few inches he had over her.
He stepped closer, the toes of his sneakers crossing the threshold of her apartment entryway, and braced his hands on the doorframe as he leaned in. He was doing his best to glare down at her. What made Rochelle’s heart lose tempo was the genuine anger burning in his eyes. “You were supposed to be with her, Rochelle. How thefuckdid Bridget end up on that road? What did youdo?”
Rochelle swallowed hard and took an involuntary step back. “What are you talking about? What road?” She shook her head. “Not that it’s your business, but—”
“She’s my sister!” Graham said with a roar. He surged forward and shoved her back against the opposite wall with a hand at her throat. “Of course it’s my goddamn business!”
Fear shot up Rochelle’s spine, her hands immediately clawing at his forearm, but just as suddenly his rage seemed to vanish. His grip loosened and a tear rolled down his cheek as his chin dropped to his chest. A different kind of fear settled over her heart. “Graham,” Rochelle said, “what happened? Is Bridget okay?”
His fists clenched at his sides, and he leveled a glare on her again, but this one was clearly strained. “No. She’s dead.” He turned, gripped the door, and added, “My sister’s dead, and it’s your fault. So don’t even think about coming to the funeral.”
The slamming door in her memory startled Rochelle awake and she jerked to a sitting position, her heart racing. Tears burned behind her eyes as Graham’s last words to her lingered in her mind.
Bridget’s death had been just over two months before Rochelle’s mysterious transportation to Yafae. She didn’t feel as though she’d done a lot to heal and move forward in her then-daily life, having instead turned into something of a robot. Get up, go to work, eat a little, sleep, repeat. On days off she would read or watch something in between necessary chores. But she didn’t think she’d even been brave enough to watch anything new and potentially devastating since she’d lost her closest friend. Her surrogate sister. Her infusion of optimism. And then…
Rochelle dragged in a breath, attempting to steady herself and get her emotions under control.Two months.That was about how long she’d been in Corast, too, wasn’t it? Before the strange and terrible invasion that had turned her new neighbors against her in one fell swoop. Did that mean two months was her new unironic magic number? Every two months, more devastation?
The thought made her chest ache and Rochelle couldn’t help but wrap her arms around herself as she looked around the room she’d been lent. It was exceedingly temporary. Given that she wasn’t allowed to stay in Corast, and Corast itself was more than a days’ walk from anywhere, the village’s rescuers—led by Aric the real-life, grown-up, anime-protagonist—had decided to take her with them. For her own safety. They were obligated to report the incident to the King, and since she was both their guest and a victim of the attack they’d responded to, she had been given a room in the King’s castle for the night they all had to stay to await their audience. She was not, of course, allowed to wander freely. But she had no desire to, either, so that was fine.
A sharp rap on the solid door almost directly across from her bed jerked Rochelle’s attention outward and she held her breath for a moment. She was safe … right? All of the real-anime people she’d met the day before, after finally regaining consciousness, had assured her she was safe with them and at the castle. Granted, she’d heard maybe half of their speech, as her brain had been scrambling to keep from letting her jaw hit the floor at the prospect of being surrounded by nearly the entire main cast of what had once been one of her favorite shows. It was the last show she’d shared with Bridget, though Bridget had never been as interested in anime as she was.
Rochelle shoved the unnecessary distraction aside and cleared her throat. “Ah, yes?”
The door cracked open and fire-lit green eyes smiled back at her as Aric Vardanyan angled his head inside. “Good morning,” he said. “Our meeting with His Majesty is first thing, so if you want to wash up or eat first, we have to get started. Now that you’re awake, I thought you might be interested in a bath.” He pushed the door a little wider and took a single step inside, his lips dipping into a frown. “Are you all right?”
Rochelle swallowed hard, her heart doing something funny in her chest. “Just a … bad dream.” He was the only person, so far as she knew, who might understand her bad dream. If what she thought she knew was right at all. But whether or not she ever chose to share that information with him, this was not the time. Instead, she managed a weak smile. “A bath would be great, but is it … really all right? For me, I mean.”
His frown faded, leaving his expression closer to neutral. “It’s perfectly fine. As long as you don’t mind if one of the other women shares.”
That was a very strange concept to her way of thinking, but opportunities to bathe had been rare in Corast, and Rochelle couldn’t bring herself to shirk one. “They seemed nice enough.” She attempted a joking smile, or grin, but she doubted she’d succeeded.
Still, something in his eyes softened and Aric held out a hand. “I’ll escort you,” he said. “Once you’re done, you can eat, and then it’ll be time.”
Rochelle carefully slipped from the bed, making sure not to expose herself in the sleeping dress she’d been gifted by Mitzi, which she’d be sure to return after it was washed. She allowed Aric to fold her arm into his, as if they were going to a dance or something, and walked with him down the hall. But she couldn’t quite contain her curiosity, so she quietly asked, “Why exactly doIhave to meet with His Majesty?”
Aric glanced sideways at her for a moment. “Because you witnessed the assault from a perspective we won’t have,” he said. “Because you engaged the enemy, risked your life for your village’s sake, and because in thanks for that they exiled you. I suspect King Jensen wishes to hear your side of the story as much as he wishes to thank you for your bravery. You only need to explain what you experienced. Nothing more.”
Rochelle felt her stomach twist as she reflected on the experiences Aric referred to. She didn’t want to talk about them, but she understood what he was saying.
They only had to round a single corner before arriving at the room which contained the communal bath she would be using and sharing. Apparently with Mitzi, the sweet brunette who had worked so diligently to heal the villagers back in Corast.
“Good morning,” Mitzi said, a warm smile lifting her lips and lighting her blue eyes. She had towels draped over her arms and was wrapped in a robe that obscured her sleepwear. “Cecilia and Viveca already took their turn, so it’ll just be us for now, Rochelle.” She held out a towel as Aric released Rochelle’s arm.
Rochelle nodded and accepted the towel, holding it to her chest in some effort to hide her confused feelings. She hadn’t sorted out the strange sense of surrealism these specific people triggered in her, and on top of that, she was brimming with questions. As was common with most anime, of course, the one she’d watched had featured teenagers. So she was becoming increasingly desperate to know about the years in between—and what had happened to the one main character who hadn’t shown up yet.
Not that any of that mattered, she reminded herself. Again.
“I’ll reconvene with you both at breakfast, then,” Aric said, already turning.
Rochelle drew a breath, barely remembering her manners. “Thank you, Ar—Lord Vardanyan.” He had a title, therefore, he was a nobleman. She, technically, was a refugee. A homeless, penniless, foreigner. However she referred to him in her head, she needed to remember to refer to him properly out loud. Especially in the royal castle.
Mitzi pulled open the door behind her and steam rushed out, bringing with it the faintest scent of floral soaps. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s clean up before the water cools. Viveca swears she got it ‘roaring hot’, but this early in the morning, that won’t last.”
