Total pages in book: 209
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 196141 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 981(@200wpm)___ 785(@250wpm)___ 654(@300wpm)
Then she’s gone, vanishing into thin air. Kyle turns in his seat, facing ahead at the road where his headlights burn like torches in a cave, yellowish and harsh. “Fuck you very much, Tristan.” He turns the car around, heads home.
8.
I Relish the Scent of Your Fear.
—∙—
Tristan studies the moon from his favorite spot at the top of the tower, alone. Seated on the windowsill, he contemplates the next bead on his dark bracelet. He’s eaten twenty-five. But each time he counts them, the number doesn’t decrease as much as he expected. Perhaps there are more beads on this tricky bracelet than meets the eye, and he will never know the true number until none remain. A cruel trick, to be expected from someone as devious as Mance. That’s the price of love, he decides tiredly, steels himself, then bites the next, grinding it to dust on his tongue. The taste has not improved. Has it gotten worse?
“I still cannot believe you would trust such a twisted man.”
Tristan glances at Raya, who stands at the top of the spiral stairs with her arms folded, then returns his sleepy eyes to the window. It’s almost full … the moon, in just a few more days.
“Are you not exhausted? Eating those disgusting beads?”
It is fine, says Tristan over his shoulder.
“But every single hour? No breaks? When do you sleep?”
I shall sleep when I am dead.
“He is probably so happy with himself, this Mance, amused by how very stupid we all are, running about gathering items for a silly ritual that won’t work. You cannot raise the dead. Oh, I grow tired even complaining about it.” Her heels carry her down the steps as she says, “I came up here to ask if you wanted to join me for a beer, but I’ve suddenly changed my mind. I am going on an errand of my own now. I deserve it.” Her voice fades and echoes as she descends. “Goodnight.”
It doesn’t take much thought to conclude what errand she has in mind. I thought we agreed for you to stay away from the boy?
Raya stops, only the top of her head visible. “Boy …?”
Everyone is a boy to us, even in their late thirties. I really do wish you would respect my requests.
“I laugh inwardly at describing your demands as requests.”
It is for his best interest that you not visit him.
“But Kaleb—”
Nor say his true name aloud.
She turns to face him, yet her eyes catch sight of something else. Across the room by the torn painting that leans against the wall sits a box—the gift box, wrapped in its shiny green ribbon.
Tristan follows her line of sight, frowns. Don’t worry, I still don’t plan to give it to Lord Markadian. I may even destroy it and—
“I just realized I don’t care. You know what? I’ve suffered enough by you today. I’m quite sure I can do whatever I please, even if that means discreetly visiting a nameless violinist.”
Raya, Tristan starts, but she has already gone. He flees the window and quickly follows her down the spiral staircase. Have you considered that the other Bloods may notice your frequent visiting of him? They would call favoritism, harass him, ask questions …
The illusions of the House take over again as the two reach the bottom of the stairs, passing into the Midnight Garden, the large domed arena of bright green trees, flowers, and artificially colorful butterflies, fluttering about their face as they walk.
Raya, I do not wish to deprive you of—
“All you do is deprive me,” she snaps, stopping at a fork in the cobblestone path between two overhanging trees, long garlands of purple flowers dangling. “I have no title or importance in this House, save for what you allow. What kind of existence is this? I deserve some music in my life. I deserve Blood 1025.”
Even the uttering of his number casts ice down Tristan’s spine, as if even the butterflies can overhear. Every good thing is earned with time. Don’t you think I had to earn my spot by our Lord Marky’s side? Years, it took, years of being invisible and powerless …
“And then you threw it away overnight for a boy.”
Tristan is taken aback. Raya …
“I know what you’re like. Nothing means anything to you. Nothing matters. Everyone will suffer and someday die. Every night, you carry yourself around rooms like a golden carriage, no care in the world, no worries … but do you know what I think?” A glowing purple butterfly daintily takes a rest on her arm. She swats it away with such violent intent, the illusion vanishes in a cartoon puff of smoke. “I think it’s all a mask you wear. I think you do care. Terribly. I think Blood 1025 is special to you. You hide him away. But why do you do that? … Who is he?”