Page 34 of The Verdant Cage
I examine her injury from afar, a two-inch scratch almost deep enough for stitches. It seems there reallyissomething they’re fighting off within the Wall. Had I been wrong about Peter not being killed by an animal? But what kind of creature could have left the wounds I saw on him?
She throws her belt over the back of a chair and finishes her thought. “Good practice for the big day.”
A trickle of fear slides down my spine.The big day. What does she mean by that?
“Where was the beastie this time?” Jarek asks.
“You know where,” she says through gritted teeth.
The air feels too thick to breathe, the potential for violence crackling between us. Then, suddenly, Jarek releases his son, issuing a command. “Back out on patrol, now.” And then to Misia, “Is the tablet charged for tomorrow?”
“Barely,” she says, “but enough to get him out of here.”
Tomorrow. Peter’s funeral?
Jarek nods. “Then take me to what’s left of the creature,” he commands his wife.
“I can pack you some food to go,” I say, shocked that I’ve spoken. “It’ll stay warm for a while.”
“Do it,” Jarek orders.
My movements are jerky as I ladle the congee into a canning jar. I screw on the cap and offer it to him. Gryphon looks at me expectantly, and I drop my gaze. If I hadn’t just seen the way his father treats him, I’d have happily scooped him a serving of poop soup. As it stands, I find I no longer want to.
Jarek, thinking I’m simply denying Gryphon food, laughs at his son. “Your wife doesn’t much care for you, does she?”
“She’s not my wife,” Gryphon snaps, his face shuttering. He strides to the bread box and grabs a small loaf that I’d bet a jar of honey is stale and storms out.
“Well,” Misia says. “That will not do, will it? Your disdain for your betrothed is unacceptable, Rose. It’ll be better once you’re wed. I thought we could wait, but perhaps we should pull the ceremony forward. How does that sound?”
I feel an unexpectedly sharp pang. I’d cared for Gryphon—loved him, in a child’s sort of way—before the betrothal ceremony. But Misia isn’t offering me the Gryphon I used to know. There are too many years between the boy who was my dear friend and the one I watched walk my brother to his death. With this Gryphon, the one who grew up cold and hard and mistrusting? I want to delay the inevitable as long as possible.
“It sounds wonderful,” I say. “Would you like some congee to go?”
21
I don’t know how it goes for Jarek with the slippery elm, but Misia makes so much noise in the bathroom that night, it wakes me from a deep slumber. I glance to the floor for Gryphon, but he isn’t there, so I close my eyes. The next time I open them, the ombré palette of the sky tells me dawn’s coming and still, no Gryphon. Two mornings in a row, the Guardian has left without my noticing. I don’t care for it. Perhaps I could put a bell on him.
I lie in bed for several seconds more, listening to roosters crow and remembering the dream I’d been having.
It featured my mother.
She was walking me through the woods, whispering urgently in my ear. I touch my cheek, the dream so real I can almost feel the heat of her breath. I brush away the tears pooling in my eyes. It’d been a gift to see her face so clearly. Would that Jonas had visited me as well. I sit up, wondering what happens to grief unspoken. Why can’t we acknowledge the loss of those Harvested while still supporting our community?
These dangerous thoughts join the others I’ve had since my family’s unravelling. How quickly a girl can change. I’ve gone from challenging only the directive on treatment of the elderly to questioning the whole system.
I dress quickly in case Gryphon walks through the door.
Misia’s already downstairs when I get there, hair wet from a morning bath and dressed in the simple spun-wool tunic and trousers that we all wear to chapel. Her cheek is less swollen than yesterday, the scratch scabbed over now.
“I didn’t see you in the bathroom last night,” she says, crossing her arms.
My lip twitches. “Excuse me?”
“There was something off in yesterday’s congee. Did you eat it?”
“Of course,” I say.
Except I hadn’t. I’d bustled around the kitchen until she and Jarek left with their jars of wild rice soup. Then I boiled a small pan of water and tossed in rolled oats and a hard heel of sheep’s milk cheese. I was so hungry I burned my tongue wolfing it down. Once I’d scraped the pan clean, I threw the rest of the congee into the compost, mixed it up, and washed the mountain of dishes to hide my evidence.
