Crescent

11

Overhead, a bleary ocean danced. Crashing and swirling, it rolled against the crown molding and thrashed into the cracked light fixture in the center of the ceiling. Its turquoise paint had faded over the years, and a cavernous split broke across the painted ocean from one corner down toward the center. Vera's blurry vision struggled to focus on the pale blue-green, lashes fluttering as she fought to keep her eyes open. The crash of waves echoed in her ears, and the water peeled off the ceiling and fell over her, drenching her in its endless cold depths. Her insides twisted. She was drowning, lungs seizing as she fought for a clear breath. Around her, the room spun, out of reach and yet so close it boxed her in. She couldn't see anything above the waters. Her fingers curled tighter against something heavy in her hand—a metal object, warm with the heat from her palm, that pressed firmly into her skin.

"Vera." Wyn was calling her from the outskirts of her memories, somewhere beyond the sea that lapped at her limbs. The icy waters sapped the strength from her body, almost as vicious as his smile and as cruel as his stormy eyes. "Get up, Ve."

The roaring in her ears returned in full force, a thunderous drawl that blotted out everything else, even the rush of the water. Her head threatened to split down the center, cracked against the stone and bleeding all around her. No, it wasn't the ocean she was drowning in. The coppery tang of blood filled her mouth until she was choking on it.

"Vera."

Ice-cold hands seized her wrist like a pair of cuffs. Her eyes snapped open and immediately landed on the pale face bent over her, white brows knitted in concern. Behind him, situated way above them, was the painted ocean ceiling, now still, though her vision flickered weakly. Even the crack in the light fixture seemed smaller, but it blinked constantly as it struggled to stay alert.

Vera ripped free of the frigid hands around her wrists, glaring at the alabaster man as she pushed upright. Her hands sank into a plush mattress, and a pillow supported her back as she sat up. Her head was pounding, still threatening to pull itself apart, but it was nothing compared to her racing heart and the thrum of fear in her veins. Cotton stuffed her mind and muffled her thoughts—but it also dulled the agony that she expected to tear through every inch of her. Instead, she was overcome with numbness, save for the pressure behind her aching eyes.

Once he had taken a step back away from the edge of the bed, she let her gaze wander the small room. It was strikingly clean compared to the rest of the house, with a tall ceiling and white walls adorned with ornate molding. An armoire stood against the wall opposite her bed, made of dark wood with rusty copper handles. Beside it was a desk that was completely clean. If it once had a chair, it was nowhere to be found now. The door stood open and the hallway beyond was lit with delicate lanterns and flickering orange flames.

Vera was lying in a bed, the headboard against one wall and the large window situated a few feet from her other side. She was tucked beneath a worn quilt, one that used to be as blue as the painting overhead. Embroidered flowers decorated the quilt squares; some had waves woven into the fabric, bleeding multiple shades of blue into each other. It was once a beautiful piece of handiwork that might have brought even Eileen and her mother to tears of awe. Now, its edges were frayed and some of the floral-patterned squares were missing, but it was warm enough. Her dark blue coat was draped over it, its silver lining sparkling in the light. Her legs were tangled in the quilt, her injured foot sticking out from beneath it and almost touching the bedpost at the other end. She wasn't drowning in an ocean, but the sheets beneath her were damp and the bitter scent of sweat clung to her. She wrinkled her nose.

The prisoner—no, Zeno—was still watching her as she slowly reoriented herself. She lifted one hand to her head and touched scratchy bandages wrapped haphazardly around her skull, tangling her black hair that was loose from its ponytail and sticky with dirt and oil. Her confusion only made her head spin more. Had she wrapped her head after it was struck? The thick fog over her mind blurred her memories so that they slid through her fingers like water, too fluid to grasp.