Angelfire | The Whispering Wall #3

Eighteen: Advice

Jeorge had forgotten how much he hated the cot in the castle kitchens. The straw filling dug into his back and made his wings ache – or perhaps that was from the wood slats underneath, because the pallet was so thin it would be hard-pressed to qualify as a blanket. The flagstones in front of the hearth looked inviting at this point; at least they were smooth.

He sat up. His back ached abominably, but he still wouldn't trade it for the inn room he'd been staying in. He wasn't getting any more sleep than he would have there, but at least he ran a lower risk of being stabbed again. The kitchen was dark and quiet; pans glinted on the walls in the weak light coming under the door. Almost dawn already, and he hadn't slept a wink.

On the floor in front of the hearth, Anara shifted in her sleep, brow furrowed. Her face had looked troubled all night, and he doubted her sleep was restful. He hadn't commented on her sudden reversion to sleeping in the kitchens instead of her lover's room. She'd given him such a filthy look as she settled down the first night that he hadn't dared say a word. She'd looked so uncannily like her sister that it had thrown him, sent a cold shudder down his spine. He sometimes wondered how two girls who looked so similar and who had grown up in the same household could become such different people. Anara had always been somewhat aloof, but never cruel; Mercy was a monster.

It was no small wonder that she'd been Lucifer's favourite.

He crept past her. He had no desire to wake her up. She'd been more pleasant company when she was pretending he didn't exist, and snubbing him when she couldn't. Since her falling-out with the Haverford girl, her moods had ranged from the perfectly foul to the downright murderous, with brief windows where her aura was a suffocating cloud of misery. Jeorge wondered if her lover had left her; but then he'd seen the girl drifting about the corridors with the vague, unfocused air of the battle-cracked, usually on the verge of tears, and quickly revised that theory. He hadn't been able to come up with an alternative theory, and neither woman was likely to tell him.

Not that it was his business. He didn't have any stake in their row, except in risking his neck every time he exchanged anything more than a brief word with Anara. He didn't even know why he was bothering himself with it now. He had things to do the next day and he hadn't had any sleep, and that was something that definitely did affect him.

He filled himself a tumbler of water from the barrel in the corner, wincing as he mistakenly used his injured arm. Fucker had to stab him in his dominant side, of course. It wasn't a severe wound, but the after-effects were out of all proportion. He still felt scorched inside, as if all his veins had been singed. He was tired all the time – though that could have just been the lack of sleep. He felt older somehow. Everything moved more sluggishly than it had before, though his own inherent magic hadn't suffered from the interference. Hadn't benefited, either, but at least it hadn't messed it up.

Except for the pulsing. It was a shallow background noise most days, easily ignored, but always there. He suspected it played a part in his inability to sleep these days. It hadn't stopped since he'd been stabbed, though he hadn't mentioned this to anyone. Didn't need to get that annoying Whisperer involved more than necessary. He certainly wasn't Gifted; he'd made certain of that. It never bothered him when he was busy, but nights had become infuriating.

"What are you doing up?"

He'd noted that Anara was awake a moment before, and only hoped that it wasn't his fault. She didn't sound angry, though, just tired, which probably meant he was safe from getting his head bitten off for at least another five minutes.

"You're assuming I ever slept in the first instance," he said, draining the tumbler and dumping it on the counter. As he returned to his corner of the kitchens for his clothing, Anara's eyes followed him from the hearth. A light sheen of sweat glimmered on her forehead. "You don't look like you've fared much better."