To Bleed a Crystal Bloom by Sarah A. Parker

Iwake before the sun has hatched, the sky still a velvet blanket freckled with stars, though it’s hard to appreciate when phantom nails are being hammered into my skull.

Glued to the bed by the weight of my body, I smack my tongue against the roof of my mouth, feeling like all the moisture has been leached out of me ...

If I ingest another drop of caspun, I might never wake. And if I stay in bed, staring at the roof, I’ll just tie myself in knots over the fact that The Safe is housing my crystal goblet, filled to the brim with Rhordyn’s nightcap, all because I couldn’t let go.

I just couldn’t.

Because even though he’s not here to accept my offering, I still did it—like leaving food out for a stray that never came.

Best I just roll out of bed, run laps around my balcony once the exo kicks in, then paint some rocks until the sun rises.

Groaning, I hang my arm off the side and thud to the floor in a heap of listless, jutting limbs. I peel the rug back, lift the stone, and reach into the hole, slapping around the edges of the smooth, empty base ...

“No. No, no, no.” My heart lurches into my throat as I dig a second arm in and scour the barren fucking tomb.

Gone.

The realization trips a memory surge, and I roll, face crumbling. I sling a belt of vile words at the roof, massaging my temples and hating Rhordyn just a little bit more.

Hating myself just as much.

For one nonsensical second, I consider searching the entire castle by candlelight for my three-year supply, coming to the conclusion they’re likely destroyed or hidden in his den. Probably the former.

I curl into myself, shaking ...

What a waste.

If Rhordyn were here, I’d march to his den, pound my fist against his door and give him the sharpest, most poisonous piece of my mind.

Letting my head tip to the side, I stare out the window through slitted eyes, trying to find some sense of calm in the winking stars and crescent moon. But they’re too close—the ground too far away.

I need my feet dug into fleshy soil; need to pull some peace from the earth and pretend I’m not fraying at the seams.

I just need.

Pushing onto all fours, I crawl to my refreshment table, toss back two glasses of water, then clamber up and shuffle toward the wooden bench littered with jars. I plunder one brimming with dehydrated ginger and peppermint, stuffing my mouth half full in hopes of taking the edge off the pain in my temples.

At this stage, I need all the help I can get.

Trying not to gag from the sharp explosion of taste, I pull on some pants, then shrug on a coat to ward off the chill frosting me from the inside. I shoulder my bag, open The Safe, and grip the glass by its long, fragile neck, then tip the flushed contents all over the floor with a sneer.

Shame to waste such a pretty shade of pink.

The steps of Stony Stem are unkind to a caspun hangover, and I flinch with each featherlight footfall that feels the exact opposite. The passageways are endless, The Tangle relentless, but after cursing Rhordyn and Baze every step of the way, I finally pop out on the eastern side of the castle, drawing a lungful of crisp, morning air as I plant my feet on the grass and bore my toes into damp soil.

The relief is instant.

I release a sigh, shoulders loosening, head tipping back to stare at the dazzling sprinkle of stars. Closing my eyes, I bask in the stretch of peace only fractured by the odd chirping cricket.

The pull of the earth eases my pain, shoveling substance into the hollow space within me. It’s a relaxation method I relied on before discovering the recipe for Exothryl, but that feels like a lifetime ago.

I barely remember that girl anymore.

If I could bottle this feeling and constantly sip from it, all my problems wouldn’t feel so heavy.

Glancing down the wall, I realize how close I am to the little round window ...

How convenient.

I tiptoe toward it, hiding from the moon in a pocket of shadow pooled at the wall’s base. Though I can’t see any creatures crawling around the forest at night, I know they’re watching. Can feel their eyes on me, leering from behind my Safety Line.

Incorporeal fingers walk up my spine while I hunt through scrub for the rock I discarded yesterday, a smile curling my lips when I locate it.

Hauling my arm back, I picture Rhordyn’s face and toss the stone, causing an explosion of glass ...

Shit, that’s loud.

I pause to see if Baze is going to leap from the shadows. When I’m certain the coast is clear, I use a spare jar from my bag to chip off any remaining glass before I turn and edge my feet through the hole, then my body, hanging there by strained fingers for a few tense moments.

Bracing myself for the fall.

Landing with a dense thud that rattles my tender brain, I delve through my knapsack for a candle and match. I spark the wick, casting the ghostly objects scattered about the room in a fiery glow—a stark contrast to the stretched shadows that creep up the walls and dance to life.

Nothing shrinks back. Nothing moves or makes a scuttling sound.

It’s just me.

The air feels almost syrupy, like it’s been trapped down here so long it’s become lazy with its movement.

Clearing my throat, I tiptoe between broken bits of glass and edge toward a large shape, its veil of white weighed down by pockets of dust. I lift the corner of the sheet and peer underneath. Frowning, I pull the whole thing off and swat the air while I study the freestanding wardrobe.

It’s the softest shade of pink, embossed to look like a sketched garden.

Gripping the delicate handle, I tug, releasing a puff of dust that threatens to blow out my candle. The door creaks open, and I peek inside the cupboard’s hollow interior ...

“Perhaps this is just a dusty old storage room.”

I move to the next sheet and fold it back, unveiling a set of side tables to match the wardrobe. Next is a headboard, then a pretty bassinet that cradles a stack of crochet blankets yellowed with age. They’re soft like butter, and I dig my nose into one, noting the faint, unfamiliar scent of vanilla beans and a hint of damp soil.

Did these belong to one of Rhordyn’s ancestors?

Frowning, I refold the blanket and reveal the next item: a chest adorned with the same intricate design as everything else. Sitting on the ground beside it is a stoppered urn and a littering of jars no bigger than a finger.

I lift the lid—heavy and curved and groaning in protest. My eyes widen, and I gasp at the hoard of fat gems glinting in the flickering light.

Rhordyn isn’t one to flaunt his wealth. Aside from my diamond tools, the only jewels I’ve ever seen around the castle have been dripping from other people’s lobes at the Tribunal.

My eyes narrow on a clear one partially hidden beneath a large, black gem, and I pick it up, holding it close to my flame so I can assess its clarity. Warm light ricochets off the many flat edges, scattering a confetti of color and light all around the room.

Something inside me twinges at the sight, like a lute string plucked too hard.

I return the gem to the pile, sweeping my hand through the treasure to reveal the front of an old book with gold writing pressed into its leather-bound face. I pry it from its grave and set my foot on the edge of the chest, resting the book on my thigh while I trace the scripted title.

Te Bruk o’ Avalanste

I repeat the phrase three times over, working my tongue around the new sounds, testing their feel. My gaze darts to the chest, back to the book, and I shrug, deciding it’s of no use in a dusty, old storage room. I slide it into my bag and close the chest, sealing all those pretty gems in a tomb that’ll probably never see the sun again.

The birds begin to chatter, alerting me of the cresting sun, and I turn, looking for something to wedge against the wall so I can climb out the window easier.

The galvanized corner of a picture frame otherwise covered in cloth catches my eye. No dust has settled on the sheet, suggesting whatever’s hiding beneath it has been recently viewed.

Frowning, I do a tight spin, peering into the darker sections of the room.

No door. Nobody standing in the shadows.

Returning my attention to the cloth, I give it a tug, hand fluttering to my chest as it pools to the floor ...

I’m fearful to blink lest I sever the view, my serrated breath a tribute to the masterpiece before me.

Trapped within the confines of the ornate frame is the most beautiful painting I’ve ever seen.

A male and female, knee-deep in grass, are walking side by side atop a rolling hill. There’s a storm brewing in the distance, wind pushing the woman’s long, raven hair to the side. The detail is so delicate, I feel I could brush the individual strands with the tips of my fingers—smooth them out or plait them into a long braid to keep it off her face.

The man is half cast in shadow from the approaching storm, stance strong, shoulders broad. The real beauty lies in what’s strung between the adults, swinging through the air, caught in an oily eternity; a small girl with long, gray hair flicking about her in suspended animation.

I feel her happiness bubbling inside me, as tangible as the hammering organ in my chest.

It bleeds away in the very next moment.

Who are these people? What happened to them? Why is all this stuff packed in a room nobody uses?

I scan the space ...

It feels like a crypt where beautiful things came to be forgotten about, at least until I snuck in and poked my nose around.

I don’t belong here.

My curiosity has taken a step too far this time, and there’s no covering my tracks. No unseeing the happiness in this painting; a bliss that feels empty like the bassinet, the cupboard, the bed.

Guilt has a taste I’m far too familiar with—bitter and biting.

I replace all the sheets while that taste sours my stomach, making the already sickly organ turn. Leaping, I grip the bottom of the bare window frame and haul myself free of the room.

The Grave ... that’s what I’ll call it.

A grave for happy things.

The climb back up my tower seems longer, a weight pushing on my shoulders with every silent step.

Shame.

Shame for breaking into that reliquary. For having the book stuffed in my bag ...

I should return it. Probably will.

AfterI’ve read it.

My door clunks shut, and I slam the deadlock into place, sealing myself inside a different sort of tomb. One I intend to stay in all day while I nurse my throbbing, lethargic brain and search for the desire to move again.

Everything weighs too much. My feet, body, mind ...

Heart.

I stack the fire full of wood, guzzle another glass of water to ease my chalky tongue, then stack pillows behind my back to form a comfortable nest. Nose stamped against the leather-bound book, I draw a breath, releasing a raspy moan as the aged smell attempts to cradle my sins.

I shouldn’t have taken this.

Even so, I open the front cover, peel page after page, and pour over the book’s secrets.

Try to decipher them.

An hour later when there’s a brutal knock at my door, I ignore it—shifting onto the balcony where I can read in the morning sun striking through puffy clouds. Minutes later, Baze screams up at me from the castle grounds, to which I reply by tipping my pitcher over the edge to shower him with my distaste.

If Baze thinks I’m training after everything he put me through yesterday, he’s sorely mistaken.

If he wants to treat me like a child, I’ll act like one.