by Imogen Sera
The evening passed as pleasantly as possible under the circumstances. Helias was surrounded by a massive stack of books that might be useful, sorting them in the order he should browse them. Ingrid spent a long time flipping through her patient notebook and eventually disappeared for a few minutes. She returned with a big box of papers and a ledger. They talked about the weather and the inn and Helias’s research, and before too long Ingrid slipped out for dinner. He was surprised when she returned quickly with two plates, he’d assumed she would have eaten with her friends.
They ate together in companionable silence, and soon both had returned to their own work. He was seated at the desk, hunched over a huge ancient tome, trying to understand a translation when he felt an uncomfortable awareness on his back. He turned and Ingrid was staring at him, looking distraught.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
Her brows remained furrowed. “I hope you don’t die.”
“I don’t plan to.”
Her expression was unchanged. “I don’t usually care. That sounds awful but it’s true. I honestly can’t remember the last time I was worried that a patient wouldn’t live. I just assume none of them will.”
He rose and crossed the room, then knelt in front of her seat on the floor. He placed his hands on her soft cheeks, cupping her face gently. “I know you don’t believe me, Ingrid, but I won’t die.”
She stared into his eyes, and her clear blue gaze was despondent. “Everyone dies, Helias.”
He stared back, eyes blazing, willing her to see the truth there. Her expression didn’t change, and he released her after a moment. “You’re in a very positive mood tonight.”
“I wonder why,” Ingrid huffed and turned from him. She left the room then, informing him she would be back in a minute, and he heard the key click in the lock. He chuckled to himself and sat back at the desk, resuming where he’d left off.
She returned after a few minutes wearing a long sleeping gown and her arms full of blankets. She tucked them into her couch to make a makeshift bed, ignoring him all the while. After she finished she dropped two extra blankets on his couch. “If I’m staying here I don’t want to light a fire,” was all she said.
He nodded as she climbed into her pile of blankets, turned away from him, and ignored him more.
“Good night, Ingrid,” he said after a few minutes of her clearly pretending to sleep.
Silence. Maybe she really was asleep? But then he heard a very quiet, very weary voice. “Please wake me up if you feel sick.”
He sighed internally. He was enjoying teasing her, but she was clearly worried about him. He wished he could just tell her the truth and be done with it. “I promise I will. Sleep well.”
She grunted in response and seemed to sleep quickly after. He was awake for hours longer, reading late into the night. When he finally fell onto his couch and pulled the blankets over him he realized they must have come from Ingrid’s bed. Her scent washed over him and it took all of his willpower to not wake her up, kiss her into oblivion, and touch her until she begged for him. Instead he rolled over and pressed the blanket to his face. He fell into a deep sleep and dreamed intoxicating dreams.
•••••
Ingrid woke early after stubbornly going to bed long before her usual time. She wasn’t sure why Helias remaining lighthearted about the situation was driving her so crazy, but she had fallen asleep thinking about his stupid, perfect face. She rose quietly and saw that he was far too big for his couch, with one leg and one arm both dangling to the floor. The blankets were up over his face and she could only see his golden hair. The sight of him under her blanket gave her a little thrill low in her belly, and she made a sour face at herself before quietly leaving the room and locking it behind her.
She ascended the stairs to her bedroom and mused about the situation. Helias was so utterly confident that he wouldn’t become ill that it was almost easy to believe him. She wanted to, certainly, but she couldn’t shake the worry she felt in her core. She knew she was getting herself into trouble, being so attached, but she would deal with that after she was sure he was well.
She removed her nightgown and dressed quickly, and then pulled out her braid and brushed her hair. She studied herself in the mirror and was surprised by how dark the circles under her eyes were, how sunken in her cheeks looked. She sighed. Her life was demanding; there were always chores to be done or someone to help or something to worry about or someone to bury, and it never ended. She was exhausted and trapped and she knew it, but she didn’t know how to escape.
With a heavy sigh, Ingrid ventured to the breakfast room and was delighted to see Lily already there. Ingrid sat next to her friend and leaned her head on Lily’s shoulder while eating slowly and enjoying Lily’s happy chatter. She nodded along politely but mostly let her mind wander. After her carefree friend excused herself, Ingrid fixed a plate for Helias, feeling refreshed.
She quietly entered the library and was surprised to see him still asleep. He had adjusted his position; he was now entirely on the couch and his sleeping face was visible. She set his plate on the desk and studied him. He was intensely handsome, that was obvious, but while he slept, his relaxed face revealed a vulnerability that she found beautiful. She stared at him for a moment before her gaze wandered to the table next to him and the book he used to write notes about her. She crept quietly and picked up the book, then pulled out the paper and read over it.
Suspicious.
Obstinate.
Lovely.
The last word was underlined three times. Ingrid’s heart raced, and she put the book back carefully but folded the paper and tucked it in her pocket.
•••••
Helias awoke a short time later, and they conversed easily and casually throughout the morning while they worked on their respective tasks. He asked her about her life here before the plague, and she was surprised by how much she wanted to share.
She told him of the many children who had lived here, all servants’ children aside from Ingrid and Emily, and how the group of them had spent hours daily in the thick forest surrounding Dragongrove. She told him of the rumored secret passages they had searched for, and how they had found one, once, and it led to a room that had become their own personal clubhouse. She remembered her best friend Madeline, the cook’s daughter, and how they had spent countless nights sleeping on the floor of Ingrid’s room, or mornings in the kitchen pestering Madeline’s mother for sweets. She described her father’s loving guidance and her mother’s warm laughter, and how they had desperately wanted a second child for ten long years before Emily was born.
She didn’t describe Emily.
She couldn’t find the words.
Helias seemed engrossed by her stories, but when he asked her about Emily and she just shook her head, he didn’t press. Ingrid was grateful for that.
When she asked him about his childhood, he paused for a long time, searching for the right words.
“It was very different from yours,” was all he said.
Six
The week passed in a flurry of research. Helias was getting closer to understanding with each passing day, and now he was sure that the plague had originated here. On his second to last day of confinement, he asked Ingrid if they could visit the front garden, and he was surprised when she agreed. It would have to be later that night, she explained apologetically, because she was needed for something.
He agreed pleasantly because he desperately needed fresh air. Ingrid was everywhere in this room; her voice, her laughter, her scent; and he wanted her so madly that he was afraid of what he would do, especially if he couldn’t breathe freely for at least a few minutes. He wanted to take her in his arms and kiss her until her lips were swollen and tender, and to run his hands over her until she begged him to take her, and to fuck her until she screamed his name. He would do all of those things, he promised himself, after he figured out the source of the plague. He couldn’t risk scaring her off when he still
needed her cooperation.
Ingrid was confident she’d be gone for a few hours, so Helias settled into more research. He was struggling to translate a particular line, and the fact that he was translating from a symbol-based, mostly forgotten language made it difficult to get a precise translation.
Dragongrove had been a seat of power for his kind for centuries before being abandoned when Arnes was founded. When the females of his kind had died, it had happened suddenly and not manifested as an illness, which made him feel confident that this place was the source of the plague. He just didn’t understand how or why.
He suspected there was a sort of corruption here, that had started right at the house and spread outward. It would explain the great loss of life here but less in the nearby village, and the inability to grow anything. He had whispered words of healing to the unfortunate patient who had caused his current living situation, but as far as he could tell, she was in no better health than she had been. Even the herbs he had planted needed near daily encouragement just to survive.
Something was poisoning the land and the people who lived on it, and he needed to discover what the something was.
Ingrid returned hours later, visibly agitated. She stormed into the room and glanced briefly at Helias before averting her attention and sitting down with her notebook. A moment later she rose again.
“Let’s go outside,” she declared.
•••••
Ingrid led Helias outside, her mind racing and resentment bubbling inside her. The meeting with the residents had been disastrous, for her at least. They had collectively decided earlier that someone needed to constantly be in the infirmary after the terrible episode the week before, and Ingrid had wanted to gather everyone to discuss the change in schedules that it would entail. It would increase the already heavy workload by a third, which was met with anger and frustration; as usual, Ingrid had to play the villain who forced awful schedules on everyone.
She plopped inelegantly on the bench and looked up at the night sky. The air was chilly, but she enjoyed the feel of it. She’d been inside for far too long. She folded her legs in front of her, rested her chin in her hand, and sighed audibly.
“What’s on your mind?” Helias asked, quietly and cautiously.
She paused and turned toward where he stood, feeling guilty for her behavior. “Everything. Everything is on my mind. That’s the problem,” she turned and flashed a small smile at him. “I’m sorry. I’m exhausted.”
He turned and gestured toward the door. “Do you want to—”
“Oh, no,” she cut him off. “I’m just...” she paused thoughtfully, “worn down from responsibility.”
He nodded, watching her carefully.
She patted the seat next to her, raising her eyebrows at him, and he came and sat down. He was close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from him, and she shivered.
“I was fourteen when the plague came,” she said suddenly, after a minute of silence, “and I didn’t know how to do anything to survive. I could read Latin and play my harp, but that wasn’t very useful when I was suddenly alone and completely dependent upon myself.”
He avoided her gaze and stared ahead, and she took the opportunity to admire his handsome features in the moonlight. She sighed internally at herself.
“It only took a week,” she continued. “A week from the first servant becoming ill to the last person here dying.”
“The last person here didn’t die,” he quietly amended.
Ingrid nodded slightly. “It started with the servants and spread quickly. The ill were forced to burn the dead to try to contain it, but it didn’t matter. When it became clear that everyone was ill, my father ordered anyone who was near death to be taken outside. He didn’t want the survivors—didn’t want me—to be burdened with the task of removing and disposing of the dead. At the end of the week nearly fifty people were gone.”
She looked at him then, and his eyes were bright with moonlight. She had told him all of the clinical details repeatedly over his month of daily visits, but she had been careful to avoid her feelings about it. She wasn’t sure why she felt she needed to share that now.
“But you lived.”
“I was alive but I was alone,” she responded. “The first week was the worst. I’d lost everyone that had ever loved me, and the air was thick with the smoke that had burned them away,” she paused. “There was ash everywhere. I can’t smell smoke now, it brings me right back there. That’s why I sleep under a giant pile of blankets, I can’t sleep in a room with a fire.” She smiled ruefully at herself.
Helias very slowly, very tentatively rested his hand on her back, just below her neck, and caressed her comfortingly. Her chin trembled from the kindness, even as her body heated from the touch. She flashed him a watery smile and swallowed her emotion before continuing.
“The second week was easier, because the food began to spoil. I was terrified, but it ended up being a good thing. It forced me out of the grove onto the farmland, and gave me something to do. I was completely out of my element at first, but after a while I began to enjoy it.” She shrugged. “So that’s how things have been ever since. I have help now of course, but there’s also more work to be done. And sometimes I don’t want help, what I want is to not have to make decisions or delegate or run people’s lives for them.”
He nodded slightly.
“It feels like it never ends,” she continued. “I’m always needed to arrange things and assign things and make decisions that I don’t care about, and then defend those decisions because inevitably someone won’t agree.” She paused and glanced at him. “That’s the long story of why I’m exhausted. I’ve had this mantle of leadership thrust on me and I’m not good at it and I don’t want it. But there’s no one else, so it remains mine.”
Helias’s hot gaze bored into her. “You’d be surprised how well I know the feeling.”
Ingrid shifted on her cold bottom and leaned into his hand, which had come to rest gently on her back. Something was happening here, and she was sure he must feel it. Her skin prickled and every nerve ending was alert, and her body was cold but her back was burning hot, and her mind was racing with thoughts about the man mere inches from her. She wasn’t thinking straight and was overcome with exhaustion and with a desperate need to touch him.
So she kissed him.
He seemed frozen with shock for a moment before kissing her back passionately. His arm that was around her pulled her closer, while his other hand came up to cup her cheek. Her heart hammered in her chest and fire burned in her belly as she wound her fingers in his hair and parted her lips to deepen the kiss. He groaned in response and quickly lifted her by the hips to settle on his lap.
She giggled against his mouth at the sudden move and playfully nipped at his lower lip, as his arms wrapped tightly around her, pressing her hard nipples against his chest, and his hands drifted down to her ass. She moaned quietly and twisted slightly. Oh, how she wanted him, and from her position she could feel just how badly he wanted her, too.
She put her hands on his hard shoulders and let them drift down to his muscular arms. She wanted to touch him everywhere she had been imagining since she had met him, but she was happy to start here and appreciate his embrace. Her skin was burning all over against the cold night air, and as his lips drifted from her mouth down to her chin, her neck, her shoulder, she looked up at the starry sky.
“Ingrid,” he said breathlessly, pulling his lips from her skin and looking into her eyes.
And suddenly, the odd dread that Helias seemed to inspire washed over her. She gasped and jumped up, staring at him with wide eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she began, chest heaving. “I shouldn’t have— I’m sorry.”
She wanted to turn and dart inside and pretend nothing had happened, but duty kept her rooted to the spot. Helias stared at her, eyes blazing, but the man whose lap she’d just been sitting on now terrified her for no discernible reason.
Suddenl
y at a loss for words, she guided him back to the library and silently laid down, alone on her couch. Her cheeks were burning, her heart was pounding, and between her legs was throbbing. She turned to face the back of the couch and let silent tears fall for a long time. She fell into a fitful sleep hours later, her lips sore and her body burning. She dreamed of fire and ash, and of great gleaming wings.
Seven
Helias was restless. He’d been hiding at his desk all morning, head in a book, ignoring anything but the text in front of him. He knew Ingrid had pretended to sleep for a long time after she was actually awake, and after she wordlessly disappeared from the room, he could finally breathe freely.
His mind continually wandered back to the night before; he snapped his book shut and sighed in frustration. Touching Ingrid, holding her, kissing her had felt perfect.
He had been awestruck when she had reached up suddenly to press her lips to his, overcome with a feeling of completeness. She had pressed her soft body to him, wound her small hands in his hair, looked up at him with big blue eyes, and he had known complete happiness for a moment. Then she had leapt away from him with no warning, and he had seen her face clearly. It wasn’t colored from embarrassment or regret, but her features had been distorted by terror.
He wondered if she suspected what he was. He knew that the time was drawing close to tell her, but he was growing dangerously attached and was wary of frightening her away for good.
She returned as silently as she had disappeared and quietly set a plate of breakfast on the desk next to him. He turned toward her and caught her hand. He looked in her eyes and she looked as if she was going to break.
“Ingrid,” he began cautiously, “can we pretend that never happened?” His chest squeezed painfully as the words left him.
She nodded. “That sounds like a good idea,” she said, visibly relieved.
The morning passed as most of their mornings that week had, albeit quite a bit quieter. He pored over his notes, frustrated that he wasn’t getting anywhere with the translation. It meant ‘inside’ or ‘within’ or something similar, but it didn’t make sense in context. A thought struck him.
